The Other Half Lives

8

Simon knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into Proust’s office. Wronger than usual: sub-zero already, and he hadn’t opened his mouth yet. A man he didn’t recognise stood behind the inspector, leaning against the wall, holding a manila folder. Neither he nor Proust said anything. Both seemed to be waiting for Simon to take the initiative, which he could hardly do, having no idea why he’d been summoned. He thought he’d wait it out.

Unless the Snowman had ditched one of the many tenets he often boasted had served him well for fifty-odd years-which struck Simon as unlikely-then it had to be the other man who smelled as if he’d fallen into a bath full of aftershave. Proust disapproved of scented males. Simon guessed he wouldn’t make an exception for one who reeked of seaweed mixed with acid.

The man wore a toffee-coloured suit with a white shirt and a green tie that was silk or some other shiny material. He looked to be in his late thirties, and had the eyes of a jaded Las Vegas croupier, out of place in his pink, unblemished face. Human Resources? The Snowman didn’t introduce him. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?’ he asked Simon.

No way he can know. ‘I went up to Newcastle, made a start on the Beddoes-’

‘I’ll ask you again: where were you?’

The croupier looked nearly as angry as Proust. Simon tensed. Was this trouble of a different order of magnitude? It was hard to tell; around the Snowman, he always had the impression that his marching orders were imminent. Was he about to make the biggest mistake of his career? Had he already made it? ‘I followed Aidan Seed to London, sir.’

The inspector nodded. ‘Carry on.’

‘Sergeant Zailer and I spoke to Seed and Ruth Bussey yesterday afternoon, sir. The exchange left us both feeling even more concerned…’

‘Skip the justifications. I want your movements, from when you got into your car to follow Seed until you arrived home.’

Wishing he knew who the croupier was and why he was there, Simon did as instructed. When he got to the part about following Seed to Friends House, the Snowman and his anonymous guest exchanged a look. When he told them he’d eavesdropped on the Quaker Quest meeting, the croupier asked him to report exactly what he’d heard. He had a Cockney accent. Simon waited for Proust to say, ‘I’ll ask the questions,’ and was disconcerted when he didn’t.

He told the two men everything he remembered: Olive Oyl, the fat, sweaty bald man, Frank Zappa, the Immense Something Other, the quote about cutlery not being eternal. ‘How many of the people in that room do you think you could describe with any degree of accuracy?’ asked the croupier.

‘The two speakers, no problem,’ Simon told him. Was he job? ‘There were three tramps there too. I think they went for the free grub. I could probably describe them, though not as precisely. ’

‘You left Friends House before the meeting ended?’ said Proust.

‘Yeah.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I don’t know-eight-ish.’

‘And you went where?’

‘Back to Ruskington Road, where I’d left my car.’

‘Was Mr Seed’s car still there, outside number 23?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you drive straight home?’

‘No, sir. I approached the house-number 23-and looked in through the ground-floor windows, and the window of the basement flat.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Nothing much. Empty rooms.’

‘Empty of people, or entirely empty?’

‘No, they had furniture and stuff in them.’

‘I trust you’ll be able to give DC Dunning a thorough description of each room you peered into, complete with all the stuff you saw.’

DC Dunning. From London? ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’

The croupier moved forward, opened the file he was holding and placed a blown-up colour photograph on the table: the front of 23 Ruskington Road. With a biro, he pointed at the bay window on the right. ‘Did you look through this window?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you see?’

‘A dining table and chairs. The table had a glass top. A sideboard against one wall.’ Although it was only last night, Simon found it hard to be certain. He’d taken a quick look and decided there was nothing of any interest: no bookshelves stuffed with books about Quakerism, nor anything else to link the house to Seed. ‘Maybe a rug and… a tall plant in a pot? Yeah, I think a plant.’

Dunning and Proust exchanged another look. ‘Anything else?’ Dunning asked.

‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘What about on the walls?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was there anything up on the walls?’

Simon struggled to bring to mind an image of the room. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t notice.’

‘Pictures? Photographs?’

‘It was darker inside than out. If there were pictures, I didn’t see…’ He stopped. Now would be a bad time to get something wrong. Think. ‘There must have been something on the walls,’ he said eventually.

‘Why must there?’ asked Proust.

‘Like I said, I didn’t notice. I’d more likely have noticed if the walls were bare than if they weren’t. People usually put something up, don’t they? Put it this way: nothing about the room struck me as odd. It looked… lived in. Normal.’

‘Did you see anything leaning against a wall?’ asked Dunning.

Simon hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Like what?’

‘You say the room looked lived in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So nothing you saw suggested to you that people might recently have moved in?’

‘No. Such as?’

‘Packing crates, maybe pictures leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up? Picture hooks, a hammer? Cardboard boxes with “dining room” written on them?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

Dunning retrieved the photograph, replaced it in his file. ‘What next?’ Proust asked.

The bad feeling Simon had about all this intensified with each question. ‘I went to get a kebab from a takeaway I’d passed on the way in-don’t ask me where or what it was called. Junction of Ruskington Road and Muswell Hill Road, turn right, keep going for about four hundred yards or so. I got my kebab, then I drove back to Ruskington Road, sat in my car and ate it, waiting for Seed to come back.’

‘In effect, you staked out Mr Seed’s car, and 23 Ruskington Road,’ said Proust.

‘Yes.’

‘Did Mr Seed return?’

‘Yes, sir. At about half past nine. He and the woman I’d seen at the meeting, the speaker with the tied-back brown hair, they walked up the road together towards the house-number 23.’

‘Were they speaking as they walked?’ asked Dunning.

‘She was.’

‘Did you hear any of what she said?’

‘No.’

‘Her tone? Could you gauge her mood?’

‘Good,’ said Simon without hesitation. ‘She was prattling on, like people do when they’re happy or excited. They stopped by Seed’s car and he opened the boot, took something out…’

‘What?’ Dunning pounced.

‘I couldn’t see-there was a van in the way. Whatever it was, he carried it into number 23. The woman unlocked the door and opened it for him, and they both went in. A light went on in that window, the one you were asking about. I moved my car, drew level with the house to try and see in, but I had to move after a few seconds-there were cars coming up behind me. There’s traffic parked along both sides of Ruskington Road, so overtaking’s impossible. All I saw before I had to move was the woman drawing the curtains, still talking, and Seed standing behind her.’ Simon looked at Dunning. ‘After that, I called it a night, drove back home.’ He cleared his throat, realising he’d inadvertently lied. ‘Actually, I… I drove to Sergeant Zailer’s house.’

‘Does the name Len Smith mean anything to you?’ asked Dunning.

‘No.’ Simon had had enough. This man was a detective, like him. Cooperation ought to work both ways. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen at the house after I left?’

