The Other Half Lives

24

Charlie had hoped things would be winding down by the time she got to the Spilling Gallery, but the party seemed still to be in full swing at nearly nine o’clock. The lit interior was dark with bodies, and she heard the noise as soon as she got out of her car: laughter and clashing voices.

She’d rung Saul Hansard at home first, having found his number in the phone book. His house was listed by name: The Grain Store. That’s right; she remembered him mentioning the dilapidated building he and his wife had bought and converted. Charlie knew Saul from an initiative she’d been in charge of last year to combat business crime. Most of the local shop-owners had been involved; Saul had been among the least obnoxious and demanding.

Tonight there was a private view at the gallery, Breda Hansard, Saul’s wife, had told Charlie. The windows were so heavily misted that you could hardly see the pictures on display. As Charlie walked in, she was hit by the competing smells of wine and sweat. Now she could see the paintings; they were of local scenes, made prettier by unrealistically bright colours and what looked like pieces of gold tin-foil stuck to each one to represent the sun, or yellow flowers growing beside the road. Twee. Just the sort of thing the people of Spilling were bound to love.

Saul saw Charlie, and broke off from the group of people he was talking to. ‘I’m glad they sent you,’ he said. ‘Let’s go through to the back.’

‘Glad who sent me?’ Charlie pulled off her coat and draped it over her arm. The gallery was uncomfortably hot with the thick, moist heat that could only be generated by too many people crammed into too small a space.

Saul hadn’t heard her, so Charlie repeated her question.

He looked puzzled. ‘You’re not here because I phoned?’

‘No. Who did you phone?’

The back turned out to be a large room that might have belonged to an inspired but undisciplined child with artistic leanings. Marker pens were scattered everywhere, on every surface and on the floor; Charlie’s foot rolled on one as she walked in. There were large sheets of white cardboard with paint splashes on them leaning against walls, paintings both framed and unframed in tottering piles, aerosol paint cans with dried paint dribbles down their sides that had spilled on-to the table, tissue paper, mainly torn, occasionally screwed up into uneven balls, wood shavings, glue…

‘I wanted to talk to someone,’ said Saul, fiddling with his red braces, the same ones he always wore. ‘I’ve had all sorts of police in and out yesterday and today, asking me questions. They wouldn’t answer any. I was worried. I think some people I care about might be in trouble, or missing, and…’

‘Would those people be Ruth Bussey, Aidan Seed and Mary Trelease?’

Saul looked satisfied, briefly, then anxious. ‘You’re also here to ask about them?’

‘Unofficially.’

‘Mary Trelease isn’t a person I care about,’ he said thoughtfully, as if reluctant to declare himself unconcerned. ‘Though of course, I wish her no harm. She’s a very strange lady. Difficult. I lost Ruth because of her. You know Ruth used to work for me?’

‘Ruth told me about her row with Mary. It happened here, didn’t it?’

Saul nodded.

‘Did you see it?’

‘Only the end of it. That was bad enough.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘Wait a minute. Sorry.’ Saul seemed agitated, pressing the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left as if trying to drill a hole in it. ‘Can you at least tell me if Ruth and Aidan are all right? Both are… well, I couldn’t bear to think of either of them being in any trouble.’

‘I don’t know if they’re all right,’ Charlie said, feeling awful when she saw the effect it had on him. ‘You’re better off asking whoever you’ve been dealing with from London.’

‘London? I haven’t spoken to anyone from London.’ Saul was growing twitchier by the second. ‘The policemen who came here were local. I’ve seen them going into the Brown Cow. And coming out, sometimes, very much the worse for wear. I’ve seen you with them. I can’t remember their names. One of them was tall and… large-ish, with a northern accent.’

‘Was the other short and dark, with a face like a vindictive rat?’ Charlie asked. Sellers and Gibbs. Coral Milward’s little helpers. They must have been beside themselves with glee when they’d found their former skipper’s misfortunes plastered all over Ruth Bussey’s bedroom wall. Charlie remembered how Milward had taunted her about those same misfortunes, and rage flared inside her. ‘Tell me about Ruth’s fight with Mary,’ she said.

