Ross snatched up the controller and tossed it towards Kennedy.

‘Perhaps you should change, sir,’ suggested Kennedy, ‘while I establish the connection and double-check the encryption.’

Ross Norton plucked at the robe that barely covered his nether regions. ‘Change?’ he said, as though he didn’t understand the meaning.

‘You are, after all, a bereaved son in mourning, sir.’

‘And will my attire make any difference to the will reading?’

‘I’m sure we wouldn’t want your family to gain the wrong impression, sir.’

At the same time, Kennedy produced a framed photograph of Ross’s father, the late Sir Charles Norton, and placed it on a shelf in order that it should be prominently displayed during the meeting. ‘Sir, I know that you’re nervous . . .’

‘Nervous? I’m not in the slightest bit nervous,’ spluttered Ross, darkening.

‘You have lost your grandfather.’

Ross shrugged.

‘He was an important figure in your life.’

‘I don’t care. I’m not nervous, and if you carry on like this you’ll find yourself cleaning chalets.’

Kennedy approached the sofa, his hands clasped behind his back. He leaned forward – leaning even as Ross pushed himself back into the sofa cushions, wanting to cringe away. ‘Just you try it,’ said Kennedy evenly, ‘sir.’

Kennedy straightened. Ross recovered – or at least tried to recover – some composure. ‘You should watch your tone, Kennedy. I’m about to become a very rich man,’ he said, mustering a little defiance.

Kennedy made a small, sharp motion with his hand and allowed himself a smile as Ross Norton flinched. ‘A very rich man who can’t even tie his own shoelaces,’ said Kennedy. ‘Now get dressed in a manner appropriate for somebody who, first, has just lost his grandfather and, second, is about to speak to his beloved and grieving grandmother.’

Ross trooped off. Kennedy switched on the television, established a link with the laptop. A screen appeared confirming that end-to-end encryption was successful and that the host would shortly be beginning the meeting.

Ross returned to the spacious lounge, looking smarter. He sat down until the television, which up until that moment had shown a black screen and the simple message ‘waiting for host’, suddenly changed, and a thirty-second countdown began.

Twenty-eight

Twenty-seven

The host had begun the meeting. They were live. And suddenly the screen was split, tiled into faces that Ross knew well.

First, there was the lawyer, Jeffrey Coombs. Coombs sat at his desk in London. Late-fifties but looking good on it, weathered, tanned skin merged with the wood panelling of his office behind.

He wore glasses that he removed, and he made a play of doing something with his mobile, as though to reassure the assembled surviving members of the Norton clan that they had his full attention and, for a handsome fee, would continue to command it for as long as needs be.