Dunning produced another photograph from his file and thrust it in front of Simon’s face. ‘Have you seen this person before? ’

Simon found himself staring at a heavily made-up woman with short hair that seemed to sweep back from her face in waves. It was a completely different look, but he recognised her all the same. ‘Yeah. It’s her, the speaker from Quaker Quest.’ Olive Oyl.

‘The woman you saw enter 23 Ruskington Road in the company of Aidan Seed?’ Dunning clarified.

Simon nodded.

‘Her name’s Gemma Crowther. She was killed last night,’ said Dunning. From his tone, he might have been filling Simon in on the football results. ‘Shot. In her dining room, some time before midnight-that’s when her partner, Stephen Elton, came home and found her. He’d been at Quaker Quest too, but he stayed to clear up after the meeting.’

‘The fat bald guy?’ Simon asked.

‘No.’ Dunning dropped Olive Oyl’s picture on Proust’s desk and pulled out one of a young man-perhaps as young as early twenties, or else the photo was an old one-with prominent cheekbones and shoulder-length dark blond hair. All he needed was some of his girlfriend’s make-up and he could have been the front man of a glam rock band. ‘Did you see him?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

Dunning continued to hold the photograph aloft as he said, ‘So you saw Gemma Crowther alive and well at half past nine…’

‘Seed killed her,’ said Simon. As he was saying it, it occurred to him that he ought to wait, oughtn’t to give Dunning the impression that he was someone who leaped to conclusions in advance of having all the facts. Too late. ‘Have you got him?’

‘You’re not hearing me, DC Waterhouse. As things stand, I’ve got you, by your own account, as the last person to see Gemma alive.’

‘You mean apart from Aidan Seed?’

Dunning carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve got two witnesses telling me you were behaving suspiciously near her home-looking through windows, hanging around in your car, watching the house. They made a note of your car registration, thought you were a would-be burglar, picking your moment to break in.’

‘I’ve explained what I was doing there.’

‘I’ve got no one’s word but yours that Aidan Seed was at Quaker Quest or at 23 Ruskington Road yesterday, and I know you think nothing of lying. I just heard you lie to your guvnor when he asked where you were yesterday. I’ve also heard you’ve got a history of, among other things, violent outbursts and obsessive behaviour. You’ve been a detective for longer than I have-you put all that together and tell me what you come up with.’

Simon had trained himself, over the years, to see keeping his temper in check as a feat of strength. Dunning was trying to get a rise out of him; he needed to pour the full force of his anger into resisting. These days he knew how to turn himself into a rock-impermeable. It didn’t feel like weakness any more, not hammering people to the ground with his fists when they pissed him off.

‘I don’t understand why you’d care enough to tail Aidan Seed to London instead of making your and everyone else’s life easier by following through on the action you’d been assigned,’ said Dunning. ‘That’s something you’ll have to explain to me. A man who’s committed no crime…’

‘Hasn’t he? If Gemma Crowther’s dead at midnight and I saw Seed with her at half past nine…?’

‘There were thirty-seven people at the meeting at Friends House,’ said Dunning. ‘Unless they’re all lying, not one of them knows the name Aidan Seed. According to them, and to Stephen Elton, Gemma’s partner, she left the meeting with a Len Smith, a social worker from Maida Vale who’d become a good friend of hers.’

‘Does the physical description match Seed’s?’ Simon asked. ‘A social worker from Maida Vale? I take it you’ve had no luck finding him.’

‘I’m told Smith has been attending regularly for several weeks.’

‘There is no Len Smith! It was Seed-he’s your killer. I saw him go into that house with her. Unless one of your witnesses saw him drive away while she was still alive…’

‘Neither of them saw you drive away when you say you did,’ Dunning announced with a smug smile-his first. ‘Shortly after half past nine.’

‘I didn’t leave then or they weren’t looking then?’ said Simon angrily. ‘There’s a difference. Ask your witnesses if they saw Seed’s car outside the house. Get a photo of Seed and show it to the Quaker lot-they’ll tell you he’s the man they know as Len Smith.’

Dunning gave him a look he’d used himself many times, on scrotes who wouldn’t talk.

‘You’re not serious?’ said Simon. ‘Me? I’m on your side of the fence. I lock up the killers.’ Proust sat hunched over his desk like a stone effigy, saying nothing.

‘I’m part of a team of twelve,’ said Dunning matter-of-factly. ‘In my team, we stick to our tasking briefs. Different detectives are handling different aspects of the investigation into Gemma Crowther’s death, and guess what? I got you, babe. Which means you and I are going on a little trip to the Big Smoke, and you’re going to elaborate on the story I’ve just heard from your DI about you and Sergeant Charlotte Zailer-who’s also your fiancée, I believe?’

Simon hated the way he said it as if it were somehow questionable, as if his and Charlie’s engagement meant neither of them could be trusted. Babe? Had Dunning called him that, or had he imagined it?

‘… your and Sergeant Zailer’s fixation on Aidan Seed, his girlfriend Ruth Bussey and a woman called Mary Trelease.’

‘All people you should be speaking to,’ Simon told him. ‘Are you?’

‘You’re going to make me understand why you care so much about all these people, and let’s hope the story makes more sense than it did the first time I heard it. At the moment, the way I see it, I’ve got one in the bag: someone in the right place at the right time, behaving irrationally and suspiciously-that someone being you.’ Not giving Simon a chance to respond, Dunning asked, ‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer?’

‘Off work. Sick.’

‘You mean at home?’

‘Far as I know.’

‘Was she in London with you yesterday evening?’

‘No.’

‘Where was she?’

‘At Ruth Bussey’s house.’ Simon sighed. ‘Look, we don’t have to have a problem here. I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll tell you what I don’t know but strongly suspect. Same goes for Charlie-Sergeant Zailer. You want to put your murder case to bed, the best way to do that quickly and efficiently is to let us help you.’

Proust stood up, leaning his hands on his knees as he rose. Simon had almost forgotten he was there. ‘If I’m about to lose DC Waterhouse, I need to find out where we’re up to on various things so that I can sort out handover. Can you give us a moment, DC Dunning?’

‘Handover?’ Simon echoed. How long did Proust think he’d be gone?

‘Fine.’ Dunning headed for the door. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

Once they were alone, Proust said, ‘DC Dunning has tried several times to reach Sergeant Zailer at home, with no success. If you know where she is, I’d strongly advise you to share that information with him.’ The inspector sounded distant. Tired. For once, Simon wouldn’t have minded a spurt of his customary garrulous sarcasm. No point apologising for yesterday; he wasn’t sorry. The only mistake he’d made was to leave London when he did; he might have saved Gemma Crowther’s life if he’d stayed another hour.

He knew what he’d tell Dunning about Charlie: fuck all. She was in a state, and wanted as few people as possible to know. Proust, at least, wasn’t asking to be told; only that Simon should reveal all to Dunning. Handover. ‘Sir, much as I’d like to be shot of Nancy Beddoes, there’s no need to reassign anything of mine-chances are I’ll be back later today.’