Saul looked caught out. ‘I thought you said she’d told you.’

‘Mary brought in a picture to be framed, Ruth wanted to buy it, Mary didn’t want to sell?’

‘That was the essence of it, yes. Mary’s the only artist I’ve ever met who refuses to sell her work. She doesn’t even like people to see it. She once told me she’d prefer it if I could put the frames on without looking at the pictures. I told her it was impossible. Knowing what she was like, I’d never have dared to ask to buy anything, though she was extremely talented. I should have warned Ruth.’ He pressed his thumb harder into his palm. ‘Has Mary hurt Ruth again? I’ll never forgive myself if she has.’

‘ “Again”?’ said Charlie. ‘What happened between them exactly? How badly was Ruth hurt?’

‘No bones were broken, if that’s what you mean. The damage was mainly psychological. Mary pushed Ruth up against a wall, took a full cylinder of red paint and sprayed it all over her face. After which Ruth completely withdrew into her shell, wouldn’t come to work, wouldn’t speak to anyone.’

‘What aren’t you telling me?’ Charlie inclined her head, forcing him to meet her eye. ‘Listen, Ruth came to me for help last week. I think she might be in danger. Anything you tell me, anything at all, might make the difference between me finding her and not finding her.’

‘This won’t, I promise you.’

Charlie had assumed Saul would be a pushover, but he seemed to have taken a stand. Which made her all the more determined to break him down. ‘You can’t possibly know that,’ she said. ‘Please. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.’

Saul stared at the floor. ‘Ruth wet herself, all right? It was horrible. It must have been awful for her. In front of Mary and me, and the couple who’d walked into the gallery a few seconds before, hoping to see a few nice pictures on their way round town, not a sobbing woman with red paint all over her face, standing in a pool of her own pee!’ He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. How would you like it if someone repeated a story like that about you?’

‘People know worse things than that about me,’ Charlie told him abruptly. ‘Have you heard the name Martha Wyers before?’

Saul’s forehead creased. ‘Martha… Yes. She’s a writer, isn’t she? Aidan knew her. They were both part of an arts promotion some years back. I seem to remember they had their pictures in the papers. Glamorous, young, sexy artists-you get the idea.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘Yes, I think I did. Aidan had an exhibition at a gallery in London.’

‘TiqTaq.’

‘That’s right.’ Saul looked surprised that Charlie knew. ‘I think Martha Wyers came to the private view. I can’t remember her face, but the name rings a bell. Aidan might well have introduced us. Any rate, I seem to remember her being there.’ He picked up a marker pen from the table and spun it round as he thought back several years. ‘With her mum, possibly. Yes, that’s right, because the mum told me about Martha’s book.’

‘Ice on the Sun.’

‘I have no memory of the title, I’m afraid. But Mum was rather full of her daughter’s achievement, as I recall, and Martha found it embarrassing.’

‘Do you remember seeing Mary Trelease at Aidan’s private view?’

A tremor passed across Saul’s face. ‘Why would Mary have been there?’ he said. ‘Mary doesn’t know Aidan.’ When Charlie didn’t contradict him, he muttered, ‘Please, don’t tell me they know each other. I’d never have sent Ruth to Aidan if I’d known he had any connection with Mary.’

‘When did you first start framing for Mary?’ Charlie asked him briskly. People who were determined to blame themselves did so even when others advised them not to-that was Charlie’s conclusion, based on her own experience. Better to move on and distract him from his concerns rather than allow him to dwell on them. She was meeting Kerry Gatti in a pub in Rawndesley at half past nine; she couldn’t waste time.

‘A while ago,’ said Saul. ‘A good three or four years, I’d say. I’d offer to check, but I doubt I’d be able to find anything dating back that far.’ As if to prove his point, he lifted a piece of paper from the table, stared at the scarred wood beneath for a few seconds, then replaced the paper in an almost identical position.

