Then a touch of calm approached his brain, oh, that was nice, like a river flowing through his bones. Then – my God, me, who am I? I have no way of convincing anyone of my validity. But he wanted to see those works, those paintings, displayed, hung even just once, in this gallery. And the next words that spurted from his coffee-laced mouth were, improbably:

‘I represent Lomita Nairn, she is a collector and remembers admiring his work many years ago.’

‘Fine.’

Replied Miss England.

‘If you give me your contact information, I will report back to her and we can go from there. That would be no problem, Mr…?’

The question hung in the air. Who was he?

‘Mr Jacob.’

Good, valuably Jewish: like his son – came out.

‘I am Mr Jacob, and obviously for privacy reasons Miss Nairn would prefer to make the initial contact.’

‘Of course, completely understand, and thank you for your interest. If you wouldn’t mind coming with me back to my desk, we can catalogue the necessary information. You might also…’

She continued, on the walk.

‘Like to inform Miss Nairn – or Mrs?’

‘No, no Miss.’

‘Well, Miss Nairn, of our Basquiat exhibition, which opens in ten days. I would be delighted to extend an opening night invitation to you both; Mr Lorken will most definitely be in attendance and I am sure would be most interested in discussing Miss Nairn’s collection.’

And finally, to his relief, he was sweating,

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jacob. My name is Peony Money-Root. With a hyphen, as you will see on my card.’

He was ready now.

‘May I ask you a question, Miss Money-Root?’

He felt a little stupid calling her by such a name considering what her ancestry must have done to warrant it. But the surname was at least easier to negotiate than the first name.

‘Would the artist not have been entitled to some percentage of the sale of his paintings under the Artist’s Resale Right agreement?’

He had her now, he thought, the bitch would be struggling now, then his dominant world dropped a score and ten and he realised how stupid he had been. As he had been gaining in confidence, it suddenly occurred to him that why would he know, or care, whether any monies had been paid or not. When he was just an innocent representative of a collector. He knew his father hadn’t received a cent. Ron Riley had confirmed it.

Fortunately, he was dealing with Miss Money-Root, who didn’t know the meaning of the word perspire, or being caught out, and fortunately, he guessed, analysis was not her strength, or indeed her need. Specialist knowledge, good in her own field, enter a different game and flat on her face she was likely to fall.