‘There is no chance, DC Waterhouse, that you will return to this building later today, or tomorrow, or the day after.’

Simon regretted his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Dunning’s trying it on, sir. He’ll change his tune. He knows I’m telling the truth and he knows I can help him.’

‘I had no choice but to try to explain your interest in Aidan Seed,’ said Proust. ‘Just so that we’re clear. Soon as I heard you’d been in London, I knew it had to be related to Seed. I presented the facts as fairly as I could, and I told Dunning you’ve got good instincts and a good track record. I couldn’t pretend you hadn’t had your ups and downs over the years, but I made sure to put them in context. I don’t believe I could have done any more.’

‘Sir, for…’ Simon felt his control slipping. ‘You’re talking as if we’re never going to see each other again. We both know Seed’s going to be charged with Gemma Crowther’s murder…’

‘Do we?’ The inspector turned away from Simon and faced the 2008 planner that was Blu-tacked to the wall behind his desk.

‘Forget Dunning for a second, sir. You agree with me, don’t you? Seed killed Gemma Crowther-he must have. Think of what we know for certain: Ruth Bussey said she was scared something bad was going to happen. Last night, she told Charlie Seed had been away a lot, lying about where he was. Turns out he’s been pretending to be a Quaker, to get close to Crowther. Knowing he was going to kill her. He told me he believed only in the material world, facts and science-so what’s he doing at a Quaker rally? Dunning asked me if I could gauge Gemma Crowther’s mood, but he didn’t ask me about Seed. While she was chatting away merrily, he had a face like a thundercloud.’ Like a man who knew he was about to kill somebody, as soon as the curtains were drawn. Simon kept the thought to himself, knowing how it would be received. ‘Ruth Bussey also told Charlie he’d changed his story: not that he’d killed Mary Trelease, but that he was seeing the future, a future in which he was going to kill her.’

‘DC Waterhouse…’

‘Sir, we’ve got to treat that as a threat, and act on it. Tell me that’s going to happen, whether I’m here or not. We can’t leave this to Dunning. Do you trust him, after what you’ve just heard? I don’t. Mary Trelease is ours, not his. Dunning doesn’t care if Seed’s on his way round to Megson Crescent with a shooter while he’s wasting time leafing through my Reg 9s-it’s not his patch, is it?’

‘Enough,’ said Proust quietly.

Simon was determined to stir him up. ‘Ruth Bussey told Charlie last night that a man’s been hanging round outside her house, showing an unhealthy interest. Charlie thought she was probably imagining it, until Bussey showed her the CCTV footage. ’

‘CCTV?’ It was difficult to read a person’s back, but Simon had the impression from the sudden tensing of the shoulders that Proust regretted asking, allowing himself to be drawn in.

‘Bussey lives in the lodge house at the entrance to Blantyre Park. Apparently she was so concerned about this man that she asked her landlord to install surveillance cameras. Anyway, soon as Charlie got a look at his face, she recognised him. His name’s Kerry Gatti. He works for First Call.’ Simon knew Proust would have heard of the firm, and waited for him to ask in what capacity Gatti was employed there, or to comment on the cruelty of giving a boy a girl’s name. Nothing. ‘He’s a private investigator, sir,’ Simon told him.

No response.

‘Did you hear what Dunning said about Gemma Crowther’s partner? He got back at midnight. The meeting must have finished at nine, or thereabouts. How long does it take to clear up a hall? Is the boyfriend a suspect? An associate of Seed’s, perhaps? What’s Dunning told you that he hasn’t told me?’ Simon picked up the empty mug on Proust’s desk, made as if to launch it at the back of his head. He replaced it with a bang; even that got no reaction. ‘Len Smith’s got to be Seed, right?’

‘Call DC Dunning back in,’ said Proust. ‘You can discuss your concerns with him, from Crowther’s boyfriend’s alibi to your bafflement over the inconsistency of Aidan Seed’s metaphysical position.’ Finally, he turned round. The surface of his skin was webbed with colour; his face looked like a blood-blister waiting to burst. ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your questions about this case. Because of your apparent involvement in it. This is what you set in motion when you deliberately deceived me and Sergeant Kombothekra and charged down to London to meet the Light Brigade. This: the situation we find ourselves in. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.’

Simon was pleased to get a response. ‘Mary Trelease said “Not me”, when Charlie told her Seed had confessed to killing her. She said it twice-“Not me”. Charlie thought she was trying to suggest Seed had killed someone else.’

Proust’s eyes moved to the glass that separated his cubicle from the CID room. Dunning, watching from the other side, saw him looking and started to inch towards the door. The Snowman raised a hand to stop him. ‘What was Ms Trelease’s response?’ he asked. ‘I assume Sergeant Zailer asked her if that was what she’d intended to imply.’

‘She denied it, sir. But she would, wouldn’t she? If she’d fully made up her mind to talk, she’d talk. If she was scared, though, maybe she’d only risk a hint-the sort that can easily be explained away if you lose your nerve.’

‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer today? She’s not ill in bed, is she?’

Simon’s answer was too slow in coming, as slow as the change in the Snowman’s demeanour was instant. The eyes glazed and froze, the face slackened. So this is how it feels to be cut loose, thought Simon, as Proust gestured for Dunning to come back in and take out the rubbish.

Dominic Lund chuckled. ‘You’re on a hiding to nothing,’ he told Charlie, his mouth full of spaghetti bolognese. A line of oily orange sauce snaked down his chin. ‘If a case could be made, I’d happily take your money and make it, even if we were guaranteed to lose. I like cases like that. Usually win them too. This, though? You know it’s a joke, right?’ He delivered his expert opinion without once looking at Charlie, then laughed again, as if to illustrate his point. She’d noticed that he preferred not to look at people directly; he’d dictated his food order to his open menu, not to the waiter standing beside him with a notepad.

Lund was an intellectual property lawyer, a partner at Ellingham Sandler’s London office. He was tall, dark, heavily built, fat around the middle, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Olivia had recommended him. ‘I doubt there’s anything you can do about it,’ she’d said on the phone last night, ‘but Dominic Lund’s the person to ask. That man works miracles. He’s the person to have on your side.’ Charlie had deliberately blanked out the first part, heard only that here was someone who might be able to help her. A miracle-worker. He’d been fourth on a list of the most influential names in UK law, according to Liv. The editor of a newspaper she regularly freelanced for had been awarded a huge sum in compensation after a rival daily printed a photograph of her leaving a substance abuse treatment clinic. Both the victory and the hugeness of the sum had been down to Lund, apparently.

Now Charlie wished she’d thought to ask her sister for the first three names on the list. Liv had said nothing about Lund being callous, entirely lacking in social graces and, as a result, impossible to talk to. On the phone this morning, his PA had told Charlie he would see her today but not in his office-for lunch, at Signor Grilli, an Italian restaurant on Goodge Street. In response to Charlie’s mystified silence, the assistant had said, ‘It’s where he meets people. He likes it there,’ as if she’d assumed Charlie might know this already.

