the open expanse of
the living room, the orange glow of the slumbering city seep-
ing in through the partially glazed roof overhead. Unbolting
his front door, he made his way down the staircase to his of-
fice, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking noisily on the
concrete steps.
The desk light snapped on, a brilliant wash of bleached
halogen sweeping across the worn leather surface. He prod-
ded the mouse and his computer blinked reluctantly into life,
the screen staining his face blue.
He scanned through his emails— junk mail mostly, offer-
ing to improve his sex life or his bank balance. For a moment
his cursor hovered over the three unopened messages from
Jennifer Browne that lurked at the foot of his inbox. Two
from the year before, one sent this January. Then nothing.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 1
Not that that was surprising. Jennifer had better things to
do than waste time writing to him if he couldn’t be bothered
to reply. But then it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to read
them. It was just simpler that way. His was a life that could
only be lived alone and there was no point in pretending oth-
erwise. And although he would never admit it, he drew a
perverse satisfaction in his asceticism; in proving that civil-
ian life had not blunted his self-discipline. Even so, he hadn’t
quite been able to bring himself to delete her emails yet. That
would have been a little too final. Perhaps, deep down, he
liked to believe that there might be another way.
A noise made Tom look up. The roller- shutter over the en-
trance had been activated and was retracting itself with a
loud clanking. He crossed over to the window that looked on
to the ware house below, just in time to see a powerful motor-
bike pull in, the dazzling beam of its headlamp picking out a
series of packing crates and cardboard boxes before both it
and the engine were extinguished. Almost immediately, the
shutter unfurled behind it.
Dominique jumped to the ground and removed her hel-
met, blonde hair spilling out on to her shoulders. Looking up,
she waved at Tom with a smile, before turning and making
her way up the spiral staircase toward him.
“Welcome home.” She kissed him on both cheeks, her blue
eyes sparkling under a silvery eye shadow.
“Thanks. You’re late back.”
“You checking up on me too?” She grinned, unzipping her
leather jacket to reveal a strapless black cocktail dress. “I’ve
already had two missed calls from Archie to night.”
“I just didn’t know where you were,” said Tom.
Although it was against his natural instincts to worry
about anyone other than himself, Tom felt strangely respon-
sible for Dominique. Responsible because, as she had re-
vealed to him a few months before, it was his father who had
offered her a way out of Geneva’s callous streets and a spiral-
ing cycle of soft drugs, casual scams and brutal young-
offender institutions. Responsible because, after his father’s
death, she was the one who had picked up the reins of his
business, first transferring it to London and then agreeing to
5 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
stay and help run it. Protecting her was, therefore, a way of
preserving the delicate thread of shared memories that led
back to his father. Not that she wanted or needed much pro-
tection.
“I can look after myself,” she said, arching her eyebrows
knowingly. “What are you doing up?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” She laid a concerned
hand on his arm. “You were only meant to be gone a few
days. It’s been three weeks.”
“I got a lead on the Ghent altarpiece,” he said defensively.
“I followed it up.”
“You look tired.”
“I’ve got a lot going on.”
“You need to slow down,” she cautioned.
“I like to keep busy.”
“Keeping busy won’t bring any of them back, you know.
Your father, Harry—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” Tom felt his teeth
the living room, the orange glow of the slumbering city seep-
ing in through the partially glazed roof overhead. Unbolting
his front door, he made his way down the staircase to his of-
fice, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking noisily on the
concrete steps.
The desk light snapped on, a brilliant wash of bleached
halogen sweeping across the worn leather surface. He prod-
ded the mouse and his computer blinked reluctantly into life,
the screen staining his face blue.
He scanned through his emails— junk mail mostly, offer-
ing to improve his sex life or his bank balance. For a moment
his cursor hovered over the three unopened messages from
Jennifer Browne that lurked at the foot of his inbox. Two
from the year before, one sent this January. Then nothing.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 1
Not that that was surprising. Jennifer had better things to
do than waste time writing to him if he couldn’t be bothered
to reply. But then it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to read
them. It was just simpler that way. His was a life that could
only be lived alone and there was no point in pretending oth-
erwise. And although he would never admit it, he drew a
perverse satisfaction in his asceticism; in proving that civil-
ian life had not blunted his self-discipline. Even so, he hadn’t
quite been able to bring himself to delete her emails yet. That
would have been a little too final. Perhaps, deep down, he
liked to believe that there might be another way.
A noise made Tom look up. The roller- shutter over the en-
trance had been activated and was retracting itself with a
loud clanking. He crossed over to the window that looked on
to the ware house below, just in time to see a powerful motor-
bike pull in, the dazzling beam of its headlamp picking out a
series of packing crates and cardboard boxes before both it
and the engine were extinguished. Almost immediately, the
shutter unfurled behind it.
Dominique jumped to the ground and removed her hel-
met, blonde hair spilling out on to her shoulders. Looking up,
she waved at Tom with a smile, before turning and making
her way up the spiral staircase toward him.
“Welcome home.” She kissed him on both cheeks, her blue
eyes sparkling under a silvery eye shadow.
“Thanks. You’re late back.”
“You checking up on me too?” She grinned, unzipping her
leather jacket to reveal a strapless black cocktail dress. “I’ve
already had two missed calls from Archie to night.”
“I just didn’t know where you were,” said Tom.
Although it was against his natural instincts to worry
about anyone other than himself, Tom felt strangely respon-
sible for Dominique. Responsible because, as she had re-
vealed to him a few months before, it was his father who had
offered her a way out of Geneva’s callous streets and a spiral-
ing cycle of soft drugs, casual scams and brutal young-
offender institutions. Responsible because, after his father’s
death, she was the one who had picked up the reins of his
business, first transferring it to London and then agreeing to
5 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
stay and help run it. Protecting her was, therefore, a way of
preserving the delicate thread of shared memories that led
back to his father. Not that she wanted or needed much pro-
tection.
“I can look after myself,” she said, arching her eyebrows
knowingly. “What are you doing up?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” She laid a concerned
hand on his arm. “You were only meant to be gone a few
days. It’s been three weeks.”
“I got a lead on the Ghent altarpiece,” he said defensively.
“I followed it up.”
“You look tired.”
“I’ve got a lot going on.”
“You need to slow down,” she cautioned.
“I like to keep busy.”
“Keeping busy won’t bring any of them back, you know.
Your father, Harry—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” Tom felt his teeth
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