It was the trees that told him that he was home. They were, very nearly, the trees of his childhood. They would never quite live up to those memories, but they were close enough to say “home” to him. He unlocked the door of the house that he would once have considered “Posh”, disarming the alarm that kept a private army of security operatives poised, ready to race round to protect his carefully, recklessly accumulated wealth. In the largest reception room (which he would once have called the parlour or lounge), discreet lighting illuminated three paintings by a Famous Artist. His enemies mocked his taste but his love for these works was genuine and dated back to his teenage years when he first came across them in a “Works of the Great Artists”. He had cut out the pictures and blu-tacked them to the wall on his side of the shared bedroom. The walls of his first office held framed prints of the landscapes and now he owned the originals. He loved them. They were, very nearly, as dear to him as the cheaply-printed copies on his first bedroom wall had been.