He hopped and jigged, and the respectable middle-aged people, the art critic from the south, the few great and good who’d driven north from Lerwick, set down their glasses and began to clap to the rhythm. He fell to his knees, lay back slowly so that he was flat on the floor and continued playing without missing a beat, then sprang to his feet and still the music continued. In one corner of the gallery an elderly couple were dancing, surprisingly light-footed, arms linked.

The playing was so furious that the watchers’ eyes couldn’t follow his fingers. Then suddenly the music stopped. The boy bowed. The people cheered. Perez had seen him play many times before, but was still moved by the performance, felt a jingoistic pride in it, which made him uncomfortable. He looked at Fran. Perhaps this was too sentimental for her. But she was cheering along with the rest.

Bella walked from the shadow into the light to join Roddy. She held out an arm, a self-consciously dramatic gesture to acknowledge the performance.

‘Roddy Sinclair,’ she said. ‘My nephew.’ She looked around her. ‘I’m just sorry that there weren’t more people here to see him.’ And in fact the room only contained a scattering of people. Her comment made it suddenly obvious. She must have realized that because she frowned again. Clearly she wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

The boy bowed again, grinned, raised his fiddle in one hand and his bow in another.

‘Just buy the paintings,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re here. I’m only the warm-up act. The pictures are the main attraction.’

He turned away from them and took a glass of wine from a long trestle laid out against the one bare wall in the room.