Standing to the right, only just in the frame, was David. His arms were folded, his head inclined to hear what the dark-haired man standing next to him was saying. At the photograph’s focal point was a painting, a grand Renaissance job showing something biblical in an ornate gold frame. There were a number of other people in the shot and if I hadn’t been looking, I wouldn’t have noticed David among them, although I might have taken note of the man he was in conversation with. Extreme wealth announces itself. Or maybe it was the incline of David’s head, the suggestion of deference before power.

David was not bald yet, despite Mrs. East’s prophesying. His hair was shorter and perhaps a little darker, and he was more solid. Unlike the dark-haired man, he was not wearing a blazer, only a light blue shirt. I looked at the photo for quite some time, carefully, as though memorizing it, as though it would vanish the second I looked away, and then at some point I went back and reread Alice’s email.

A friend had sent her the clipping. It was from a Florentine newspaper, from the previous summer, and, recognizing David, she had passed it on to Alice, who was now sharing it with me. The article, as far as she could translate it, was about an art fair, and the purchase of a recently rediscovered painting by a Russian oligarch via a local art and antiques dealership, Galleria Vittorio Buono. On balance, Alice thought I probably shouldn’t try and find David, because of sleeping dogs and all that, but of course it was up to me. She signed off by saying that it had been interesting to see me and that she wished me well.

There was no subtext, no clue other than the unexpected gesture itself. It occurred to me that I had never known Alice, that I had constructed her, made her into what I wanted her to be. By the gesture, she had become someone else and escaped me entirely.

CHAPTER 17

APOCALYPSE IV

Hutchinson phoned just as we were being called to board the flight to Florence.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was my mother. She’s very old and I had to go to Bournemouth.” He said something about a care home, a broken hip, a missing power of attorney. His voice was breathless, as though he’d just run up a flight of stairs.

“Two weeks and you couldn’t leave a message?”

“I’m sorry.” A voice came over the PA system asking for priority boarders. “Where are you?”