The phone was hanging from its cradle among the parrots and laburnum. I took it up and dragged the accordion door shut.

‘Caldicott here. Who is this?’

‘Solomon Aronovich. I am doing as you said.’

‘You are early. Thank you.’

He cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice was rather higher, thin.

‘I have the photograph here. I also have one passport, expired for two years, and what remains of ten thousand dollars. Not, I am afraid, very much.’

‘I don’t think that I understand you.’

‘Your brother James died this morning at four-fifteen. Peacefully. I was with him. He had seen the photograph and was … was … Was very pleased.’

‘How? How did he die?’

‘He died from pneumocystis pneumonia. You know what that is?’

‘I can guess.’

‘He was aware of this a long time ago: it was proved positive at the end of the summer. By January it began to race. That is why he had to get the money from Millar, why I collected him that night and brought him here. He knew then that he was dying, but the clinic here is not cheap, you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the disease is capricious. It takes its course.’

‘I will come to you now. Right away. Where are you?’

‘In Cannes. It is a private clinic, we do not discuss it, you understand? It is very discreet. The Villa Mimosa, in Super-Cannes, near the Observatoire.’

‘I want to see him.’

There was a silence at the end of the line.

‘Did you hear me? I must see him.’

‘Only if you absolutely insist.’

‘I do. I will leave right away.’

‘He is no one that you ever knew. You realize that?’ ‘I realize that.’

‘I will wait for you outside Cannes station; in the front parking in one and a half hours from now. That should be time if you leave immediately.’

‘I am leaving.’

‘I will lead you to the clinic. You will, of course, recognize my car …?’

I heard him hang up. The line buzzed. I replaced my receiver in its cradle and sagged against the quilted parrots. No sense of satisfaction, or relief. Just an almost overwhelming feeling of grief and distress. So that is that. Tacky, ugly, sad. No splendour, no medals for valour; silent, cruel death for the ewe lamb.

Outside the booth, leaning against the corridor wall, Giles, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. He raised anxious eyebrows.

‘Mum? Was it Mum?’

‘No. Not Mum.’

‘Okay. I just thought an accident. Eric driving. You know …’

I walked slowly down the hall to the closed front door. Through the glass panes, the terrace was littered with fragments of broken tile, torn leaves, whirling shreds of paper. The wind jostled and ripped at the lime trees, had already tumbled the smiling pink-faced chef, smashed a pot of Portugal laurel.

‘It’s still blowing. Terrific – the whatever you call it.’

‘Mistral. Blows for two, four or seven days. Something like that.’