She walked back into the bedroom and looked around it with disdain. ‘And supposedly he’s the nice brother!’

‘Oh good.’ Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘Here’s a thought – let’s not do this in Ari’s room. I’d really rather not chance upon his exotic knife collection.’

They walked out into the hall and stood outside the door opposite. ‘Ready?’ she asked him. Johnny shrugged – he just wanted this all to be over as quickly as possible – and she realized she had been asking for her own benefit. She needed to take a breath before she stepped in here, into the most private space of the most hated man. ‘Here we go, then . . .’

They went in. It was like stepping into a cathedral – the instinct to look up, to gasp. Beau’s room could have been, should have been beautiful, but this was a whole other level. Three times bigger and decorated entirely in milky whites, it was like stepping into a cloud. The entire far wall was crittall and smoked glass, looking onto the main living area downstairs and beyond it, the picture window over Lake Zell. A giant freestanding copper bath was positioned front and centre, affording the bather wonderful views, but for the person having a cup of tea on the sofa downstairs . . .?

The walls were papered with a hand-painted Fromental wallpaper of cherry blossoms. A sheepskin sofa sat against the end of the emperor bed with two matching armchairs opposite, should he want to host some kind of meeting or gathering in his bedroom. Clover felt certain no one had ever sat down on them.

She went over and contrarily sat on them each, in turn.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Johnny whispered, looking amused.

‘Oh yes,’ she grinned. But she felt strangely disappointed, too.

This was their first indirect encounter with Kit Foley, a deliberate breach into his inner sanctum. It was supposed to speak about him without words, but as she looked around, she wasn’t hearing much. The room looked exactly as it had been conceived – pristine, beautiful, calm. The bed had been made, the wardrobes were shut. No porn mags, no smokes, no dirty underwear lying about. She got up – not even a scummy waterline inside the bath.

She went over to his wardrobe and looked in. There were three white shirts, one black suit, a clutch of snowboarding jackets – all in solid, sober colours – with JOR in matt shadow along the shoulders. JOR: Julian Orsini-Rosenberg. The man behind Foley’s comeback. Supposedly, Kit had designed this himself?

She checked the drawers – he was a Calvins man; clearly not much interested in socks – just black ribbed pairs. She checked the other drawers – base layer thermals, jeans, some merino wool sweaters in dark grey.

‘Ugh, he dresses like a bloody architect,’ she muttered. ‘Where are all the Hawaiian print shirts and board shorts?’

‘He gave it up, remember? This is Foley Mark Two.’