The chauffeur dropped Camilla at her own flat on the following afternoon and she telephoned Tom.

‘Saul is back tomorrow from New York,’ he said. ‘I’ve set up a meeting with him on Monday. And in the meantime my lawyer has a few comments about the contract, but nothing major. It looks good, doll.’

Camilla sat on the sofa, happy to be in her own space, optimistic about the new project, and comfortable with her parents, perhaps for the first time in her life. Marina’s illness had brought them all a kind of peace that had sloughed off their troubled past, and she was grateful for that. She thought about telephoning Langani, but decided against it. Her father would let her know within a week whether a grant was possible. It would be better to wait for a decision. She was pleased with the prospect of an evening to herself, and she lifted down a storage box from above her wardrobe, and took out her Samburu beaded collars and bracelets. In a drawer she found an Italian suede waistcoat, and she sat at the dining-room table and began to unpick the seams. It was almost three in the morning when she finished her work and she held it up for her own critical inspection. It was good. She had studied the traditional bands of colour and design, before dismantling the African jewellery. Then she had painstakingly sewn the beads and small metal trinkets on to the soft leather, stitching decorative borders around the neck and hem, and along the seam lines. The waistcoat smelled a little ripe, and she smiled, thinking of the fastidious buyer in Bond Street who would be presented with her creation tomorrow.

A loud knocking woke her in the morning and she surfaced slowly, pulling on her dressing gown as she opened the door. Her father was standing outside, his expression anguished. She drew him into the sitting room, fearful that Marina had experienced a setback, or worse. He slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands, trying to compose himself. Then he looked up at her.

‘Camilla, I have some terrible news and I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll tell it to you straight. Piet van der Beer has been murdered. At the farm. It was in the newspapers this morning, and I didn’t want you to see it like that. Oh my dear, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.’