‘When Mary first came to you and told you her name-Mary Trelease-did it sound familiar?’

‘No. Why? Should it have?’

Charlie saw no reason not to tell him, since he’d attended the private view and could easily have seen it for himself. ‘In Aidan’s exhibition at TiqTaq, there was a painting called The Murder of Mary Trelease.’

Saul looked appalled. ‘What? But…’

‘You didn’t see that title?’

‘The gallery was a scrum that night. I don’t think I looked at all the titles, but I’d have noticed, surely, if there’d been a picture of a murder? There wasn’t.’ His face had turned pale. ‘Has Mary been… killed?’ This time he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I saw her as recently as last year,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Aidan’s exhibition was in 1999 or 2000 or something like that. The timing…’

Charlie fought the temptation to tell him she was as baffled as he was, had been since last Friday when Ruth Bussey had dragged her into something that made no sense, chronologically or in any other way.

‘You bought a picture at Aidan’s private view,’ she said.

‘Yes. If you’re going to ask to look at it, you can’t. I had it for less than a week.’

‘How come?’

Saul flushed. ‘I suppose this is something else you’ll say I need to tell you if I want you to find Ruth.’

‘I’ll be discreet,’ Charlie promised.

‘I sold it. A few days after I picked it up from TiqTaq, I got a phone call from an art collector. I regard myself as a collector too, but I’d never call myself that the way this chap did. For me it’s purely a pleasure. He was evidently a big cheese in the art world, and he wanted to know if I’d be willing to sell him Aidan’s picture, the one I’d bought. He knew what I’d paid for it, and offered me four times that amount.’ A pained look spread across Saul’s face.

‘You accepted his offer,’ Charlie guessed.

‘I felt terrible about it, but yes, I took the money. This place wasn’t as established then as it is now. Even now, I constantly have cash flow problems. Strange thing was, I didn’t really like the painting. I never admitted it to Jan-Jan Garner, that is. She runs TiqTaq, she’s an old friend of mine.’

Charlie nodded.

‘She thought Aidan was the best thing since sliced bread, but I didn’t take to his work at all. I liked him enormously as a person-I’d offered him a job by that point-but there was something about his paintings that left me cold. They were too… abrasive, somehow. Looking at them closely made me want to squirm.’ Saul shrugged. ‘So, no doubt that contributed to my decision, but it didn’t make me feel any better about it-worse, if anything. A courier arrived the next day and took the picture away with him.’

‘What about the money?’ Charlie asked.

‘Oh, I had that almost immediately. Within a couple of hours of our first phone call it had appeared in my bank account. Eight thousand pounds.’

‘Not to be sniffed at,’ Charlie agreed. There was no picture she wouldn’t sell for that amount, apart from ones she knew she could get more for, obviously. The Mona Lisa, or Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. Those were the only two famous paintings that sprang to mind.

‘I honestly thought Aidan would be better off with his work in a real collector’s collection, not up on my wall at home,’ said Saul. ‘I never told him, though-I kept meaning to, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Which meant I could never invite him back for dinner, all the time he worked for me.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember the name of this collector, do you?’ Charlie asked, not holding out much hope.

‘I do, as a matter of fact. I’m from Dorset originally, and he had the same name as my village of origin, a place no one’s ever heard of unless they were born there. Or rather, he had half of its name. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Blandford Forum, have you?’

Charlie hadn’t. Still, she knew which half was the collector that had made Saul the offer he couldn’t refuse. A man with a wife called Sylvia, and a home on a street that didn’t exist.

‘His name was Blandford,’ said Saul. ‘I wouldn’t swear to his first name, but I have a feeling it might have been Maurice. Maurice Blandford.’

The Swan in Rawndesley was as hot and packed as the gallery had been. Charlie pushed her way to the bar and ordered a pint of lime cordial and soda, feeling the need to rehydrate. She could see Kerry Gatti sitting at a table with two women, reading a hardback book, but he hadn’t seen her yet. She was late, but he wasn’t looking out for her. Didn’t care if she turned up or not. She took her drink and elbowed her way over to him, spilling some of it on the way.

