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fixture in their lives, and although neither Herz’s mother nor his father had liked him they had been forced to trust him. This was never a comfortable position; they suspected him of various irregularities which might or might not land him in prison, but as far as they knew his reputation, which they suspected of being damaged, had not so far caught up with him.
    It was that bleak time after the deaths, after the divorce, after Nyon, when life in the shop had had to fill Herz’s days and for which in a way he was grateful. It was the sameness of those days that had compensated for the rawness of recent years. Every morning he descended the stairs from the flat to open up; every Friday he took the week’s money to the bank. Yet this was no longer the modest outfit that his father had nurtured for so long; it had become busy, almost prosperous. Herz had supposed that he would take care of it for as long as Ostrovski was satisfied with him. He had no thoughts of owning it, but had come to terms with it as a fact of life, of his life. He gave Ostrovski his coffee and prepared to listen to the usual nostalgic reminiscences of those evenings in Hilltop Road at which he was an almost assiduous visitor, almost assiduous because he was so adept at hiding his true purpose that they never knew whether he felt anything for them at all or was, as Herz suspected, lonely.
    â€˜I’ll come straight to the point,’ he had said. ‘No point in keeping you in suspense. The fact of the matter is that I’ve sold the business. The whole property, in fact. Had a very good offer and accepted it.’
    â€˜But why? It was doing so well. At least I thought so.’
    â€˜Make no mistake, you’ve done wonders with it. No, it’s nothing to do with you.’ He shrugged off his coat. ‘Look at me, Julius. How old would you say I was?’
    â€˜I’ve no idea.’
    â€˜Eighty-one.’ He waited for some rebuttal. When none came he dropped his uneasy manner and looked uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I’m getting out,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ve had enough. All these years I’ve been wheeling and dealing I’ve never been happy. I always wondered why. And now I know. I’m not well, Julius.’ He laid a tentative hand below his rib cage. ‘Tried to overlook it, as one does, but there’s no doubt about it now. I’m looking at the end. The next big thing.’
    â€˜The next big thing?’ Julius had echoed.
    Ostrovski ignored him. ‘I’ve got a place in Spain, as you know. Marbella. Might as well spend my days in the sun as in this perishing climate. I’m getting out, liquidating my assets. So you’ll be on your own, dear boy, free, for the first time in your life. You’ve been a good son, I’ve never doubted that, too good, perhaps. Sorry your marriage broke down, but that was all part of it, wasn’t it? Now you’ve got a chance to be your own man. I’ve seen to that.’
    â€˜You mean you’ll give me a reference,’ he had said, his tone carefully neutral.
    â€˜I mean I’m giving you what I paid for this outfit in the first place. Of course prices have gone up since then. I’ve taken this into account.’ He mentioned a sum that sounded unreal. ‘You can look for a flat of your own. Take what you want from here, not that you’ll want any of it. Truth to tell I always had a bit of a bad conscience about you. They favoured that brother of yours, didn’t they? Well, now you can make up for lost time.’
    â€˜I can’t take this. All this money.’
    â€˜You can and you will. It’ll buy you something small but comfortable. And there’ll be a bit left over. Wisely invested it should take care of you for the rest of your life. Ask my nephew about that. Name of Simmonds, Bernard Simmonds. He’s a solicitor, perfectly straight sort of guy, though bloody