“So, did anything happen while I was out?”

I put my bag down on the glass counter, beneath which were displayed items of uncertain value and unreliable provenance. I told everyone it was the nature of the antiques business that the buyer should beware. I even had ‘Caveat Emptor’ engraved above the front door, and a sign as you walked in that said ‘Buyer Beware.’ Not all of our customers spoke Latin.

Jonathan smiled as he carried a mug of coffee.

“We had a painting brought in.”

I groaned inwardly, partly at how pleased he was with a random painting, and partly because he was slopping coffee over an oriental rug, which even though it was a poor quality fake, was unlikely to be enhanced by coffee stains.

“You know I hate art,” I said.

“I know,” said Jonathan. “Too easy to trace; too specific a market.”

Surprisingly he had learned something.

“I also had a very unpleasant experience with a fake Lowry a few years ago. Nearly resulted in me spending time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

“You told me,” said Jonathan.

“So, exactly which part of your brain thought it would be a good idea to take it?”

“The woman who brought it in said you would be interested.”

“What woman?”

“She wouldn’t leave a name.”

“But she would leave a painting? That didn’t seem strange to you?”

“When you put it that way it does sound a little strange.” He took a sip from his mug. I could smell it, it was tea and not coffee. Not everything is always as it seems at first sight.

“Do you think it’s iffy?” he asked.

“If by ‘iffy’ you mean do I think it’s stolen, probably has a micro GPS tracker hidden on it, and there are uniformed officers waiting to knock the door down as soon as I try and sell it, then yes, it might just be a little bit iffy.”

Actually it sounded all too much like the Lowry.

“Apart from that it’s alright though?” said Jonathan.

I couldn’t tell whether he was joking. When I was just a kid my father told me never to lend money to friends. He should have also told me never to employ family. Jonathan is my sister’s boy and the only reason he’s working for me is that I’m not getting any younger, and, without wanting to sound like a bumper sticker, if you want to keep the business in the family, you have to have family in the business. However painful it is. I never had time for children of my own, and the only way Jonathan was getting a job was courtesy of the family. If I said he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box it might suggest he had been able to find his way into the box in the first place—which was unlikely.

“So where is it then?”

He pointed to a brown paper wrapped package, tied with string.

“Old school,” I said.

“Just how you like it,” he said, still annoyingly pleased with himself.

I took a pair of scissors from behind the counter and cut the string. The paper ripped easily as I pulled it away from the picture.

“Holy crap,” I whispered when I saw the picture. I nearly crossed myself to ward off evil spirits.

“What is it?” asked Jonathan. “Another Lowry?”

“Poppy Flowers,” I said, somehow without screaming.

Jonathan glanced at the painting for a moment. It showed a black vase bursting with unruly yellow flowers and three drunken poppies falling to one side.

“There’s not many poppies on there,” he said.

“It’s also known as the ‘Vase with Viscaria,’ ” I told him.

“What’s Viscaria?” he asked.

“It’s the yellow flower,” I said.

“Not my favourite,” he said. “It looks like something we used to have to paint in school. Still life, or something. Just flowers in vase, or sometimes it was fruit in a bowl. What a waste of time.”

I lifted the painting onto the counter and stared at it.

“Don’t tell me you like this sort of thing,” said Jonathan.

I silently glared at him for long enough to make him look uncomfortable.

“Do you remember when we talked about keeping up with what was happening in the industry?”

Jonathan nodded.