CHAPTER 8
WHEN I ARRIVED back late that Thursday afternoon, I settled Emmy’s helicopter behind Riverley Hall, the larger of the two Virginia homes she shared with her husband. Their other house, Little Riverley, lay right next door, a starkly modern contrast to the gothic palace that Charles Black had inherited from his parents as a teenager.
Why did they have two homes? Well, that was another story, but in short, the arrangement worked for them.
This time last year, the helipad had been a utilitarian grey slab, but one sunny summer’s day when Emmy and Black weren’t looking, Bradley had got out his paintbrush. Now it looked as if a florist had thrown up over it. Bad enough in daylight, but at night, the whole thing glowed in the dark like an otherworldly funeral. Of course, Black had is
