Without answering she walked off, the door closing softly behind her. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset, but he waited until he heard her move back into the bedroom she had shared with Leon. For nearly twenty minutes he sat in the semi-dark, wondering if she would come downstairs again. Finally, believing she was asleep, he moved into Leon’s study.

The smell of dust and books was overpowering and he was initially tempted to open a window, but resisted. Instead he flicked on the desk lamp and riffled through his dead brother’s papers. There were many volumes on Goya, many reproductions, but finally Ben found what he had been looking for – Leon’s notebooks. Tucking them under his arm, he picked up his brother’s laptop and walked to the door. The house was completely silent. It could have been empty, without any imprint of Gina. Without any imprint of the adult Leon.

Instead the place was full of boys’ murmured voices, Detita’s footsteps making their solemn way down the main stairs … Spooked, Ben glanced up, but the staircase was empty. Without making a sound, he hurried to the bedroom he had been using and packed the few belongings he had brought with him. Pushing Leon’s computer and notebooks in with his clothes, he added the papers he had found at the Hotel Melise and walked out to the car.

Day had yet to dawn, a little morbid light smearing the horizon, water sounds coming, muffled, from the river. The breeze had dropped and the weathervane was silent, but as Ben turned back to the house he caught sight of a figure watching him from an upstairs window. The outline was vague, the only distinct portion of the figure being the hand pressed against the glass, the palm white as the flesh of a lily.

34

New York

The baby shower had been a success and attended by assorted society mothers and matrons, Bobbie Feldenchrist had introduced her adopted son, Joseph, to New York. As was befitting a woman who had everything she needed, Bobbie and her child were indulged with gifts, each more inventive than the last. Invitations to beach houses and foreign homes were extended to the new family, people remarking in whispers that old man Feldenchrist would never have expected his fortune to be passed on to a black upstart from Africa.

To her face, people complimented Bobbie on her liberal choice. True to his threatening word, Emile Dwappa had delivered the baby that previous Saturday, taking the cash from Bobbie and dropping his voice to remind her of their agreement. He chucked the baby under the chin, declared him a fine child, and then spent several minutes admiring Bobbie’s art collection again. She was too preoccupied to take offence. Soon he would be gone, she told herself – and she had what she wanted from him. With no real conditions except one – silence. She had merely to stay quiet.

And why, in God’s name, would she do otherwise? What benefit could possibly be had from telling anyone the real circumstances of the child’s adoption? As for Ellen and Marty Armstrong, they weren’t going to break her confidence. They relied too much on the Feldenchrist handouts to betray her.

So Bobbie had let Dwappa look at her paintings and had waited patiently for him to leave.

‘What would be the greatest addition to your collection, Ms Feldenchrist?’ he had asked finally.

‘I don’t know.’

‘An unknown Velasquez?’

‘There are no unknown Velasquez works.’

‘What about an unknown Goya?’

Her smile had warmed, almost amused. ‘I doubt it.’

‘That it exists?’ he countered. ‘Or that it would be the greatest addition to your collection?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was just asking about your collection …’ Dwappa had continued, making for the door and then turning. ‘… in case I hear of anything you might be interested in purchasing.’

She had missed the trap and suddenly found herself teetering on its slimy brink. But Bobbie wasn’t a Feldenchrist for nothing, and she knew that one of the first rules of combat was to appear uninterested. All she had to do was to get the African out of her home. He had delivered everything she wanted from him, and she desired no more communication. If he persisted, Bobbie reassured herself blithely, she would call on her considerable money and legal power to make sure he backed off.

‘The Feldenchrist Collection is complete. I don’t think we need any more purchases.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Dwappa had replied, making for the door.

Through the glass panels Bobbie had seen him press the elevator button and wait for the light to go on above the floor guide overhead. Slowly, she had counted the elevator up, floor by floor, then exhaled when it had finally arrived at the penthouse and Dwappa got in. But at the last moment he had looked up, catching her eye through the glass panel separating them. And then he had pointed his finger straight at her, like a rapier, as the elevator door had closed on him.

That night sleep had been difficult to find.

‘Bobbie?’

She jumped as Ellen Armstrong came out of the penthouse elevator and walked towards her. ‘How’s the baby?’

Bobbie smiled warmly. ‘He’s good. The nanny’s taken him out for a walk.’

‘You’re a natural mother, Bobbie. We all commented on that at the baby shower.’ Ellen took a seat and crossed her plump legs. On her lap she clung to her Chloé bag, her fingers clawing into the pliable leather.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Ellen replied, but she was jumpy.

‘What is it? Are you in trouble? Need some funding?’

‘No! No!’

Surprised, Bobbie felt momentarily lost for words. Ellen shifted in her seat uneasily and then dropped her voice. ‘I know we aren’t supposed to talk about him—’

‘Who?’ Bobbie said, knowing already who she meant.

‘The African.’

‘What about him?’ Bobbie asked, but there was a catch in her voice and she felt her palms moisten.

‘We found out something. It’s not to be repeated. I mean, I didn’t know about it when I put him your way. How could I have done? I just heard that he could get a child for you. I didn’t know anything else—’

‘Know what?’

Ellen paused, biting her lip for a moment before pressing on. ‘He’s involved in some sordid things, Bobbie. Got a reputation for all sorts. He trades in a lot of things, and other stuff …’

‘What other stuff?’

‘Marty said he traffics children from Africa.’ Ellen smiled. A stupid woman out of her depth and trying to make the deadly sound trivial. ‘For people to adopt.’

Quickly, Bobbie rose to her feet and walked to the window, as though she could – even from penthouse height – see down into the streets to the nanny pushing her child below.

‘Hell, Ellen, how stupid d’you think I am? If this is some kind of trick to get money out of me—’

‘No, no!’ Ellen insisted. ‘I didn’t know about the man before. I just wanted to help you. You wanted a baby so much and I just wanted to help—’

Shaken, Bobbie sat down, thinking. The bond between herself and her adopted son had been immediate, her thoughts engrossed by the newcomer. The family name meant that Joseph would have the finest schooling and the family money would ensure a platinum life. But what really struck Bobbie was how, within days, he had consumed her whole life. No man, no husband, had inspired such love in her. Nothing on earth had ever meant as much as this child.

She had carried him round the drawing room, pointing out the pictures. Didn’t some specialist believe that a baby could absorb information from its first months? He would learn about the Feldenchrist artworks, about the importance of maintaining the Collection, and the name itself. Pride had flushed through every pore as Bobbie had talked to her baby, her own passion finding outlet. In time Joseph would run the collection, own it; in time he would inherit every drawing, sculpture and painting. He would go to the auctions, bid the other dealers down, wield the Feldenchrist money as all fortunes should be wielded – with unquestionable confidence.