‘Kerry.’

‘Jesus,’ he said, looking up. ‘Did you ask the barmaid for a urine sample?’ One of the women at the table turned her chair away from him. The other gave Charlie a look that made it clear he was nothing to do with her.

His book was by Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time. A bookmark was sticking out of it suspiciously close to the front cover. Kerry had probably read all of five pages.

‘Is it having a girl’s name that makes you so unpleasant, or your failed career as a comedian?’

He laughed. One of the most irritating things about him was that he seemed to enjoy being insulted. ‘I’m not the only one with a failed career. Yours is about to go down the tubes, from what I hear. And your fiancé’s.’

‘How did you know I was engaged?’ Charlie asked lightly. You had to pretend not to care with Kerry. That was the trick. The more he saw he was getting to you, the more he stuck the knife in. On the plus side, you got to throw as many knives as you liked in return. He was the only person Charlie knew who required and deserved nothing in the way of tact and consideration.

‘I make a point of following your progress,’ he said. ‘Regress. Don’t tell me you’re seriously going to get hitched to that humourless pillock Waterhouse?’

‘That’s the plan,’ Charlie told him.

‘A damn poor one, if it’s true. I for one don’t think you’ll do it. You want all the razzmatazz of an engagement, but you’ll save yourself at the last minute. I bet you’ve not set a date yet.’

Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Whether we have or not, it’s no skin off your diary. You’re not invited. Sorry.’ She flashed him a false smile.

‘Don’t be,’ said Kerry. ‘I couldn’t come anyway-I’d be too embarrassed for you.’

‘You’ve never spoken to Simon, have you? He wasn’t sure who you were.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sure who he is. A brain in a vat. Walk-on-water legend as a detective, non-starter as a husband. Does he know about us?’

Charlie laughed. ‘Yeah. He knows about us, as in me and the several hundred men I fucked before I got engaged to him. One of whom happened to be you.’

‘Ouch,’ Kerry squealed. ‘Momma, you’re the dirtiest.’

‘If you’re asking does he know about you specifically… As I said, he’s not even sure who you are.’

‘He will be. I’ve done the two of you a favour, because I’m that kind of guy. When you find yourselves sacked and skint, ring Seb at First Call. I’ve told him Waterhouse is good. I lied and said you were too, for old times’ sake. He’ll find jobs for you both if you ask him nicely. Not that this’ll put you off, but you probably won’t have the pleasure of working with moi. I’m handing in my notice any day now, giving the comedy another go.’ Kerry shrugged. ‘I’m a funny guy. You’ve got to make the most of your talents in this world. I’m sorry to hear you’ve been neglecting yours since you got engaged. I’d heard calls to the Samaritans had been on the up recently-now I know why. You provided a valuable public service in your heyday.’

‘You know Aidan Seed,’ said Charlie. ‘You went to his private view at TiqTaq in 2000.’

‘Did I?’

‘You bought a painting. A few days after you collected it, you got a call from someone who wanted it enough to offer you more than you’d paid for it. A lot more.’

‘I never liked Seed and I liked his creepy pictures even less,’ said Kerry. ‘I wouldn’t have bought one if I hadn’t had too much to drink. He seemed to be going places, and I thought it’d be a good investment. As it turned out, I got to cash in sooner than I’d expected.’

‘You sold the picture you bought to a man called Maurice Blandford. Or perhaps that wasn’t his name. It might have been Abberton, or…’

‘You were right the first time. Maurice Blandford. Suck his cock, did you?’

‘No. If he exists, if he has a suckable cock, then no-I didn’t.’

‘All cocks are suckable,’ said Kerry. ‘Trust me, as the proud owner of a fine specimen.’

‘I assume you’re referring to a spare you keep in a jar somewhere, for special occasions?’

‘You said it.’

Damn. She should have thought ahead. She’d asked for that one.

‘Did Aidan Seed hire you to follow Ruth Bussey? To find out about her background?’

