Page 135 of All I Want for Christmas

She walked over to the window, rolling out her neck and swinging her arms. Her mind was stuck on Lilja’s desperation in her final weeks – her husband and her lover, all together at Solvtraeer...emotional anguish so bad it drove her into the sea...

She leaned on the sill and looked down into the courtyard. It was trying to snow again, the Christmas tree glittering majestically – reminding her that this was a time for goodwill to all men – as tourists walked past with shopping bags. A glossy black car was parked on the cobbles almost immediately below the window. She could see the driver in his front seat, waiting. Christoff?...

She gasped just as the door swung open and she turned to find Max himself walking through with a bold smile.

‘I just saw Otto in the hall. He said you were in here,’ he said, the yellow lining of his suit flashing as he headed straight for her. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. ‘I had to work not to look happy about it.’

She saw him scan the room for others, but they were quite alone and he didn’t hesitate as he reached her, cupping her face and kissing her possessively. She felt weak by the time he pulled back. ‘...I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.’

She smiled. ‘Me too.’

‘Sleep well?’ His tone was intimate, as if they were still in bed, talking as the moon came up.

‘I missed you.’

‘Even in your sleep?’

‘Yes.’ She lightly hooked a finger into the waistband of his trousers, drawing a weighty look from him. Memories of last night played between them and he made a small sound, pulling back as if he didn’t quite trust himself. His eyes went to thedoor again; someone might walk in at any moment and she knew their body language would give them away, whether they were kissing or not. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked instead, trying to dial down the temperature between them.

He gave what almost passed as an apologetic look. ‘I needed to cross-check something with someone here.’

‘Oh. Something with someone.’ It was to do with the restitution claim, clearly.

‘You? I thought you’d be at the gallery.’

‘I was actually heading over there this morning, but then I realizedIneeded to cross-check something with someone here too.’

He grinned. ‘Oh yeah?’

He glanced over at the easel where the back-to-back canvases were clamped, Lilja’s portrait andHer Childrenstuck fast to one another. Pots, jars and brushes were scattered on the neighbouring counters, the delicate business of extrication ongoing.

Someone had made an attempt at decorating the room, she noticed now: glittery paper chains were looped in a criss-cross over the ceiling and fairy lights threaded over the pinboards. A paper crown had been placed on one of the plaster casts of King Frederick VII.

He walked towards the easel, his head tilted as he took in the unobstructed view of his own great-grandmother’s portrait. He had held back in the last meeting, she recalled, when everyone else had been clamouring; of course, she had been unaware then of his familial connection.

‘I’d ask for an update, but I’m not sure it’s worth the risk now,’ he said, looking back at her with a wry smile.

‘No! Although I guess I can tell you we believe the painting is actually a self-portrait.’

He looked surprised. ‘Lilja painted it?’

She nodded. ‘We also think she was the artist responsible for the clays in the glass cabinet in the archives.’ She remembered they had been marked A.S. on the bases. The presumption had been they were the signings of the artist, but now she believed the initials were identifiers of the subject, not the maker.

Viggo had told her the artist was an unknown, Anna Saalbach. Had it been a deliberate attempt to head her off – or had she misheard? Anna and Arne weren’t so very different, especially to a non-native ear.

‘The clays?...Really?’

‘She was very accomplished,’ she said, trying to stick to the positives, even though they were few and far between. If her theories bore out, there really wasn’t much from this that was going to cast the Madsen family in a good light. ‘She had a natural talent. It’s a shame she never got to do more with it.’

‘No. She died before she could get going.’

Dead at eighteen, in fact. Darcy bit her lip as she watched him stand before his great-grandmother’s likeness, his hands in his trouser pockets.There was one thing she needed to know. Something only he could answer. She was nervous to ask the question, to open up a line of conversation on this, after the disagreement it had led to last time – but, as she saw it, she really had no choice. He was the only one left. Last man standing.

‘...Max, can I ask you something?’

He turned to her, hearing the hesitation in her voice. ‘Okay.’

‘Did your grandmother suffer from epilepsy, do you know?’

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