Tom leans forward, his lips curled into a sneer. ‘They’re building on the side of the cliff, you idiot. The wind could have caught them …’

You idiot. Clive bites back a sharp retort, grits his teeth. ‘They didn’t fall off the side of the cliff. They’d have shattered if that were the case. Someone … or something … had to have carried the stuff down the cliff and placed them in the fjord. And we’re not talking about hammers or small objects, here. The big sheets of glass you ordered for the front façade. Slates. Tiles. These are heavy, highly breakable objects. Removed from the site and found in the water. Do you realize what I’m saying?’

He says this last bit as though he’s talking to a three-year-old. Tom gives him a thousand-yard stare.

‘They think the site is haunted. I’m serious. It’s concerning.’

‘It’s very concerning,’ Tom mumbles. ‘It’s concerning that we’ve contracted people who believe in ghosts.’

‘And there’s another rumour,’ Clive adds in a low voice. He’ll need a stiff drink after this conversation. He rubs his chin. ‘I think this particular rumour has some truth in it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That we’re running out of money.’

Tom doesn’t answer. They both know this is only partly true. The real truth is that they ran out of money some time ago.

‘We need an injection of cash,’ Clive says.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Tom. I need you to be serious for a second.’

Tom gives him a hard look. Clive feels a fresh ripple of anger. He wants to scream in his face. This doesn’t just affect you, he wants to yell. This is my income, my life. If you go under you take me with you!

‘I hate to ask this …’ Clive says.

‘Just ask it.’

‘All right.’ He sighs, deeply uncomfortable. ‘Was there any … insurance money?’

Tom stares at him blankly for a few seconds. ‘Insurance money?’

Clive studies the pattern on the tablecloth. ‘From Aurelia’s death.’

‘For crying out loud!’ Tom spits, reeling as though he’s been stabbed.

‘I’m only asking,’ Clive says, but he can’t look at Tom, and good thing too because Tom has a mind to reach across the kitchen table and throttle him.

Clive leans forward. ‘Do you think I want to ask about this? Do you not think I’m waking up every night in a cold sweat, wondering how we’re going to pay for this house? And the irony is, it’s not even my house! It’s yours!’