‘Nor mine,’ Allan felt compelled to add. ‘Highland cattle and sheep huddled together for warmth beneath trees with no leaves.’

‘Funny thing about Matthewson,’ Laura added for Mike’s benefit, ‘is that they fetch more if you can see the faces of the animals.’ It was the sort of titbit she knew would interest him, and he nodded his appreciation.

‘Any sniffs from overseas?’ Allan was asking.

Laura gave a thoughtful pout, measuring her response. ‘Russian market is strong… same goes for China and India. I reckon we’ll have plenty of telephone bidders come sale day.’

‘But no pre-emptives?’

Laura pretended to swipe at Allan with her catalogue. ‘Now you’re just fishing,’ she chided him.

‘Incidentally,’ Mike began, ‘I’ve hung the Monboddo.’

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘Just inside the front door.’ The Albert Monboddo still life had been his only purchase at the winter auction. ‘You said you’d come see it,’ he reminded her.

‘I’ll email you.’ Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘But meantime, feel free to quash a rumour I’ve been hearing.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Allan said, snorting into his glass.

‘What rumour?’

‘That you’ve been cosying up to the city’s other, less likeable auction houses.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ Mike asked her.

‘Small world,’ she replied. ‘And gossipy with it.’

‘I’ve not bought anything,’ Mike said defensively.

‘Poor swine’s actually blushing,’ Allan added.

‘You don’t want me visiting the Monboddo,’ Laura went on, ‘and have to turn on my heel because there’s half of Christie’s and Sotheby’s hanging next to it. Well, do you?’

But before Mike could answer, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his head and was staring into the dark, piercing eyes of Robert Gissing. The older man’s huge dome of a head gleamed with sweat. His tweed tie was askew, his blue linen jacket creased and stretched beyond saving. All the same, he carried real presence, and his booming voice took no prisoners.