"I'm sure Miss Cahill will be able to help." Gemma smiled brightly.

The woman hesitated. Then, frowning, she used an internal phone. "Kristin, could you come to the front, please?"

Gemma took advantage of the wait to inspect her surroundings. The reception area led into a much larger room. Modern paintings tagged with lot numbers lined the walls. A dozen people sat in the comfortably padded chairs filling the room's center, some occasionally languidly raising numbered paddles. The auctioneer stood on a podium, above which appeared the featured item on a large-screen television. His delivery was as relaxed as the bids, and Gemma thought it all rather disappointingly low key. She wondered where the jewelry was.

"No big items in this lot," whispered Melody. A snore escaped from a large lady in the back row.

"So I was gathering."

A side door opened and a young woman came towards the front desk, her expression anxious. She was waif slender, with short dark hair shaped to her head, and wore a crisp white blouse and narrow dark skirt as if they'd just come off the catwalk. "Mrs. March?" she said, glancing from the receptionist to Gemma and Melody.

"These ladies have some questions regarding an item in the jewelry catalog. I told them Mr. Khan was out." Mrs. March, as Gemma supposed, made her disapproval clear, and turned back to sorting brochures.

The young woman looked round as if expecting rescue, glanced at the auction in progress, then motioned them towards the door through which she had come. "I'm Kristin Cahill," she said over her shoulder. "I'm not sure I can help you, but you'd better come into the office." She looked as though she couldn't be long out of university.

"We won't take much of your time," said Gemma, hoping to put her at ease.

Kristin Cahill led them through another display room, where furniture was being arranged and labeled by a crew in jeans and trainers, then into a small office. Paper, brochures, and catalogs spilled off two inelegant desks. Kristin shrugged at the absence of seating. "Mr. Khan usually talks to clients in the showroom-"

"We're not clients. Look, it's just this." Gemma held up the catalog, page folded back. "I have a friend. Jakob Goldshtein, who made this piece, was her father. Her name is Erika Rosenthal. She says it was lost during her escape from Germany before the war, and she had no idea of its whereabouts until she saw your catalog. There's no provenance listed. Can you tell us where-"

Kristin was already shaking her head. "Oh, no. Mr. Khan said provenance wasn't required. The piece is stamped with Jakob Goldshtein's mark, and his work has become quite collectible in the last twenty years-"

"But surely you must have provenance," interrupted Gemma, although out of the corner of her eye she saw Melody give a slight shake of her head.

"It's never that simple," said Kristin. "With antiquities, we never have complete provenance, and even with more recent pieces we seldom have a complete record."

"But perhaps the seller-"

"We can't divulge the seller's details. Look, I took that brooch in myself, but Mr. Khan would kill me-"

The office door swung open. A tall, slender man in an impeccably bespoke suit came in, quirking his eyebrow at Kristin. "And what have you done to deserve that, Miss Cahill?"

Kristin looked down at the nearest desk and shuffled some papers. "Nothing, Mr. Khan. These ladies had some questions about the Goldshtein brooch, but I was just saying-"

"A lovely piece, isn't it? The curved lines are unusual for Art Deco, but Goldshtein did move in that direction towards the end of his career. All I can tell you is that the seller was very fortunate to have come across such a find. It does happen, you know. Cash in the attic." He gave a sardonic smile.

Melody spoke for the first time. "Mr. Khan, I take it?"

He held out a perfectly manicured hand with the long fingers of a pianist. "Amir Khan. May I-"

"Gemma James." Gemma handed him a card. "Inspector. Metropolitan Police. And this is PC Talbot. But this is a personal matter, Mr. Khan, for the moment."

Khan looked unfazed. "How very interesting, Inspector"-he glanced at her card-"James. But-"

"What if the piece was looted?" broke in Melody.

Khan's lips turned down in an expression of distaste. Gemma thought she saw a flicker in his dark eyes-was it alarm? But he sounded as unperturbed as ever when he spoke. "Now that happens much less than the media would have you believe. But if that was the case, I'd suggest that your friend get a solicitor."

The flowers came just after the two police officers left, two dozen perfect pink roses, left at the front desk by a courier. Mrs. March carried them back to the office, saying, "Oh, Kristin, aren't they lovely?"

Mr. Khan raised one arched brow but made no comment. Giles, who had come in with some paperwork, flushed a blotchy red and retreated, head tucked in like a tortoise. Kristin would have fallen through the floor if she could.

But Mrs. March oohed and aahed and fussed over the card until Kristin was forced to slip it from its envelope. "Anonymous admirer," Kristin said, knowing it was likely to make poor Giles suspect but not about to tell the truth. The signature read simply "D," but that was enough.

As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. March, Khan turned to her, all the civilized veneer stripped from his handsome face.

"You may have an admirer, Miss Cahill," he said, his voice level and articulate, and all the more venomous for it. "But I promise you it isn't me. If I find you've done anything to jeopardize the reputation of this salesroom, I'll personally see you out the door. You'd better watch-"

Giles had interrupted then, looking even more miserable than before, to tell Khan that a prospective seller wished to see him.

"Why does he hate you so much?" whispered Giles when Khan had stepped into the display room.

"God, I wish I knew." Kristin's legs were shaking and it was all she could do not to cry. It had been Khan who'd assessed the piece, after all. She hadn't done anything wrong-or at least nothing that a thousand other salesroom clerks hadn't done before her. But she knew now that she would be the one to catch it if any impropriety came to light.

Her mobile began to vibrate and she knew who it was without looking. She gave Giles a pointed glance, then waited until he'd left to answer.

"I told you not to call me at work," she hissed into the phone, wondering if he'd been watching from the street, timing his call to the flower delivery.

"No one will know who it-"

"I don't care. He doesn't like me talking on my mobile, and I'm in enough trouble already. And I told you I didn't want-"

"Look, love." He dropped his voice, Dom at his most persuasive, and she fought the warmth that began to spread through her. "I didn't mean what I said yesterday," he went on. "I was a little-I'd had a bad night, you know? But I've been thinking-" Bad night, bollocks. Strung out was more like it, and now he sounded too hyped.

She could see Khan through the half-open door, talking to a client, a chubby, balding man in an expensive-looking jacket. "Don't think, Dom," she whispered, hanging on to the anger. "It's not your strong suit. And don't send me bloody flowers."

"Kris, please. I was screwed up. Meet me tonight. We need to talk. Something's happened-"