‘I don’t know if I would want to take the risk of not being able to shag. A difficult choice, know what I mean?’

Grace did and shuddered. He’d read stuff in the press about this disease over the years. But at forty he’d never been troubled enough to think about it. Now he was being asked to help someone make a possible life or death decision. ‘Get all the facts, Norman, okay? If you can get all the facts, then I’ll talk through them with you.’

‘Imagine it’s you, not me. What would you do?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I don’t know, really I don’t. I guess my immediate reaction would be there’s a lot more to life than sex. But I’ll tell you one thing. From all I’ve seen of it, old age has some good points, but a lot of bad ones. I believe in quality of life rather than the length of it. If you feel that sex is an important part of your life, then you have to weigh up whether you are willing to sacrifice that in order to gain a couple more years playing tiddlywinks and pissing into a nappy in an old folks’ home.’

Potting grinned. ‘You’re a diamond geezer!’

Grace shook his head. ‘I’m not. Maybe one day I’ll understand what life is all about. Then I could give you proper advice – you see—’

Grace was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. Glancing at the display, he saw it was Glenn Branson’s personal number. Apologizing to Potting, he answered it, and instantly heard his mate in tears.

‘Shit, Roy,’ he said. ‘Oh shit. Ari’s just died.’

33

The fat man, in his white yachting cap, sat behind the wheel of his white convertible Rolls-Royce Phantom, looking, for all the world, like Mr Toad. He was driving at walking pace, steering, with just one pudgy finger, through the midday hordes shuffling leisurely along the quay of Puerto Banus.

Cars were parked in white-painted bays, elegantly chained off. Beyond them were the fuck-off yachts, mostly painted brilliant white and sporting all kinds of flags of convenience. ACE. FAR TOO. TIO CARLOS. SHAF. Some of them came and went; others, like his, were berthed here all year round. His was one of the biggest, and he liked knowing that.

He liked this place. The bling, the bright colours, the designer sunglasses; there was a smell of opulence in the air. And he was part of it – and few things, including his three ex-wives and the twenty-four-year-old pole dancer he was currently shagging, ever let him forget that. One day he would die here, a contented man!

The car purred past smart bars and restaurants, the Bulgari shop, Jack’s Bar, then Chloé, American Brasserie and Dolce & Gabbana. Yachts were berthed stern-in, Mediterranean style, along the pontoons of the marina to his right, and white Moorish villas with red pantiled roofs rose up the hillside ahead of him. Even the brilliant sun, beating down its dry, dazzling heat, felt as reassuringly expensive as everything else here.

Wearing a baggy white shirt, Bermuda shorts and Gucci sandals, and breathing in the smell of the car’s fine leather interior, he drove on slowly, at the crowd’s strolling pace. He was in no hurry; he had plenty of time for lunch and a round of golf before he needed to think about catching his plane, and he was enjoying himself. He was in a very contented mood indeed – an even more contented one than usual. He was enjoying the admiring glances his Roller got, nodding his head to the tune that was blasting from its sound system: ‘The Millionaire’ by Dr Hook. He liked to play that song over and over, because that was him, little Eamonn Pollock, from the wrong side of the tracks, now a millionaire over and over again.

‘I’ve got more money than a horse has hair!’ he sang out loud, to Dr Hook’s words, then beamed as a pretty woman grinned at him and he grinned back, waving his fleshy little pinky finger at her, then braking to a halt as a couple in front of him wheeling a pushchair stopped to retrieve a stuffed toy the baby had thrown from it. As he did so, his phone rang. Number withheld.

He pulled the handset to his ear, because you never knew who in the crowd might be listening. ‘Eamonn Pollock here,’ he said cheerily.

‘It’s me. How are you?’

‘How am I? I am a very contented man, thank you! The sun is shining, and I am very contented indeed. What’s not to be contented about, eh?’

‘We have a problem. Someone’s not a very happy man.’

‘So how do we spread a little sunshine for him?’

‘You could start by bringing his dead sister back to life.’

The sun felt as if, momentarily, it had slipped behind a cloud. But the sky was an unbroken deep blue. ‘She died?’

‘Your goons killed her.’

He turned the music right down. ‘Well, that was not my instruction to them.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it. I’m going to have a very nice lunch, then I’m going to play a round of golf at my favourite golf course, and then I have a plane to catch. What about you?’

‘When do I get my share?’ the caller said sullenly.

‘Good boy, now we’re talking the same language! In time, you will get it, after I’ve concluded all the sales.’

‘You said you’d pay me based on your valuation.’

‘Did I really?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not my style at all. I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient, dear boy.’

‘You bastard, that’s not our deal!’

A youth in bright red trousers was taking a photograph of the car. Eamonn Pollock beamed obligingly. ‘So nice to hear from you!’ he said, and ended the call. He selected the Dr Hook track again. He was looking forward to his lunch. A grilled lobster today and a glass – or two – of Chablis. Nothing like a good meal before a nice round of golf.

Life was so good!

He checked the time on his gold Vacheron Constantin Patrimony watch, which really did cost more pound notes than a horse had hairs – or would have done had he acquired it honestly and paid the market price of two hundred thousand pounds.

But honest was not a word in his vocabulary, any more than conscience was. He patted his large pot belly. Yes, he was definitely in a lobster mood today.

And very contented. And about to be very much richer than just a week ago.

He turned the volume of the song up again, and sang happily along to the words, beaming at the world around him. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me! I’ve got all this money, and I’m a pretty ugly guy!’

34

In the sparsely furnished basement consulting room in Schwabing, close to Munich’s Isar river, the woman, with her brown hair cropped short with a boyish fringe, lay prostrate on the psychiatrist’s couch. She was in her thirties, with a slender figure, dressed appropriately for the sweltering Munich summer day in cut-off jeans, a white tank-top and Havaiana flip-flops.

‘So?’ Dr Eberstark said, at the end of one of Sandy’s habitual lengthy silences. ‘Is there anything you would like to say?’

Sandy shrugged.

‘More non-verbal communications with me? Maybe you would find talking easier?’

‘I don’t understand it,’ she said.

‘You don’t understand what, exactly?’

‘Why I hate him so much.’

‘You left him, yes?’ It was old ground, but the psychiatrist repeated it, as he did periodically.

‘Yes.’

‘When you were pregnant with his child?’

She said nothing.

‘And you never told him you were pregnant?’

‘We’d been trying for a child for several years.’

‘So why did you not tell him?’

‘Because . . .’ She drifted into a long silence, and then she said, ‘Because if I had . . .’ then she lapsed back into silence.

‘Because if you had?’ he prompted, sensing they were getting somewhere.