Lund had arrived late, patting his pockets and muttering that he’d forgotten his wallet. He could go back to the office for it, he said, but then he and Charlie would lose their ‘window’. Charlie told him it didn’t matter, she’d pay. Always worth splashing out on a miracle, she’d thought to herself. Lund had tossed a perfunctory thank you in her direction without looking up. Now she was wondering if it was a ruse. Did everyone who consulted him have to buy him lunch? And why this loud, hectic little restaurant in particular? Lund seemed hardly to notice what he was shovelling into his mouth. His BlackBerry was the main recipient of his attention. It lay on the table in front of him; every time it bleeped, he grabbed it with both hands and spent a couple of minutes panting and huffing over it as if it were an addictive pocket computer game that he couldn’t bear to put away, one that offered bonus points to anyone who gave it his all.

Charlie’s pizza lay untouched on the table in front of her. She wanted to ask Lund to repeat back to her everything she’d told him, to check he’d listened properly before deciding her problem wasn’t worth his time or effort. ‘I’m talking about a display,’ she said. ‘It’s not tucked away in a cupboard somewhere-it’s blatant. She’s got them up on a wall for anyone who walks into that room to see: a complete… information resource about the worst, most traumatic event of my life, my past, and that’s only the bit I saw. Who knows what else she’s… collected? The wall might be just a fraction of it. Last Friday she was waiting for me when I arrived at work…’

Lund’s BlackBerry beeped. He grabbed it and slumped down in his chair for a session of enthusiastic finger- and thumb-jabbing, throughout which he breathed heavily, muttered occasionally and ignored Charlie. When he’d finished, he looked up briefly and said, ‘She waited for you at work for a valid reason, right?’

‘I don’t know about that. She told me a bullshit story about her boyfriend saying he’d murdered a woman who’s not even dead. And she refused to tell me why she wanted to talk to me in particular. When I asked her yesterday why she’d had an article about me in her coat pocket, she didn’t give me a proper answer. ’

‘Miss Zailer…’

‘It’s Sergeant,’ Charlie corrected him angrily.

‘If I were you I’d relax.’ Lund wound some more strands of spaghetti round his spoon, the long fringe of his dark hair dipping into the sauce in his bowl. Then he sucked up the pasta, making a noise like a vacuum cleaner, spattering the tablecloth and his shirt with sauce. He raised his voice and said something in Italian to nobody in particular-into the air, or so it seemed. Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, he switched back to English. ‘It’s her bedroom wall, she’s got a steady boyfriend-how many people are likely to see it? Her, him, a few close friends maybe.’

‘I don’t care if no one sees it,’ Charlie snapped. ‘She’s got no right to have it. Has she? Are you telling me a complete stranger-stalker-weirdo can amass information about my life and turn it into an… an exhibit for her own amusement, and there’s no way of making her stop?’

‘You’ve not been listening to me if you need to ask.’

‘I want her to destroy it, everything she’s got on me, or hand it over to me so that I can destroy it!’ Charlie was aware that she was almost shouting.

‘Your wishing something doesn’t make it legally enforceable,’ said Lund. His tone suggested nothing could matter to him less. ‘There’s nothing here for me to work with. Zero. First, there’s no exhibiting involved. If she was going round sticking this stuff up on billboards all over town, it’d be a different matter, but her home’s her private property. Any information she’s got about you was in the public domain-in newspapers, which she bought, presumably. She didn’t steal them from your house, did she? Haven’t you got any old newspapers or magazines lying around at home? Vogue, Elle, The English Home?’

‘No.’ Charlie spat the word at him. Did she look like she had nothing better to do than read about handbags and cushions? ‘Keeping a few newspapers and magazines isn’t the same thing as obsessively gathering cuttings about one person. I don’t keep anything that constitutes an invasion of someone else’s privacy, no.’

Lund had disappeared beneath the table. He was rooting around in his briefcase. When he surfaced, he was holding a crumpled copy of the Daily Telegraph. He put it down on top of Charlie’s untouched pizza. As he pointed to a small article at the bottom of the page, orange oil began to seep through the paper. ‘David Miliband,’ he said. ‘Our Foreign Secretary. Not for too long, hopefully. If I want to cut out these three paragraphs about him and glue them to my shaving mirror, that’s my choice, a choice I’m perfectly entitled to make. Do you think the boy Miliband could stop me? I’ve said this twice already, but I’ll say it again: the invasion of privacy argument doesn’t stand up. If this woman was broadcasting your private diary to the world, or going through your knicker drawer to find this stuff, the situation would be different. It’d be different if she was using the information she’s collected for a purpose that’s deterimental to your well-being, but she isn’t.’

‘She’s fucking stalking me!’ Charlie pushed Lund’s newspaper off her plate, towards him. ‘You don’t think that’s detrimental? Her bedroom wall’s part of it-it’s all part of the same thing, and I need it to stop! She waited for me outside my nick, she wouldn’t explain…’

‘From what you said, you didn’t try very hard to get an explanation out of her.’ Lund rotated his lower jaw to mask a yawn. It made a clicking sound. ‘I’d have demanded to know what she was about and refused to take no for an answer. You didn’t even tell her you’d seen the bedroom wall-why not?’

‘Because I was shit scared, all right?’ Charlie hissed. The truth was embarrassing, but since she was never going to see Dominic Lund again, she decided it didn’t matter. So what if the fourth most influential person in UK law thought she was a pathetic, gutless wimp? ‘Even you can’t deny this woman’s unnaturally obsessed with me. At the moment she’s restraining herself-she thinks I don’t know, so she can afford to take her time. If I’d told her what I’d seen, she might have pulled out a knife and sliced me up-how did I know what she’d do? She’s not normal. I needed to get away and think it through.’

Charlie sniffed hard, wiping away her tears quickly so she wouldn’t need to admit to herself she was crying. Two tears didn’t count as crying. ‘I was desperate to get the hell away from her, but I didn’t, not immediately. I sat in her house for another two hours, listening to an elaborate story about an art fair. I kidded myself I was staying to try and figure her out, but it wasn’t that. It was fear. This woman’s had me in her sights for God knows how long, she’s toyed with me, manipulated me-me and maybe several other people. I’ve no way of knowing how much of this dead-woman-who-isn’t-dead act is genuine-it could easily be a trap of some kind. And last night she wanted to tell me a story, and you know what? I listened like a good girl, hoping that if I did what she wanted, if I could convince her I was her friend and her ally, then maybe she’d change her mind about whatever God-awful thing she’s planning to do to me.’

