‘First time? That explains why you’re not used to the Rolls-Royce treatment. If you were a parent or a teacher, or even one of the girls, you’d expect nothing less. Between me, you and Barney McGrew, it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t take too much for granted once in a while. Not a Villiers girl yourself, are you?’

‘No.’

‘I can tell you’re not. Villiers is our main account—we’re the only firm they use, and that’s why: for the service we provide. Would you like the radio on now that you’re awake? Sorry if it disturbed you before. I was keeping it on to hear the traffic bulletins. ’

‘I don’t mind.’ Talking is using up energy I can’t spare. I need to think about what I’ll say to Saul. Having refused to face him in person for so long, I have no right to turn up without warning and fire questions at him. Knowing he’ll be delighted to see me, that he’ll answer them willingly, only makes it harder.

I thought Saul had shown me all the art he owned. Why didn’t he show me Aidan’s picture? Before the day Mary attacked me at the gallery, we used to have dinner together from time to time, either at Saul’s house, with his family, or at mine, where it would be only me and him; I felt bad about that, but Blantyre Lodge is too small for a proper dinner party. The main point of those evenings was to show each other new paintings we’d bought. We joked about our ‘collections’. Saul used to say, ‘You and I are the taste-makers of the future, Ruth. Once all the pickled baby skeletons and diamond-studded skulls and unmade beds have been seen for the shams they are, you and I will be there to lead the way. True art will once again reign supreme.’

Does Saul know where Aidan is? Does he know why Aidan called one of his paintings The Murder of Mary Trelease?

‘Radio Two all right for you, miss?’ asks the driver. ‘Or would you prefer a ditty or two? I’ve got some CDs.’

The word ‘ditty’ makes me think of It’s a long way to Tipperary and Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag—songs I was forced to learn at school and hated. ‘The radio’s okay,’ I tell him.

‘There’s a copy of the school magazine in the pocket behind me,’ he says. ‘Latest issue. You’re welcome to have a decco if you get bored. Get a glimpse of how the other half lives.’

One half dies. The other half lives.