‘Indeed he would, Mr Jacob, had the works been sold in the UK, or Australia, or even Mexico. But not in the United States – that policy is not in operation here. And, although I shouldn’t really tell you, the collector whose name sits alongside these purchases is in fact a United States resident and the deal was done on US soil. We operate a policy of discretion on all our sales.’

My fucking God, she got me, he thought. Ever had well and truly been full-faced, cream-bunned got. Ever thought, she’s not a bitch, just really damn good at her job.

‘Thank you.’

He uttered with a respect that had sprung faster than a wasp’s sting; he felt differently towards her.

But the knowing would have been nice, wouldn’t it, be honest, that wouldn’t have taken much, just a note. The being wanted would have been much appreciated by his father, he thought, but looking at Miss Money-Root, not being wanted was something she had never experienced. She knew nothing about it, only as a concept and, in that form, it had probably never even crossed her mind.

Spoilt was the word he had been struggling for, through all those derogatory adjectives.

Just plain privileged.

But that was a fuck of a thing to be in its own right.

Cunt.

Ever was breathless, collected the relevant paperwork and receipt of information and walked across the floor, of yet more Italian quarry extraction, in what seemed to be the noisiest, loneliest and most endless walk. Intimidating came to mind. He was totally intimidated. My God, he needed a smoke. His father had sold paintings and he never knew. It could be put no simpler.

It was a sin.

Fuck to the death the cunt that lives as Mr Lorken.

Chapter Fifteen

Ever’s grandfather was Grant Everett Millen.

Ever had never questioned why the name Everett had been passed down through the generations, as if just a harmless connection, a consistency, a continuity. But it carried with it the association of where the name has lived and been for the men in the family.

Ever’s grandfather was born in a lunatic asylum in 1900 in Staffordshire, St Edward’s in Cheddleton, an austere Victorian pile of a building, housing the primitive treatments inflicted on the so-termed mentally insane.

His grandfather’s mother wasn’t insane, neither was his grandfather’s father, he was working as the caretaker in this asylum. Their home address on their son’s birth certificate was Asylum Cottages, hardly communicating, Ever had always thought, a qualifying charm to the word cottage.