Lund looked unsurprised but amused by Charlie’s outburst. ‘Miss Zailer-Sergeant, rather. You’re in retreat from reality. From what you’ve said, there’s no reason to think this lady’s stalking you or that she wants to harm you. Yours was clearly a name she knew, so when she had a problem she wanted to take to the police, she thought of you. That’s not stalking. As for not explaining why she had the article on her person when she came to see you-so what? It’s not against the law to withhold an explanation, or to cut things out of newspapers and stick them on the wall. If everyone in the UK decided to fill their houses with column inches about you, there’d be damn all you could do about it.’

‘Okay.’ Charlie forced herself to breathe slowly and steadily. ‘Realistic. I can be realistic.’

Lund raised his eyebrows, making no secret of his doubt. His BlackBerry bleeped again, sucking his attention towards it like a mind-magnet. In an instant, Charlie had become invisible. Even more invisible. By the time Lund had finished prodding his machine, she’d composed herself. ‘What if we were sneaky about it?’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you send the woman a letter, scaring the shit out of her? I’d be willing to pay over the odds.’

At this, Lund looked up and grinned. ‘I’m not a thug-for-hire. What’s your sister told you about me?’

‘I’m not asking you to give her a kicking.’ Charlie tried not to sound as if she was begging. ‘What about threatening her with a court case unless she takes the whole lot down and destroys it? Even if there’s no legal action we can take, she won’t know that. She’s a picture-framer, not a lawyer. She’ll be scared-anyone would.’

Lund shrugged, wiping his face with his napkin. His entire face, not only the area around his mouth. Now his cheek as well as his chin was smeared with orange grease. ‘And when she consults a lawyer and he tells her it’s a joke? That’s my reputation stuffed, isn’t it? Either I’m unethical or completely tonto. And if your woman’s got anything about her, she’ll take it to the press. I would.’

‘Please. There must be something you can do. I can’t bear it, knowing it’s there. I keep seeing it in my mind, wondering who’s seeing it in real life, reading all those things about me. Can’t you understand that? Are you telling me that’s not a violation of my privacy?’

‘The law doesn’t care how you feel,’ said Lund. ‘Legally, you’re trying to violate her privacy. I’d go to the papers if I were her, for sure. “I was harassed by psychopath’s ex-girlfriend, says picture-framer.” More headlines for her to stick up in her gallery, more infamy for you.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘What?’ Lund frowned. ‘Oh, come on. Let’s not pussyfoot around.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

Charlie dug her fingernails into her palms as hard as she could. Focus on the physical pain. ‘I didn’t know he was a psychopath. I was another of that evil fucker’s victims.’ Seeing Lund’s expression, she said, ‘Not in that way. I just mean… it wasn’t my fault. The inquiry found in my favour, even if the shitty tabloids didn’t.’

‘I know all that,’ said Lund, yawning openly. ‘I’m telling you what the press would say, if this woman was canny enough to approach them.’

Charlie stood up, pushing back her chair. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘Invoice me for the hour you’ve spent ripping my self-esteem to shreds. You can pay for your own lunch.’

He waved away the suggestion. ‘They know me well enough here,’ he said. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? ‘Don’t take it out on me-I’m trying to help you. The best thing you can do is forget the whole thing: the psychopath, the gutter hacks, the woman-all of it. Why let it bother you? You should put it behind you.’

Charlie couldn’t breathe. He’d refused all her appeals for real help, and now he was trying to fob her off with hackneyed snippets of homespun wisdom. She wanted to kill him.

Lund smirked as if he’d remembered a filthy joke. ‘Olivia tells me you’re getting married.’

Charlie moved the words around in her brain. Liv hadn’t mentioned knowing Lund personally. ‘Have you seen my sister recently?’

‘Last week. Simon, isn’t it? Your fiancé? Also a cop.’

‘How well do you and Liv know each other?’ Vogue, Elle, The English Home… The magazines Lund had suggested to Charlie were all ones Olivia subscribed to. No. Please, no.

‘How well does anyone know anyone? Liv can’t believe your parents haven’t tried to talk you out of marrying him,’ said Lund amiably. ‘Says she’s tried, but you won’t listen to her.’

Charlie’s insides had turned to lead. She opened her mouth to speak, but found she couldn’t. Every last word had declared itself unavailable.

‘My impression is that you don’t really listen to anyone,’ Lund added, his eyes drifting to the screen of his BlackBerry. Were there messages on it from Olivia?

Charlie pulled her handbag off the back of her chair and marched out of the restaurant. Outside, walking fast in no particular direction, she realised she’d broken the strap. She heard a stifled cry that must have come from her. Where to go, what to do next? Not Olivia’s flat. She’d kill her sister if she saw her now. Better to calm down first. Charlie pulled her phone out of her bag, made sure it was still switched off. She ached to ring Simon, but knew that if she spoke to him in her present state, they’d end up having a row. Simon, like Dominic Lund, didn’t understand why she hadn’t simply tackled Ruth openly about the newspaper cuttings. He thought the bedroom wall thing was odd, but didn’t understand why it had upset Charlie to the extent that it had. He thinks I’m overreacting.

A street sign caught her eye as she tried and failed to light a cigarette in the cold wind: ‘Charlotte Street’. How many Charlotte Streets could there be in London? Charlie answered her own question: more than one, easily. Still, it was possible. This seemed the right sort of area, and she could see what looked like a gallery further down the road.

She dropped her unlit cigarette and lighter back into her bag and broke into a run. A few seconds later, the possibility became a reality. There was the name, in orange and brown letters on the glass: TiqTaq. This was the gallery Ruth Bussey had mentioned last night. Charlie took a deep breath and went in.

Did a paper cut-out count as art? Charlie couldn’t ask the tanned middle-aged woman in the patchwork jacket who sat behind a battered wooden table at the back of the gallery. She was on the phone, trying to make an appointment to get her legs waxed, sounding upbeat at first, saying, ‘I completely understand, ’ and then increasingly impatient when it started to become apparent that even next week was fully booked. Charlie wondered if she was the older woman Ruth Bussey had met at the art fair: Jan something or other. TiqTaq’s owner.

If she was, presumably all work exhibited was approved by her. She evidently saw some merit in the framed lines of paper dolls holding hands that were up on the walls. Each had been cut out of different coloured paper and was a different size; each carried a price tag of between two and five thousand pounds. I could have done these, Charlie thought. A few big sheets of paper, a pair of scissors… What a scam.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman was off the phone. ‘Shall I talk you through the exhibition? I’m Jan Garner. TiqTaq’s my gallery.’

So Ruth Bussey had told the truth about that, at least. In fact, Charlie had believed every word of her story. Even feeling the way she did about Ruth at the moment, she could tell when a person stopped lying; the relief was unmistakeable. Simon disagreed; they’d argued about it last night, at some ungodly hour. ‘Anyone who’s lied once is untrustworthy always,’ he’d said.

‘Clever liars admit to old lies to distract you, so that you don’t spot the ones they’re in the middle of.’

Charlie shook Jan Garner’s extended hand. ‘Charlie Zailer,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping you can help me with something else, actually-nothing to do with the exhibition.’

