“Our daughter is upset—”

“Our daughter is always upset,” Graver replied, walking past his wife into the kitchen. “What now?”

“What now?” she parroted, watching as her husband opened the fridge door and took out a plate of sliced ham. “The Lamberts are crowing over us! They told her that if we had trouble paying for the wedding they could help us out—”

“Good.”

“Good!” Pam snorted. “You want us to look like paupers?”

“They have a lot more money than we do,” Graver replied, teasing her, but inside he was nettled. “Don’t worry, we won’t need handouts. Leave it to me. I can get enough money to wipe the bloody smile off the Lamberts’ faces.” He made himself a sandwich and poured some milk, Pam refusing to join him. “That Benny Lambert’s a prick anyway—”

“A prick who will inherit a fortune when his father dies,” Pam responded tartly. “And anyway, our daughter loves him.”

He calmed down at the thought of Antonia. Darkly pretty, sweetly demanding she was the perfect consort for any man, Benny Lambert included. Biting into his sandwich, Graver thought of Benny’s father – the buccaneering Gordon Lambert – and his wife, the monosyllabic and preening Josephine. Aggressive and ruthless, Gordon Lambert had made a fortune in plastics, then married Josephine, a sculptress with a penchant for entrails. Her works of severed colons, intestines and split hearts had been collected worldwide, particularly admired in Germany and London, her latest offering hailed by one wit as ‘offally impressive’.

“I can’t stand Josephine Lambert,” Graver said, taking another bite of his sandwich. “That crap she makes is fetching fortunes at auction. Jesus, who’d buy someone’s anus? I reckon she’s a serial killer, and it’s a way to dispose of the bodies.” He laughed at his own joke, Pam watching him critically.

“Just how are you going to raise the money for the wedding?”

“Oh, darling,” Graver replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek, “leave it to me.”

“I won’t have my daughter humiliated!”

“She won’t be.”

“And I won’t have the bloody Lamberts patronising us.”

“Relax,” he soothed her. “No one’s going to lose face. Not in this family anyway.”

THREE

“Why her?”

Surprised, Benny Lambert glanced over at his mother. She had spoken, which was a novelty in itself. For a last few months Josephine had communicated by notes only, claiming that speech impeded her creativity. But now she was talking again, which was a pity.

“I love Antonia,” he replied, knowing to whom the question referred, because it was the same question he had been asked repeatedly. Why her? Well, why on earth not? Antonia Hirst was adorable. Beautiful, gentle, funny, warm-blooded – the opposite of his mother, who was sitting perched on the arm of a chair like a headstone.

“Love…” Josephine repeated, rising to her impressive height and grasping her son’s hand. Her gaze held his and Benny swallowed, intimidated. “You need a strong woman.”

He was thinking that another strong woman might well kill him. “I love her.”

“Love.”

He nodded. “Yes, I love her.”

“You love a poor girl?”

“She isn’t poor!” Benny retorted. “She isn’t as rich as we are, but she’s not poor.”

Josephine let go of his hand and moved to the door. There she paused. “I have only one thing left to say to you. One word – pre-nuptial.”

“That’s two words,” Benny muttered under his breath as she left.

*

That evening it was his father’s turn, Gordon Lambert catching Benny in the driveway as he drew up outside the house. Smiling, he eased his bulk out of the car and patted his son on the shoulder. He was ruddy-faced, his shirt collar undone, an overstuffed briefcase under his left arm. A ramshackle slob of a man, a modern alchemist who had turned plastic into gold.

“Benny!” he said. “You and your mother have a good chat?”

“I’m marrying Antonia,” he replied, avoiding the question, “and nothing either of you can say will change my mind.”

“What about being disinherited?”

To his father’s surprise, Benny shrugged. “OK, disinherit me.”

“Just joking, just joking,” Gordon replied, walking into the house and making for the study. “She’s a nice girl.”

“But poor?”

Gordon shrugged. “No one’s as rich as us,” he replied. “You can’t hold it against her that her father’s a loser—”

“Graver Hirst isn’t a loser, he’s a well-respected art dealer. He’s done well.”

“But your mother makes a fortune with her art.”

“Because you back her!” Benny retorted. “And because people can’t get enough blood and guts. Oh, come on, Dad, you can’t think what Mother does is really art?”

He ignored the question. “Your mother is an extraordinary woman.”

“I don’t want an extraordinary woman, I want Antonia. And you know why? Because she’s extraordinary to me.” He stood up to the bullish Gordon. “Antonia is the right woman for me. The right wife, the right partner.” He sighed. “This family has so much money, we’re richer than anyone needs to be, or deserves to be. I’m not marrying for money, I’m marrying for love.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About marrying for love?”

Gordon shook his head. “About us being too rich.” He sighed. “Jesus, boy, you are a fool.”

FOUR

Martin Kemper walked into Graver Hirst’s gallery and checked his reflection in a mirror. Why does he do that? Graver wondered. Surely you only need to do that if you are checking your hair? Kemper was bald as an egg.

Smiling, Graver walked over to his visitor. “Welcome, Martin. Come into the office.”

He had arranged the easel so that it faced the door, the portrait placed at eye level. The painting was of a life-size head and shoulders, the woman’s limpid gaze fetching, her skin pinkly perfect under an aureole of gilt curls. Graver had spent several minutes setting up the painting, arranging and rearranging the lights until it was illuminated to perfection. It shimmered, a flirtatious golden trinket in its solemn Dutch frame.

“Hmmmm,” Martin said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Hmmmm.”

It was delightful, he thought. Confident and very Rubenesque. Creamy, the colours singing. Found in a sale? he wondered. Without proper provenance? That could be a problem, he thought, but then again, papers could prove or disprove worth. Without papers this might well be a Rubens.

“I think it’s School of Rubens,” he lied glibly.

Graver was ready for him. “Possibly. I’m showing it to an expert tomorrow—”

“Who?”

“A well-known expert,” Graver replied. “Of course, in the end we may not be able to prove it one way or the other. As we both know, it often comes down to opinion. But I’ve already had it dated and checked out. It dates from Rubens’ period.”

Martin could feel his heart speeding up. He had two buyers in mind. There had originally been four, but now that he saw the picture he realised only two were rich enough for what he would be asking. Mr Thomas and Mr Halliday were both brokers acting for anonymous rich collectors. Martin had done business with them before and was pretty certain that he could pit the two against each other and hoick up the price.

It was a shame that Graver didn’t have his contacts himself, or he could have made a direct sale. But that was the art business, Martin thought with mock sympathy. The man with the contacts made the killing.

“What d’you want for it?”

“Three hundred thousand pounds.”

“Don’t be fucking silly,” Martin retorted. “What d’you really want for it?”

“Ask me again and it’ll be four hundred thousand.”

“You can’t prove it’s a Rubens!”

“You can’t prove it’s not,” Graver replied. “If it was a genuine Rubens, you and I both know it would fetch four or five million at auction—”

“But it could be a fake.”