‘In the scraps which he did not destroy of his papers he mentions a “Daniel”. There are some Polaroid photographs of him. I recognized him the first time I saw him. James’s wife said that he was often here and that he … well, she said that he was commissioned to paint … portraits, if you like, of Daniel, and she mentioned a couple of other names.’

‘Mine?’ Jojo was grinning.

‘Yes. Yours.’

Brent Millar held out his glass again. Jojo sprang to his feet, took it to the bar.

‘You say that he burned all his documents? Diaries? Papers? Nothing was left?’

‘A few scraps. Nothing. Impressions of the countryside, the town. The light, colours. Nothing. Oh, there is a piece about his “wedding” in Porquerolles, and a photograph –’

‘Which’, said Jojo, handing the replenished glass to his master, ‘I took my very own self.’

‘That I guessed. There is a very tall shadow …’

‘It was evening.’

‘But nothing worth having. No clue as to what happened over all the years. He appears to have destroyed everything, obliterated his past just as he now seems to seek oblivion for the future. Everything has gone.’

Brent Millar ran a surprisingly slender finger round the rim of his glass, making it hum softly. He was still smiling, the startling blue eyes unblinkingly fixed on mine.

‘Well, not quite everything, chum,’ he said. ‘It’s here. Neat and tidy.’

I know that I looked idiotic. ‘Everything?’

‘Everything, as far as I know. Half a lifetime in fat “Agendas”.’

‘But why are they here? Why have you got them?’

‘Because I bought them.’

‘Bought them? I’m sorry, I’m being terribly obtuse.’

‘Hardly surprising; you appear to know so little about your brother. He was desperate. Broke, with huge overheads.’

‘But he had money. From our father. A modest legacy but –’

Mr Millar waved his glass dismissively. ‘That all went. God knows where or how, but all your brother had to live on finally was his painting. And he was not, as I feel certain you will agree, a Monet, Cézanne or a Francis Bacon. He painted to exist.’

‘I know. I have seen the stuff at the house.’

‘That was all commissioned by Solly Aronovich, out of kindness and a very old friendship. He is building an hotel in Cannes. Somewhere …’

‘I know that too. But, forgive me, why did you, as it were, bail him out? Buying all his diaries, “Agendas”, whatever.’

‘Ten thousand dollars is ten thousand dollars. It got him out of a lot of trouble, it paid part of the rent for that absurd house, it also was something he could put away for the unhappy child. He had a very strong conscience, you know. Very British.’

‘When was this?’

‘This? The sale of half a life? Oh, about the end of last summer.’

Jojo decided to join the conversation. ‘It was the end of last summer. Right.’