He overlooked her comment about his father’s will. It wasn’t going to go the way she planned, but he’d deal with that when the time came. His father had in recent years made plans, in private, for him to take over, albeit when he was ready. As for the other issue, he could see his mother’s logic, although the thought of any criticism of his father in the press was hard to stomach. The idea of accepting one style of slander to avoid another was exasperating. But money could make many things go away, or morph into something unexpected, and Tactika had fingers in a multitude of media pies.

‘It’s all a game, Fabian. And you need to learn to get ahead. Think of any sport,’ she said. ‘Take skiing. You choose your turn before you get there, don’t you? You place your pole in the snow way before your body even rises to sway you around it. Cricket. You watch the way the bowler runs, how he raises his arm before he lets the ball loose. You’re reading if it’s going to be long or short even before he’s halfway down the area, trying to predict where it’s going to land and where to place your bat. Business is the same, my darling. So is politics. Let them all have their say on your father. Success always comes with enemies, otherwise it wouldn’t be an elite sport, would it? The secret is to predict what your enemies will do next, and get there first.’

She continued stroking his hand. Her words, as always, connected the dots in his mind. She was right. He had to hold his nerve. He knew first-hand that his father had many business ventures that, if exposed, could bring them unwelcome scrutiny and loss of confidence. Letting idiot conspiracy theorists to espouse a little, in a controlled way, could work to their advantage.

‘But he called Dad a fraud, and a cheat,’ he said. ‘He’s not even buried yet.’

‘I know. But they’re just words. Sticks and stones…’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Mum. We’re not in primary school; we’re talking about billions of dollars.’

‘We’re talking about people, and adults remain stuck in that school playground. Where do we learn to fight? And to survive? And to win?’ she asked him. ‘And as for news, my God, it lasts a day. By the time your father is buried, this will all have blown over. Quentin is publishing another article this afternoon about your work in South America.’

‘What?’