It was with a perversity that he asked Guillermo Gonzales, as an executor of the Nairn Estate, if he would be so kind as to call the newly opened Los Angeles branch of Christie’s and ask if they would be interested in auctioning two paintings recently bought by the woman who shot Ingmar Lorken. That they were being sold as part of her estate.

Their response was typically dismissive at the opportunism of the inquiry.

Mr Gonzales left his contact information. Days later he received an email, stating that they would be prepared to include them in their July catalogue. He thought, what the fuck. Divine justice?

The Wave and The People on a Bright Day were transported back to Los Angeles. Ever, of course, valued the paintings and put an excessive reserve of $250,000 on each painting.

He waited.

*

Clarissa and Jacob exited the terminal at San José del Cabo airport.

Small, neat, completed and then rebuilt after Hurricane Odile in 2014 decided she didn’t like it.

Heat that hits, both of them standing with four suitcases, three for Clarissa and just the one for Jacob. They stood with a letter, Fedexed from Guillermo Gonzales containing an address and a request not to contact Ever in advance, he was in a bit of trouble. The inference was emotional turmoil.

They had no idea how long they would stay or whether they wanted to stay, just the arrival occupied their thoughts.

They had made the trip.

She was aware that the person who had killed Mr Lorken had also purchased John Everett Millen’s work. She had called Ever but there was no response. But there had been no specific information about him on the news, just the passing reference to the last works this woman had purchased.

She supposed she was looking for a taxi but they were both fazed out, having flown in to Los Angeles and then taken a connecting Alaskan Airways flight down. They wandered to the rank and handed the address over to a short heavyset man with no English: they don’t often get those rides so there was a mild, surprised joy at the prospect.

Big trip.

For all of them.

*

Ever was having an afternoon swim after a couple of calming beers at lunch.

He’d had a nap and was using the ocean to wake. To clear the dull head. He always swam out towards where Lomita had been buried, not that far, just in the direction, and always at the same distance out came the moment in his head, the decision to just carry on swimming to solve all the doubt and effort and worry and anger that he had towards the world and himself.

His father’s ashes had ended up in the sea and Lomita was in the sea; it seemed an understandable place to be.