He carried the child through the doors into the kitchen, holding it at arms’ length like an unexploded piece of ordnance. The volume of the crying increased with the distance from Lisa. You could tell it was a second child from the ease with which she ignored it.

‘All right, James, Jessica. It’s been time. Why don’t you two come into my office?’

I was amazed by how much and how little she had changed. Her neat little body had spread comfortably into motherhood, but the quickness of her movements, the tough strut and the clipped speech of her youth had all remained, had even been intensified by the contrast with her round breasts and padded hips. Her face had not softened, though; there were lines around her mouth, from smiling or frowning. She was wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt. As with everything in her life, she seemed to be handling the change in her circumstances by inhabiting her new role with aggressive openness. There was something about the crèche-like atmosphere of the living room, the sloppiness of her dress, and the way she had handed the baby to the thug who had escorted us that challenged the visitor to dare question or criticize. Nevertheless, the presence of the children helped ease away the last of my fears. From the way she had handled the baby I had the impression that Lisa was a good mother, and would have a policy of keeping the less pleasant aspects of her business out of sight of her children. We had nothing to fear, I surmised, at least whilst we were in the house.

Lisa ushered us into her office and closed the door behind us. The room held the smells of warm milk and bileless vomit. I checked the walls and shelves for any evidence of the fathers of the children, but there was nothing, no masculine presence in the room and no photographs on Lisa’s impeccably tasteful desk, a carved slab of pine with elegantly curved edges. She walked around to the padded leather chair in front of windows that gave on to a snow-covered garden. Jessica and I sat in a more spartan pair of seats facing the desk.

‘How can we help you, Lisa?’ Jessica asked. She was impossible to read, her expression had not varied since the moment she had come out of my closet.

‘I’m sorry for dragging the two of you out of bed.’ Lisa spoke with a hint of amusement.

‘Can I smoke?’ Jessica asked.

‘Nah. The kid’s got asthma.’

‘I didn’t know that Francis faked the swap,’ Jessica said. ‘Nor did James. We got the letter this morning.’

Lisa laughed. ‘I’m not pissed off about the fucking picture. I kept tabs on it for a few years. It got flogged on three or four times, then I lost track of it. Now it’s somewhere in India, fuck knows where exactly. It’s on someone’s wall, making them feel big. I don’t know if Francis was telling the truth in that letter, but I know it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference if James drew it or Picasso. I could never tell the fucking difference anyway.’