‘Happy to if I can,’ said Jan. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

Could this work as a matey chat? Charlie wondered. Useful if it could, since she had no official reason to be here. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘Earl Grey, Lady Grey, lapsang, green with mint, green with jasmine, lemon and ginger…’

‘Earl Grey’d be lovely,’ said Charlie. The long list of fancy teas made her think of Olivia, who drank things like fennel and nettle, and would no doubt drink weeds stewed in dirty bathwater if it had the right label on it. Charlie pushed the thought of her sister away.

While Jan made the drinks, she pulled an information sheet out of a plastic rack near the door and read about the paper dolls exhibition. It was called ‘Under Skin’. The dolls weren’t cut out of coloured paper, as Charlie had assumed, but out of pages from road atlases which were then stuck together and ‘encased in watercolours’ so that each row looked like a continous, uncut piece of paper. How long must it have taken, Charlie wondered, and what was the point of it, apart from to show that appearances could deceive? Big deal. Did anyone need something so obvious pointing out to them?

Jan appeared from the back of the gallery with two tall china mugs. ‘Right, fire away,’ she said, handing Charlie her drink.

‘Are you familiar with the work of an artist called Mary Trelease? ’

The smile on Jan’s face instantly became strained. ‘Not in touch any more,’ she said.

‘I just wondered… I’ve seen some of Mary’s paintings and-’

‘You’ve seen Mary’s work? Where?’

‘At her house.’

Jan laughed. ‘She let you in and showed you her pictures? So I’m guessing you’re her closest friend, if not her only friend.’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Charlie smiled and took refuge in her cup of tea. ‘I hardly know her. I’ve met her once, that’s it. I went to see her about something else.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the Mary Trelease I know, letting a stranger see her paintings. She hates anyone to see her work. She won’t sell it, won’t exhibit, won’t promote herself in any way.’

‘How do you know her?’ Charlie asked.

‘Why do you want to know, if you don’t mind my asking? What did you say your name was again?’

Charlie decided she’d better be frank. She told Jan her name, and that she was with the Culver Valley Police. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so used to firing off questions. I forget that when I’m out of uniform, I need to persuade people to answer me instead of ordering them to.’

‘Mary lives in the Culver Valley,’ said Jan, her eyes sharp. ‘Is your interest in her professional or personal?’

Charlie sipped her tea, and considered carefully before answering. ‘Today’s a day off for me,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose I’d have to say personal, though I first heard Mary’s name when someone-’ She broke off. ‘I’m afraid that, because there is a police angle to this-or, rather, because there might be-I can’t tell you too much.’

‘You said you went to see Mary about something else…’ Jan stopped, seeing Charlie’s expression. ‘That’s part of what you can’t tell me, right?’

‘’Fraid so. Look, as I say, I’m here as an interested visitor, not as a cop. There’s really no reason why you should tell me anything. ’

‘I’m happy to tell you what little I know about Mary.’ Jan seemed reassured. ‘You’re definitely not her best friend?’

Charlie smiled. ‘If you’re holding back some vitriol, there’s no need. It’s no skin off my nose whether you love her or hate her. I’m just interested to find out as much as I can.’

Jan nodded. ‘I’d never heard of her until one day in October last year, when she turned up here unannounced, no appointment, nothing. You’ve met her, right? So you know how striking she looks-that hair, the ultra-posh voice. Like a mad queen who’s lost her kingdom. I was a little intimidated by her.’

You and me both, thought Charlie.

‘She’d brought a picture with her, one she wanted framed. She told me she lived in Spilling and that she’d fallen out with her old gallery, the one that used to frame all her work…’

‘Did she say what about?’

‘No. I didn’t ask.’

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘She informed me, rather regally, that I was going to frame the painting for her, even told me how much I should charge her-same as the old gallery would have. I’d have laughed if she hadn’t been so obviously serious. She told me that, from now on, I would be framing her pictures. At that point I had to interrupt and tell her I didn’t do framing-I’m not a picture-framer. It took a lot of guts, let me tell you. She’d been in here less than five minutes and already I was terrified of being a disappointment to her.’

Charlie smiled. She was used to dealing with people who released the occasional jerky, incoherent sentence if she was lucky. Jan Garner was a welcome contrast.

‘It was hard to tell her without sounding patronising that in London, galleries that sell contemporary art don’t do framing, whatever happens in Spilling. The artists I represent deliver their pictures already framed.’

‘How did she take it when you told her?’ Charlie asked.

‘Oh, badly. Mary took everything badly. I offered to recommend framers, but she wouldn’t let me. I asked her why she’d come to London. I mean, I know it’s a relatively short train journey, but still… wouldn’t it have been more convenient for her to find a picture-framer in Spilling? There must be others apart from the gallery she’d fallen out with.’

Apart from Saul Hansard, there was only one that Charlie knew of: Aidan Seed. ‘What did she say?’

‘That it had to be me. Beyond that, she wouldn’t elaborate. To this day, I don’t know why she chose me rather than anyone else, or how she first heard of me. I asked her again later, once we’d established a working relationship and knew each other better, but she still wouldn’t say.’ Jan caught Charlie’s puzzled look and said, ‘Oh, sorry. I should have said: yes, I did end up framing pictures for Mary. Having them framed for her, rather, by a friend of mine. Mary Trelease is a woman who makes sure she gets what she wants.’

‘But you’d told her you didn’t do framing,’ said Charlie. ‘How did she persuade you?’

‘She didn’t. Her picture did. Abberton.’ Jan’s eyes lost their focus and she sighed. ‘It was brilliant. Something really special.’

Charlie glanced at the nearest of the paper-doll pictures. ‘In a different league from those,’ said Jan, reading her mind. ‘Mary’s paintings-that first one I saw and every one I saw subsequently-they were alive. They were beautiful and ugly at the same time, full of passion.’

‘So you agreed because you liked her work,’ Charlie summarised. Abberton: another thing Ruth Bussey had told the truth about.

‘Not at first,’ said Jan. ‘At first I tried to persuade her to let me represent her. That was when she told me she’d never sold a single picture and never would. It was also when I got to hear her rules: I wasn’t allowed to show her work to anyone, or mention her name to anyone-oh, it was crazy! I didn’t understand the woman at all, but I quickly saw that if I wanted to maintain any connection with her, I’d have to take her on her terms, which meant doing her framing. I hoped that in time she’d come round to the idea of exhibiting her paintings, but she never did. Not while I knew her, anyway. I don’t know what she’s doing now. You’ll know more about that than I do.’ Jan eyed Charlie tentatively.

Charlie didn’t see that it would do any harm. ‘She’s the same. Fiercely private about her work. And you have no idea why she’s like that?’

