‘MD’s office will be locked. He’s got a Wilkie and a couple of Raeburns…’

In the weeks after the party, they’d exchanged emails, gone out for drinks a few times, and become friends. Mike had come to the viewing this evening only because Allan had persuaded him that it might be fun. But so far he had seen nothing to whet his jaded appetite, other than a charcoal study by one of the major Scottish Colourists – and he already had three at home much the same, probably torn from the self-same sketchbook.

‘You look bored,’ Allan said with a smile. He held his dog-eared catalogue in one hand, and a drained champagne flute in the other. Tiny flakes of pastry on his striped tie showed that he had sampled the canapés.

‘I am bored.’

‘No gold-digging blondes sidling up to you with offers you’d be hard pressed to refuse?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Well, this is Edinburgh after all; more chance of being asked to make up a four for bridge…’ Allan looked around him. ‘Busy old night, all the same. Usual mix of freeloaders, dealers and the privileged.’

‘And which are we?’

‘We’re art lovers, Michael – pure and simple.’

‘So is there anything you’ll be bidding on come auction day?’

‘Probably not.’ Allan gave a sigh, staring into the depths of his parched glass. ‘The next lot of school fees are still on my desk, awaiting chequebook. And I know what you’re going to say: plenty of good schools in the city without needing to pay for one. You yourself attended a rough-hewn comprehensive and it didn’t do you any harm, but this is tradition we’re talking about. Three generations, all schooled at the same fusty establishment. My father would curdle in his grave if I put the boys elsewhere.’