‘It’s the same rule for you as for Neil Dunning esquire.’ Kerry took a sip of a drink that looked like port before smiling sympathetically at Charlie. ‘Worse for you, since you’re in no position to come back in the morning with a warrant. Face it: you’re out in the cold. This’ll tickle you: Dunning asked me if I thought you and Waterhouse could be trusted.’ He grinned, genuinely pleased to be delivering the news. ‘Don’t worry, I stuck up for you. If it makes you feel any better, Dunning’ll get nothing from me, warrant or no warrant, so you can’t accuse me of not playing fair.’

He looked serious for the first time since Charlie had arrived. ‘I’m not the Salvation Army, sweetheart. I help people only after money’s changed hands. Outside of that, I don’t tell and I don’t ask. I’m not curious, see. That’s the most important asset someone in my delicate position can have, let me tell you. Have I asked you who Maurice Blandford is?’ He licked his finger and tapped the air, awarding a point to himself.

‘Did you meet Blanford?’ Charlie asked. ‘Or did he send a courier for the picture, and transfer the money directly into your bank account? He did, didn’t he? Did that strike you as odd at the time?’

‘The only thing striking me as odd are your questions. And Dunning’s. Putting it all together, I’d say Aidan Seed’s mixed up in the suspicious death Dunning’s fretting about, and maybe Maurice Blandford is too, but I don’t know how, and I don’t care. Like I say, money has to change hands.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve still got the bank statement with the account name and number on it? From the transfer?’

Kerry snickered. ‘This is what I love about you: that faint whiff of desperation-your signature scent.’

Charlie persisted. ‘How much did Blandford give you for the picture? Was it something in the region of eight thousand pounds?’

‘If you’re waiting for me to ask how you know all this, you’re in for a long wait,’ said Kerry. ‘I don’t pry, in case it leads to a conflict of interests.’ He raised his glass, clinked it against Charlie’s. ‘I’ve got my sponsor to think of, my early retirement. My name in lights outside comedy clubs…’

‘Sponsor?’

He patted her hand. ‘It all comes down, in life, to whose side you’re on. You’re on Simon Waterhouse’s side-that’s why your career and love life are going down the pan. Me? I’m on the side of my clients, because, at the end of the day, they pay the bills.’

‘You said “sponsor” singular.’ Kerry looked put out. Charlie licked her finger and notched up a point to herself. ‘Money seems to like you, Kerry. First you buy a painting by a guy you can’t stand for-what, a grand? Two? And a stranger offers you eight for it when you’ve had it less than a month.’

‘I talked him up to ten, actually,’ he corrected her. ‘And it was less than a week.’

Charlie believed him about his lack of curiosity. She also knew that, like most men, he had to prove he knew more, had to be the one steering things. ‘Then you get yourself a client who pays over the odds,’ she went on, hoping she’d guessed right. ‘She pays you so much, you can think about giving up work and wasting the rest of your life antagonising tiny audiences in dingy pubs and clubs all over the country. Your sponsor. Not Aidan Seed. You said you didn’t like him, so it can’t be him who’s bought your loyalty. It’s Mary Trelease, isn’t it? She’s the one who paid you to tail Ruth Bussey.’

Mary, with her refined accent and her Villiers education, so out of place on the Winstanley estate. Who else could it be? ‘Or Gemma Crowther,’ Charlie added, just in case. ‘Which one’s funding your comedy comeback? Mary or Gemma?’

‘Neither.’ Kerry looked smug. ‘Unless one of them left a will I’ve yet to hear about.’

‘What did you say?’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ He pronounced each word slowly and carefully as if he was talking to an imbecile.

Pretend you know already. Pretend you know what he knows, or thinks he knows. ‘Did Aidan Seed kill Gemma Crowther? Did he kill Mary Trelease?’

Kerry’s eyes narrowed. He looked like a smug cat. ‘I’ll give you this much: you’re one step ahead of your Cockney counterpart. ’

‘Dunning didn’t know Mary Trelease was dead,’ said Charlie, aware of her pulse charging beneath her skin.

