The Asperger’s research project was fascinating but very time-consuming. The final proposal was impressive and I was confident it would have passed the peer-review process if it had been submitted to a funding organisation. I was implying it had been, though I stopped short of forging an approval letter. I called Lefebvre’s personal assistant and explained that I had forgotten to send him the documents, but would now bring them personally. I was becoming more competent at deception.

I arrived at reception, and the process of summoning Lefebvre was repeated. This time he was not holding an envelope. I tried to give him the documents and he tried to shake my hand, and we had a repeat of the confusion that had occurred the previous time. Lefebvre seemed to find this funny. I was conscious of being tense. After all this work, I wanted the DNA.

‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘Documentation as requested. All requirements have been fulfilled. I now need the DNA sample and questionnaire.’

Lefebvre laughed again, and looked me up and down. Was there something odd about my appearance? My t-shirt was the one I wear on alternate days, featuring the periodic table, a birthday gift from the year after my graduation, and my trousers were the serviceable pair that are equally suitable for walking, lecturing, research and physical tasks. Plus high-quality running shoes. The only error was that my socks, which would have been visible below my trousers, were of slightly different colours, a common error when dressing in poor light. But Simon Lefebvre seemed to find everything amusing.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. Then he repeated my words in what seemed to be an attempt to imitate my intonation: ‘All requirements have been fulfilled.’ He added, in his normal voice, ‘Tell Charlie I promise I’ll read the proposal.’

Charlie again! This was ridiculous.

‘The DNA,’ I said, forcefully. ‘I need the sample.’

Lefebvre laughed as though I had made the biggest joke of all time. There were tears running down his face. Actual tears.

‘You’ve made my day.’

He grabbed a tissue from a box on the reception desk, wiped his face, blew his nose and tossed the used tissue in the bin as he left with my proposal.

I walked to the bin and retrieved the tissue.

20

I sat with a newspaper in the University Club reading room for the third day in succession. I wanted this to look accidental. From my position, I could observe the queue at the counter where Rosie sometimes purchased her lunch, even though she was not qualified to be a member. Gene had given me this information, reluctantly.

‘Don, I think it’s time to leave this one alone. You’re going to get hurt.’

I disagreed. I am very good at dealing with emotions. I was prepared for rejection.

Rosie walked in and joined the queue. I got up and slipped in behind her.

‘Don,’ she said. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘I have news on the project.’

‘There’s no project. I’m sorry about … last time you saw me. Shit! You embarrass me and I say sorry.’

‘Apology accepted,’ I said. ‘I need you to come to New York with me.’

‘What? No. No, Don. Absolutely not.’

We had reached the cash register and failed to select any food and had to return to the tail of the queue. By the time we sat down, I had explained the Asperger’s research project. ‘I had to invent an entire proposal – three hundred and seventy-one pages – for this one professor. I’m now an expert on the Savant phenomenon.’

It was difficult to decode Rosie’s reaction but she appeared to be more amazed than impressed.

‘An unemployed expert if you get caught,’ she said. ‘I gather he’s not my father.’

‘Correct.’ I had been relieved when Lefebvre’s sample had tested negative, even after the considerable effort that had been required to obtain it. I had already made plans, and a positive test would have disrupted them.

‘There are now only three possibilities left. Two are in New York, and both refused to participate in the study. Hence, I have categorised them as difficult, and hence I need you to come to New York with me.’

‘New York! Don, no. No, no, no, no. You’re not going to New York and neither am I.’

I had considered the possibility that Rosie would refuse. But Daphne’s legacy had been sufficient to purchase two tickets.

‘If necessary I will go alone. But I’m not confident I can handle the social aspects of the collection.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘This is seriously crazy.’

‘You don’t want to know who they are?’ I said. ‘Two of the three men who may be your father?’

‘Go on.’

‘Isaac Esler. Psychiatrist.’

I could see Rosie digging deep into her memory.

‘Maybe. Isaac. I think so. Maybe a friend of someone. Shit, it’s so long ago.’ She paused. ‘And?’

‘Solomon Freyberg. Surgeon.’

‘No relation to Max Freyberg?’

‘Maxwell is his middle name.’

‘Shit. Max Freyberg. He’s gone to New York now? No way. You’re saying I’ve got one chance in three of being his daughter. And two chances in three of being Jewish.’

‘Assuming your mother told the truth.’

‘My mother wouldn’t have lied.’

‘How old were you when she died?’

‘Ten. I know what you’re thinking. But I know I’m right.’