‘I could hazard a guess,’ said Jan. ‘Fear of failure? Fear of commercial considerations coming into play, and how that might change things? If you forbid the sale of something, you have no opportunity to see whether people want to buy it or not. If you don’t let people see your work, they can’t hate it. Mary used to say it was a matter of principle, that you can’t and shouldn’t put a price on art, but I never believed that line. I think she was scared, and I can’t say I blame her. The art scene chews people up and spits them out. It’s merciless.’

Charlie couldn’t help smiling. ‘We’re talking about people buying pictures, right? Or not buying them? Nothing life-threatening? ’

‘You can laugh, but I could tell you some horror stories. There was a young artist recently whose entire degree show sold to a world-famous collector. Usually if that happens, you’re made-you can write your own ticket-but in this case it didn’t work. There was a huge backlash against the idea that one collector could up the value of an artist’s work just like that. Both the collector and the artist became the target of some of the most vicious word-of-mouth I’ve ever heard. The irony is, the artist’s a talented guy. His work’s great.’

‘Then why the viciousness?’ Charlie asked.

‘Bad timing, that’s all. It had happened too often-the Charles Saatchi effect, we call it. All it takes is for a few artists to build their careers on it and become world-famous, and suddenly everyone’s suspicious and ready to make sure no more slip through the net.’

Charlie downed the rest of her tea and tried to look more sympathetic than she felt. If Charles Saatchi threw a few million in her direction, she wouldn’t care how many people slagged her off afterwards. She’d buy diamond-studded earplugs and go and lie on a beach in the Caribbean where the whining of jealous bastards wouldn’t reach her.

Jan’s eyes were wide and bright as she plucked another sorry tale from her repertoire. ‘I represented an artist once, years ago, who was out-of-this-world fantastic: talented, ambitious, absolutely guaranteed to succeed.’

‘Better than Mary Trelease?’ Charlie couldn’t resist asking.

Jan chewed her lip as she thought about it. ‘Different. No, not better. It’d be hard to say anyone was better than Mary. Mary’s a genius.’

‘And this other artist wasn’t?’

‘No, I think he was-in a very different way from Mary, much more muted. He had his first show with me. He wasn’t expecting much from it and neither was I-these things tend to build slowly if they build at all. I did my best to get publicity, but it’s never easy for a first show. The private view was reasonably well attended, nothing out of the ordinary. Only three of the pictures sold. But somehow, even though the first night had been nothing special, word got around. Quality will out, that’s what I always say. Within three days, all the pictures in the exhibition were sold-every last one, all to people who were eager to buy more as soon as more were available.’

Jan put her hand to her throat, which had turned pink. ‘It was the most exciting moment of my career, that’s for sure,’ she said. ‘I had to beat the collectors off with a stick. And that’s collectors plural-not just one man buying the whole lot to publicise himself as much as anything else.’ Jan let out a heavy sigh. ‘I hate to think about it now.’

‘What went wrong?’ Charlie asked.

‘I rang the artist to tell him all the work was sold and the buyers were begging for more. He was thrilled, as you can imagine. Completely beyond his wildest dreams. Then I waited. And waited. I heard nothing from him. I called him-he didn’t return my calls. It took me a while to realise he was avoiding me. In a paranoid moment, I even wondered if he’d decided to dump me, buoyed up as he was by his success. Why should he pay commission to a gallery when he could keep all the money for himself? But it wasn’t that at all. When I finally tracked him down, he told me he’d stopped painting.’

‘What?’ Charlie hadn’t been expecting that.

‘He said he couldn’t do it any more. Every time he picked up a paintbrush, he froze. I tried to persuade him to get help, but he didn’t want to. All he wanted was to leave it behind. I couldn’t force him.’

‘Stupid idiot,’ Charlie said, before she could stop herself.

‘With approval come expectation and pressure.’ Jan looked sad. ‘Perhaps Mary’s approach is the sensible one. It’s still a tragedy, though-all those amazing paintings and no one’s seeing them, no one but her. She does the most wonderful portraits. Did you see any of those?’

‘A few,’ said Charlie. ‘Her neighbours.’

‘Hardly.’ Jan laughed. ‘Mary’s not interested in anyone who’s had it easy. She said to me once, “I only want to paint people who have really suffered.” She painted disadvantaged, deprived people. There was a particular estate, I can’t remember its name…’

‘The Winstanley estate?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Her neighbours,’ Charlie said again. ‘Mary lives on the Winstanley estate, on a semi-derelict cul-de-sac that you wouldn’t want to walk down on your own at night or even during the day. She lives side by side with…’ Charlie had been about to say, ‘the dregs of the dregs,’ but she stopped herself. She had a hunch Jan’s view of the underclass was somewhat rosier than her own.

‘But Mary’s…’ Jan looked flustered. ‘She’s… I always assumed she’d live somewhere… you know. I mean, what’s a Villiers girl doing living on a run-down estate?’

‘Villiers?’ Charlie had vaguely heard of it.

‘It’s a girls’ boarding school in Surrey. I’ve only heard of it because I happened to grow up in the next village,’ said Jan, a hint of apology in her voice. ‘Mary went to school with diamond heiresses and the daughters of film stars. Seriously.’

‘Her family are rich?’ Charlie pictured 15 Megson Crescent, its peeling wallpaper and blackened carpets.

Jan laughed. ‘They must be if they sent her to Villiers. She told me the fees were around fifteen grand a year when she went, and that was years ago. A lot of her friends were called “The Hon” this or that. Mary said most of them were thick, but then she never seemed to rate anyone’s intellect very highly.’

‘Did you ever see any of her other pictures, apart from the ones she brought in for you to frame? When I was at her house I saw some unframed ones she’d put up on the walls-of a family who used to live on the estate, I think.’

Jan looked puzzled. ‘Mary was obsessive about framing her work. She didn’t regard a picture as finished until it was framed. She used to hassle me mercilessly, wanting everything framed straight away. It was almost as if…’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. As if she didn’t think they were safe until they were behind glass, or something. Or as if she didn’t think they counted, somehow. Are you sure the unframed pictures you saw were hers?’

‘Positive.’

‘How odd.’ Jan rubbed her collarbone, thinking. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong-Mary’s style’s unmistakeable-but I can’t understand it. It’s just not Mary to leave her work unframed.’ She peered into her empty mug. ‘Another tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d best be off in a minute.’ She didn’t know how to ask about the Access 2 Art fair without sounding as if she was trying to catch Jan out: I know someone who says you lied. ‘I take it you no longer frame for Mary,’ she said eventually. ‘What went wrong?’

‘Two things, and they happened in quick succession. Mary painted something I hated-something I objected to, actually-and I couldn’t pretend to feel otherwise about it. She took exception. I still framed it for her, but that wasn’t good enough. She was used to me raving about the brilliance of everything she did-the last thing she expected was disapproval, but I honestly couldn’t help it.’

‘How come?’

