‘Which one of us would do it?’

            ‘He targeted my daughter. It should be me.’

            ‘You’d really…?’

            ‘Could I actually just go in there and…? Let me think. Smother him? Yes, yes I could.’

            ‘We might not need to, Natasha. I’ve not been feeding him.’

            ‘You’ve been cutting back on his meals?’

            ‘I’ve not given him any food in seven days. Just water.’

            ‘He’s looking very gaunt, Annette. Do you mean you’ve been deliberately…?’

            ‘I want him dead. I hate him. This way we just say he wouldn’t eat, we say he…’

            ‘Refused food… we say he didn’t want to live any more with the pain of the cancer… we…’

            ‘We wait two more days. He can’t last out if we starve him.’

/

            In his studio they looked at the paintings, many of them of themselves in the first flush of puberty, thin, uncomfortable, unhappy, all naked. Natasha remembered him painting Annette many times, then her turn came. She didn’t quite know what was going on. It’s art, darling, her mother insisted, keep still for Daddy and stop complaining. Her mother had practically pimped her. Creation from exploitation? That wasn’t art. Post-Jimmy Saville his reputation had crashed. Now he was reviled by many, his works removed from galleries. Quite right. Burn them all. A vile paedophile.

His sister though believed they had aesthetic value, said each haunted portrait revealed her mixed feelings: fear of her father and her unbreakable connection to him.

/