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I don’t write that lightly. I’ve thought long and hard about whether to include my reaction here at all, but the facts are the facts. I didn’t like the picture when I first saw it. As to whether we should set any store by this, whether it means anything – that’s another matter altogether.

I put down the Polaroid and unfolded Andrew’s note.

Only nine words, each one written in that same precise hand:

Thomas,

What do you think this is?

Andrew Black

8

The Mary Magdalene Treatment

‘No,’ said Sophie Almonds.

I’d barely had a chance to lay Black’s letter and the picture of the black sphere out on the table between us. She glanced down just long enough to recognise the handwriting on the note, then her bright blue eyes flicked up and locked on mine, steady as a boat on a calm sea.

‘But what is it?’ I said, meaning the object in the picture.

‘I don’t know, a snooker ball? Why did he send you this?’

‘Why does Andrew Black do anything?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Maybe it’s – well. He doesn’t have my father any more—’