‘The picture was of a young woman who was… well, dead.’ Jan sounded apologetic. ‘I can’t remember her name, though I knew it at the time-it was the painting’s title. Not a neighbour this time-someone Mary had been at school with. Another Villiers girl. A writer. She only wrote one novel, though, before she hanged herself, tragically young. Not that there’s an age when suicide isn’t tragic. I wish I could remember her name.’

‘Maybe Mary was close to her,’ Charlie suggested, remembering what Mary had said about painting people you cared about. Like offering yourself an emotional breakdown.

‘Yes,’ said Jan. ‘She told me they were inseparable, that this woman had meant everything to her and nothing to me. As if that gave her every right, and I ought to shut up if I knew what was good for me.’ Noticing that Charlie looked puzzled, she added, ‘Sorry, I should have explained. Mary painted her dead, with the noose round her neck.’ She shuddered. ‘The full suicide scene, in all its vivid, gory, undignified detail. The picture was utterly grotesque. I can’t imagine I’d be more shocked if I saw a real dead body. I mean, the poor woman… oh, her name’s on the tip of my tongue, what is it? It’ll come to me.’ Jan looked angry. ‘I know she’s dead and it can’t hurt her, but still, her family… Even if Mary never shows the painting to anyone, even if all she does is stick it in the loft…’

Charlie’s thoughts drifted back to the forbidden zone: Ruth Bussey and the wall of newspaper cuttings. Jan would have understood why Charlie wanted it destroyed, even if Dominic Lund didn’t. The thought that it was there, that it existed, was unbearable, no matter who saw or didn’t see it. Charlie felt a deep coldness in the pit of her stomach.

‘… forced my true opinion out of me, then savaged me for it,’ Jan was saying. ‘She kept going on about murder, as if I’d accused her of it.’

‘Murder? I thought you said the woman killed herself?’

‘ “Anyone would think I murdered her,” “I’m an artist, not a murderer-I didn’t kill her, I only painted her.” That sort of thing. Yes, she did kill herself-when Mary started talking about murder, I got confused, so I asked again, to check.’

‘What did Mary say?’

‘She said, “She chose to die,” as if that choice gave Mary the right to paint the poor woman disfigured by death.’ Jan shrugged. ‘I disagreed. Choosing to die and choosing to have a portrait painted of your corpse are two very different things. Don’t you think?’

She chose to die. That didn’t necessarily mean the same thing as ‘She killed herself.’ It could mean ‘She chose to behave in a way that compelled me to kill her.’ In her former life as a detective, Charlie had heard countless versions of that justification. Always from murderers.

‘Mary wasn’t about to pardon what she saw as my betrayal,’ said Jan, ‘particularly where this picture was concerned. It was one that really mattered to her, I could tell. After that, things were stilted between us at best, and then the art fair debacle killed our relationship stone dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘The picture Mary brought in the first time she came-Abberton. That was another one that was desperately important to her-she had favourites, Mary. Most artists do, come to think of it. The essential paintings and the dispensable ones. I’d had Abberton framed but Mary didn’t like the frame I’d chosen. She brought it back in a few weeks later, said she wanted the wood stained green, so I had it stained green. What Mary wants, Mary gets. The picture was here, waiting to be collected-she said she’d pick it up as soon as she’d finished what she was working on. She hates to be interrupted if she’s got a painting on the go.’

Jan’s expression darkened and when she spoke again, her words were clipped. ‘My then assistant, Ciara, took it upon herself to slip Abberton into a pile of stuff we were taking to an art fair, even though I’d expressly told her it wasn’t to be exhibited. She ignored me-she told me later she hadn’t heard me say it, but I knew she was lying. I think she decided-rightly-that it was the best thing we had and would attract people to our stand if we displayed it prominently.’

Charlie could tell from her tone that this still bothered Jan. She hadn’t yet put it behind her, as that wank-head Lund would doubtless have advised.

‘I should never have trusted Ciara to set up alone. She didn’t think very far ahead, because pretty soon a woman was demanding to buy Abberton and she dug herself in deeper by pretending it was sold. Apparently the woman started to behave oddly, seemed not to believe her. She insisted that if she couldn’t buy this picture then she wanted to buy another one by the same artist. I think Ciara got genuinely scared then-she thought the woman might be a spy, sent by Mary to catch us out.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Charlie.

‘You didn’t see this woman,’ said Jan. ‘She seemed a little bit unhinged. The first I knew of any of this was when I turned up at lunchtime to take over from Ciara. There was no sign of Mary’s picture; by that point it had been hidden, and I had no idea it had ever been at the fair. As far as I knew it was in my workroom, waiting to be picked up by Mary.’

‘The woman came back?’ Charlie tried to sound as if she didn’t already know.

‘Yes, with a man in tow, but again, that was weird. It was as if he was pretending not to be with her, standing with his back to us, listening to our conversation. I didn’t realise he was with her, didn’t even notice him until he started walking away and she ran after him. She’d been shouting at me about how a picture by Mary Trelease had been on our stand that morning, and saying Ciara had lied to her about it. Course, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I told her she was mistaken. It didn’t take me long to work it out-I found Abberton hidden under a pile of prints under the table a few seconds later, but by that point the strange woman had gone.’

‘How did Mary find out?’ Charlie asked, guessing she must have.

Jan’s face crumpled in distress at the memory. ‘I told her. I had to. I didn’t believe the woman at the art fair was a spy, or anything so absurd, but it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that she knew Mary and would tell her. I thought I ought to do the decent thing and ’fess up.’

‘I assume it didn’t go down well.’

‘Mary slammed the phone down on me. The next day she came like a deaf-mute to collect the painting-wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak to me. I haven’t heard from her since. She wouldn’t take my calls and didn’t answer my letters. Eventually I gave up.’

‘And Ciara?’ Charlie was curious.

‘She left the week after the art fair,’ said Jan tersely.

Charlie read a sacking between the lines. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any photos of any of the pictures you framed for Mary?’ Charlie was growing more curious about Abberton the more she heard about it. She wanted to see what the fuss was about.

‘I did have,’ Jan lowered her voice, as if afraid to admit it. ‘It was one of the first things Mary made me promise-that I would never take a photograph of any of her paintings. When I promised, I intended to keep my word, but… once I’d framed Abberton, once I thought about Mary coming to take it away, I took a few photos. Not to show anyone, just to keep as a souvenir of something that had made such an impact on me, made me think about my work in a different way.

‘After the Ciara fiasco, after Mary slammed the phone down on me, I deleted the photographs of Abberton from my digital camera and my computer. I thought it was only fair-I shouldn’t have had them in the first place. I’d abused Mary’s trust. It was clear we weren’t going to have the relationship I’d hoped we would have.’

When Jan turned to face Charlie, her forehead was creased with anguish. ‘So, no,’ she said. ‘I have no photos of Abberton, nor anything else of Mary’s, and every day I ask myself if I made the right decision. It’ll sound ridiculous when I say this-no doubt I’ve led an extremely sheltered life-but pressing that delete button’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.’