‘Well, he had about thirty pieces and my curators liked his stuff; we offered to buy his whole collection. Now that’s a gift for any artist. We gave him sixty per cent, up front, of what they thought he would sell for. That’s why they don’t work for me any longer.’

A laugh from the court of Mr Lorken. But numbers: she has always thought numbers sounded impressive. She believed a number.

‘And what happened? Did you not like them?’

Exactly, my Japanese friend, I am with you. A diplomat.

‘I didn’t have an opinion, I never even saw them, but he got greedy by all accounts, and said he had more that he could get ready, so they said – fine – and he painted, too many, too quick. They were not good, but we took them anyway, lucky guy, at a cheaper rate, I’m relieved to say. Exhibited him in Venice. Here not Italy. Sold nothing. Bang, it was a case of – luzzem gone. To the warehouse. I was beginning to feel like a shlemiel in this enterprise. Not just with him, but the whole searching process.’

Lomita was weary, at least weary of the thoughts that surrounded Mr Lorken.

She desperately wanted to pee.

‘Well he’s dead now, so maybe it’s the perfect opportunity for you to re-evaluate.’

Lomita was astounded by the directness he had brought out in her.

‘Wait till you see them.’

Another laughter snap.

‘Half were sold off to a friend of mine, Mr Chang, who’s in the hotel business, for some place in San Diego, apparently.’

Oh God. Lomita’s heart sank. To the bottom of the well, drowning.

Mr Lorken continued hammering in the nail.

‘You know the sort of art you walk past without noticing in the lobby, but it puts out a pleasant enough colour into the environment. It’s wallpaper.’

So that is what happened to the twenty-seven, in that moment Lomita had a profound sympathy for Ever’s father. Even though he had been unaware, his assumption had been accurate: his work, his talent had been treated with derision.

‘I hate San Diego,’

Abby interrupted.

And now the lightweight repartee. It didn’t lighten Lomita.

‘Once – you’ve been.’

Suggested her husband, Arnott. Tentatively.

‘Enough.’

‘Perfect place for them, by the sounds.’

Tall and tanned interjected again.

Mr Lorken remained unphased.

‘I am not being a zhlub, but his value is in the toilet.’

That word got Lomita going.

‘May I be directed to the restroom?’

She asked the approaching waiter.

As she was leaving the conversation died down, just from the carrying of voices aspect. She got to the end of the dining room on her stick, no mean feat, this was a large room; she could just about detect a tonal change that suggested a mild scolding of Ingmar that was obviously acceptable among old friends.