‘He seemed a mite confused,’ Kerry agreed.

‘He talked about her as if she was still alive. Asked you if you knew her.’ Charlie didn’t know where she was going with this, but it felt right. She wished Simon was with her. ‘Did you tell him she was dead?’

Kerry held up his hands. ‘Not my responsibility to set him straight. If he comes back with his warrant tomorrow as promised, he’ll get no illumination from me, nor from my pristine office. I don’t tell anyone anything.’

‘Unless cash changes hands. I know,’ said Charlie impatiently. ‘All right, then-how much? Name your price for telling me everything you know that relates to Aidan Seed, Mary Trelease…’

‘Charlie, sweetheart, don’t demean yourself. You’re not going to be able to claim it back on expenses, you know.’

‘… and Martha Wyers.’

That wiped the smile off his face.

‘Dunning didn’t ask you about her, did he? Come on, name your price.’

‘I’m out of your league,’ said Kerry. ‘Financially speaking. Unless you’re offering payment in kind.’ He stared at Charlie’s chest and ran his tongue along his bottom lip. ‘I might be persuaded. ’

‘Yeah, right. Is your bedroom still covered in fake leopard skins?’

‘Leopard skins are sexy, señorita.’

‘Not when they’re covered in spilled Weetabix, they’re not.’ Saying this reminded Charlie of who she was talking to. He’ll get no illumination from my pristine office. Nothing about Kerry Gatti was pristine. He was the same self-satisfied slob he’d always been. There was an open briefcase at his feet. He’d wedged it between his legs.

Charlie pushed her lime cordial and soda over to him. ‘I’m going to get a real drink,’ she said. Kerry opened his book as she stood up. Maybe he really did want to read about black holes. If only he would fall into one.

At the bar, Charlie showed her police ID to two young men standing beside her. ‘For twenty quid each, I need you to start giving me a hard time,’ she told them. ‘Loud enough for the whole pub to hear. Accuse me of pushing in.’

‘’Ey?’ said one, slow on the uptake.

‘Let’s see the money, then,’ said his friend. Checking Kerry was busy with Stephen Hawking, Charlie gave them each a £20 note. They started laughing.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ she said. She didn’t need Oscar-winning performances from them, only a bit of high-volume aggression. They looked the sort who ought to be able to manage it. In the end, Charlie had to threaten to nick them for theft-taking her money under false pretences. Finally, one of them-the marginally brighter one-started yelling at her. Too loud, really hamming it up, but it didn’t matter. Charlie let him insult her and threaten her for about half a minute, then backed away from the bar, saying, ‘Look, forget it. I don’t want any trouble.’ As she walked back to the table, he shouted obscenities after her. Earning every penny, the fucker. Charlie heard the barman threaten to bar him if he didn’t pack it in.

‘What was that about?’ Kerry looked amused. ‘Where’s your drink?’

‘Not worth it,’ she said tersely.

‘Liver going by the name of Lily these days, is it? I’d heard as much. Come on, give us your money, I’ll go for you.’

‘I’m not giving you fuck all.’ Charlie restrained herself from asking what he’d heard. Was he referring to her transferring out of CID? Did people think that was down to fear? ‘If you want, you and your sponsor can buy me a vodka and orange.’

As soon as he’d gone to the bar, she put both her feet around his open briefcase and pulled it over to her. Inside, there was a copy of a book called Voice and the Actor, season two of The Wire on DVD, an iPod, some CDs-Rush, Pink Floyd and Genesis-and two thin blue envelope files. Charlie opened one and saw the name Aidan Seed. She froze for a second, unused to having things happen the way she wanted them to.

She slipped both files under her shirt and folded her arms over them as she walked to the stairs that led to the ladies. Instead of following the drunk girl with the chunky calves and mud-dipped stiletto heels up to the next floor, Charlie carried on to the end of the passageway. Beside the door of the gents’ there was another one marked ‘emergency exit’. She pushed the silver bar and it opened on to a yard full of empty crates and recycling skips.

