‘And I’ll produce his letter with his signature on it. And if that isn’t enough, I’ll produce the deeds of the transfers. This isn’t blackmail, but I can make a guess as to why the £250m. was taken from the trusts in Liechtenstein. And it’s probably the same reason why the yacht was sold and the charitable trusts were choked off and now the Chelsea house is going to be sold, if only Fleur can be turfed out. And I can also guess why it needs to be done quickly. I’m quite happy to say these things if I am forced to.’

‘That is fucking blackmail.’

‘Shut your face, you foul-mouthed, toffee-nosed bitch. I’m not going to be walked over by you just because you went to some posh school and I only studied bookkeeping at night. Do what you like.’

‘Don’t worry, I will.’

‘Good luck to you.’

As she goes down in the lift, Estelle is shaking and queasy. She stops outside, facing Lincoln’s Inn Fields, wondering where she should go. No doubt Amanda is already speaking to Julian. God knows what’s waiting for her at Bread Street, but she decides she must face it. She takes a taxi. The doorman, Bill Saddleton, greets her.

‘What a lovely day, isn’t it? Spring has sprung.’

She hadn’t noticed. She goes up to her desk and sits down. It calms her to make lists and she starts revising the arrangements for the memorial service. But soon Julian’s secretary rings. Could she come to his office?

Julian is sitting under the messy blue picture: she hasn’t noticed before that the paint has even spilled over on to the frame. Julian looks drawn, as though he has flu.

He stands up. ‘Ah, Estelle. Have a seat. Tea, or coffee? Tea, if I remember.’

He orders.

‘Thanks so much for coming to see me. Amanda Stapleton has been on the line, ranting, as is her way. She says that my father gave you the Collioure Matisse of the port. Is that true?’

‘Yes, I have his note.’

‘The thing is, what date is on it?’

‘It’s before the power of attorney, if that’s your question.’

‘That was going to be my question, yes. But look, Estelle, I know how much he valued you, but I honestly don’t think that any court will uphold the validity of this piece of paper. Even if he did intend to give it you at that time, he had suffered a catastrophic stroke. If you think about it, he left you a pension of around £40,000 a year and any court would find it strange that he would give you a painting worth millions when he was very ill, if in his rational mind he had already made provision for you.’