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    â€˜I’ll fax them to your office. ’ She squeezed his hand, smiled, and stood above him. ‘Thank you for your support, Michael, you’ve been so kind andreassuring. It’s rare to find that in a man these days. ’
    He watched as she retreated to the kitchen door. She was thin and tall, gliding with the languid grace of a gazelle. This beguiling woman, just who was she?
    â€˜Lauren,’ he called out. ‘Is…is Julius likely to be coming back to you? ’
    Before she vanished into the other room, she turned and fixed him with an icy stare. ‘No,’ she announced. ‘Julius is where he wants to be. He will not be coming back, not to this house or to me. ’
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    ***
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    Whilst he could hear her tinkering in the kitchen, Michael wandered over to an annex at the far eastern gabled side of the house, beyond the heavily beamed drawing room. It was here, she explained, that he would find what he was looking for: the studio of Julius Gray. It was an impressive space, a double height conservatory with acres of glass, and a spiralling staircase leading to a mezzanine floor that protruded out from halfway up the outer wall. Someone had drawn the blinds on the windows, shutting out most of the light. All that remained was a gloom of abandonment.
    At first sight, it was a chaotic environment in which to work. The studio was dominated by four large wooden easels, placed in a semicircle, close to each other in order for the artist to move swiftly from one to the other. This was how Julius created his masterworks, Michael guessed. Four identical sized canvases sat upon these easels, each of which appeared unfinished. The artist had literally run the same brushstroke, with the same colour paint, across each of the paintings in turn, duplicating the pattern but not the same rhythm. Julius worked fast and furious, Michael gathered, allowing for a common group of paintings with immediate but separate spontaneity. The work was vivid and colourful and hypnotic. The man had talent, just not to his taste, Michael concluded.
    Looking around further and treading carefully, Michael tried to make sense of the stacks of cobwebbed canvases piled against the walls, atop the cabinets and in the drawers of the huge map chest. There were hundreds of charcoal drawings, pastel sketches, diagrams, abandoned ideas on bits of scrap paper and board and, within one open-plan side cupboard, a skyscraper of exercise books filled with his doodlings and written observations. All around was the unruly mix of paint pots, paint tubes, brushes, cleaning fluids, cameras, a home-made light-box, metal frames and unused canvases. On a cluttered desk, he discovered several dusty brochures proclaiming Julius’s work in shared exhibitions, both home and abroad. As Lauren had earlier mentioned, his main source of artistic output found its way to the Oberon Gallery in Glasgow. This was true, judging by the many publications strewn across the table bearing their logo. As he sifted through, idly contemplating lunch, something began to nag him, and the more he tried to decipher his concern (foreboding? ) the more this feeling receded back into his brain. Something, however, did not seem right.
    He got back to the task in hand. This was a massive undertaking. It was perplexing to even consider, and one that he quickly decided he could not do, or wish to do. However, there was the small matter of the twelve paintings of Patrick Porter, he reminded himself. So far, they had both avoided this subject and he had decided to allow Lauren to raise the topic in the normal course of events. He did not wish to reveal his inner anxiety by showing too much eagerness on the subject. Greed was a powerful motivator. He just had to keep control of it, for now.
    In the meantime, the current job was exhausting and dirty work, forcing him to stifle a cough from the grime stuck in his throat. Going through the motions was becoming