I looked toward his glass. There wasn’t much left in it, and I hoped he wouldn’t ask for another. I was tired and wanted to settle down in front of a film. I finished my own, hoping he would take the hint. “Downstairs went for three even,” he said eventually, and I frowned. “Mr. Richardson’s flat,” he clarified. “Three million quid.” “How do you know that?” “I’m in the building trade, Mother. I have my sources.” “Do you know who’s bought it?” I asked. To my disappointment, he shook his head. “I don’t know his name.” “A man then?” “Well, no, I just assumed—” “Why would you assume that?” He
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