MORNING SERIAL

IT was a two-storey villa with colonnades and a welcoming gravel square complete with dry fountain out in front of the entrance. At the top of the steps was the man who had come to see me the day before at the bar, and as the taxi pulled up he came down to open the door for me. He also paid the driver and waved him on his way.

“Mr Prostakov is waiting,” he said and ushered me up the steps and into the house. Before entering, I could see that the house went back much further than it first appeared, and there were several annexes around the side of it leading off into the shallow valley; there was a pool and a garage, the doors of which were raised. The radiators of several expensive, some vintage, cars could be seen hidden away in there. I thought I could see a few figures down by the pool, distant and silhouetted against the sparkle of the sun reflecting off the marble of the patio.

Inside the house, two rather vulgar and enormous sculptures of Samurai warriors in sentry pose stood either side of the gilded looping staircase. And I noticed almost immediately the Francis Benthem above the bureau. A stormy fishing harbour somewhere, most likely, off the Yorkshire coast – he had composed a series of them in the late seventies. The architecture, as far as my eye could pick out, was an off-putting mix of Italianate and Moorish. It all gave the place a feeling more of a museum or even a warehouse for an auctioneer. From the top of the stairs Prostakov came into my eye-line, and his gruff purposeful stride brought with it an emergent smile, which I had not been expecting given his demeanour at the funeral.

“I had no idea who you were when I saw you yesterday,” he said, and held his hand out to me.

“That makes two of us,” I said and although being firmly on the back foot I shook his hand.

“Ah, yes, but I know who you are,” he said. “I even know your work.”

“I can see you are a collector.” I said it with the words almost trapped between my teeth, because I was being sarcastic, but I had no intention of being rude. The perfect example of nature battling against nous.