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in his chair Matthew allowed himself a smile. Let’s work it out, he thought. A management fee of one per cent of the capital at his disposal was, what, forty thousand pounds a year? That was a great deal to earn merely from watching money grow. But this, of course, was capitalism, and Matthew now found himself at the polite, discreet dinner-party end of the whole process. There were plenty of people in Edinburgh who were trained to sniff out money, rather like those friendly little beagles that one saw at the airports who were trained to sniff out drugs. These people, urbane to a man, knew when their services were required and circled helpfully. Then it was mentioned, discreetly, that of course there were others in your position, in need of just a little help. That was good psychology. Those to whom good financial fortune comes are alone. Their money frightens them. They feel unsettled. To be told that there are others in exactly the same boat is reassuring.
    So the lawyer said: “Of course, we have a number of clients who are pretty much in a similar position to yourself. They find…and I hope I don’t speak out of turn here, but they find that there are advantages in keeping everything under one roof.”
    And here, unintentionally, he looked up at the ceiling, as if to emphasise that the roof under which they were sitting was quite capable of accommodating Matthew’s new-found wealth.
    Matthew looked at the lawyer. He knew this man from the parties that his father occasionally gave. He knew his son too, a tall boy called Jamie, who had been at school with him and who had once hit him with a cricket bat, across the shoulders, and who had once said to the others–within Matthew’s hearing–that the reason why Matthew was then afflicted by a particular rash of pimples was…It was so unfair. And now here was the father of the same persecutor offering to handle his money.
    “Thanks,” said Matthew. “But I propose to handle it myself. I enjoy reading the financial press and I think I’m perfectly capable.”
    The lawyer looked at Matthew. He thought: Jamie once used a rather uncomplimentary word to describe this young man. How apt that epithet! Boys may be cruel to one another, but they were often very good judges of character.

9. The Warm Embrace of the Edinburgh Establishment
    Matthew had left the lawyer’s office feeling slightly light-headed. He paused at the front door, and thought about what he had done; it would be easy to return, to go back to the man whom he had written off on the basis of his son’s unpleasant behaviour all those years ago. It would be easy to say to him that mature reflection–or at least such reflection as could be engaged in while walking down the stairs and through the entrance hall–had led him to believe that it would be best, after all, to have the funds consigned to the colleague whom the lawyer had so unctuously mentioned. Presumably it would be easy to stop the transfer that he had asked for–the transfer from the firm’s client account to Matthew’s own account–and once that was done the serious business of putting four million pounds to work in the market could begin. But he did not do this. All his life, money had come from somebody else (his father) and had been doled out to him as one would give sweets to a child. Now he had the money at his own disposal, and he felt like an adult at last.
    He walked along Queen Street, in the direction of Dundas Street and his gallery. This route took him past Stewart Christie, the outfitters, and that is where he paused, looking thoughtfully into the window. It was a shop that sold well-made clothes for men, not the expensive rubbish–as Matthew thought of it–produced by Italians, but finely-tailored jackets made of Scottish tweed; yellow-checked waistcoats for country wear; tight-fitting tartan trews for formal occasions.
    On impulse, he went into the shop and began to examine a rack of ties. Many of them were striped, which