His eyes sparkle as if he’s secretly mocking me, but he answers the question seriously. “I’m doing a job for my mother and stepfather.”

I have a dim recollection of Lennie saying that her twin brother was a painter. I wonder if his mother and the judge are doing a house renovation and Laurie is helping them. I suppose he’s short of money which explains his raggedy clothes, wild hair, and the housesitting. Maybe his mother took pity on him.

I give him a smile and move away to examine a large painting on the wall near me. It’s of an old man sitting on a bench in a patch of sunlight. A simple painting, but it’s absolutely stunning. It’s also somewhat familiar. I have a dim memory of attending an exhibition in Knightsbridge a few months ago for a famous portrait artist. The style is the same, but I can’t remember the artist’s name.

“This is absolutely stunning,” I say. “The technique is beautifully simple.”

He watches me still with that sparkle in his eyes. “You know art?”

“I know about paintings,” I say over my shoulder. “My mother was a renowned artist and spoke about her work for ninety percent of the day.”

“What did she do for the remaining ten percent?”

I wink. “Drank and shagged younger men.”

“Ah, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” I throw my head back and laugh. When I recover, he’s watching me with a smile on his face. “I thought I recognised the surname,” he says. “Your mother was Frida Carlsen, wasn’t she?”

I nod. “She painted the queen.”

“That must have been terribly ticklish for the poor woman,” he says solemnly and startles another laugh out of me.

I look at him curiously. I value people who can make me laugh or entertain me. Jane says I view the population as if I were a bored Roman emperor, but she’s completely wrong, of course.

I wander back and lift my glass to take a slug of the whisky. “Nice,” I say. I look at the bottles on the counter and whistle at one. “But not as nice as that. Your brother’s?”

“Could it not be mine?” he finally asks.

I have the strange sense that I’m amusing him. “Maybe,” I say, eyeing his disreputable clothes. When I look up, he’s suppressing a smile.

“Ah,” he says.

When nothing else is forthcoming, I wander away again to poke my head around a door at the far end of the room. As I suspected, it’s his bedroom. I’m glad to see it’s smaller than mine and it has a dreadful view.

“Do help yourself,” he calls, that laughter still in his voice. “Would you like to sleep in his bed?”

“Not with that view,” I answer, turning back.