She ran round the side of the pub, through the car park at the front and on to the road. Her Audi was parked half on the pavement, under a street light. Pulling the files out from under her shirt, Charlie pointed her key-fob at the car and pressed the unlock button. Nothing happened. ‘Come on,’ she breathed through gritted teeth. She pressed again. Nothing. And again. And again. Shit. She looked over her shoulder. No sign of Kerry. Yet.

She unlocked the car manually and set off the alarm. The noise, an ee-aw-ee-aw screech, sounded like an amplified saw cutting through metal. People on the street were giving her dirty looks, mouthing things at her that she couldn’t hear and wasn’t sorry to miss.

Sweating in spite of the cold, Charlie jabbed the unlock button several more times with her thumb. Useless. She tried the lock button, also to no effect. The battery was beyond resuscitation. Without a new one, she assumed there was no way of turning off the alarm.

She looked behind her again and this time she saw Kerry. He was in the car park, looking left and right. She ducked down behind the wall that separated the pub from the street, then raised her head in time to see him run round the back of the Swan. She knew he’d be back soon, having failed to find her there.

With no time to think, Charlie abandoned her wailing car and ran across the car park, up the front steps of the pub and back inside, clutching the files tight so that nothing fell out. He wouldn’t look inside. Knowing what she’d done, he wouldn’t think she’d be stupid enough to come back.

Charlie ran up the stairs to the ladies’, pushed a couple of indignant drunk teenagers out of her way, and locked herself in a cubicle.

She didn’t open the files straight away. She was too busy breathing, which felt like something she hadn’t done for a while. She could still hear the sodding car. Once her head had stopped throbbing and she could see an immobile, much-graffitied toilet cubicle rather than one that pulsated and warped in front of her eyes, she was ready to read what she’d taken from Kerry’s briefcase.

There was a file on Aidan Seed and one on Ruth Bussey. Ruth’s told Charlie nothing much that she didn’t already know: evangelical Christian parents, garden design business, three BALI awards. Most of the information Kerry had gathered had to do with Gemma Crowther and Stephen Elton. There was a lot about the court case. Charlie imagined how he must have congratulated himself on sniffing out that juicy morsel.

She opened the other file. Here were things she didn’t know about Aidan Seed: details of his education, his father’s death from lung cancer. She skimmed the pages, looking for anything that stood out. Aidan’s mother’s cancer-also in the lungs. His stepfather…

Charlie cried out in shock. Aidan Seed’s stepfather. This was it. She pulled her phone out of her bag and rang Simon. Voicemail. Shit. Where was he? He never ignored his phone; he was too neurotic. To him, each missed call was an opportunity for ever lost. It was one of the things Charlie took the piss out of him for, along with getting more calls from his mother than from anyone else.

Someone flushed the toilet in the next cubicle. Charlie waited until the gurgling of the cistern had stopped, then rang Simon again. This time she left a message. ‘Seed’s stepfather-his name’s Len Smith. He’s in an open prison, Long Leighton in Wiltshire, serving a life sentence for a murder he committed in 1982. He strangled a woman.’ Kerry had written nothing in his report about whether the woman was naked or in bed when she died, but Charlie knew. She did a quick calculation in her head. Aidan Seed had been thirty-two when The Times feature was published in 1999, which made him… fifteen in 1982.

‘Smith murdered his partner in their home,’ she told Simon. ‘I don’t need to tell you the address: 15 Megson Crescent. They lived there with Smith’s three stepkids, Aidan and his brother and sister.’ In case Simon was as full of disbelief as she was, Charlie added, ‘I’m not making this up. Aidan lived in that house until he left home. The woman Len Smith’s inside for killing-her name was Mary Trelease.’

There were photocopies of photographs from newspapers: grainy, but distinct enough for Charlie to be able to see that the Mary Trelease Len Smith had killed looked nothing like the Mary Trelease Charlie had met. Met in the same house the first Mary Trelease had lived and died in. She held the clearest of the pictures close to her face. She’d seen this woman before, but where? It wasn’t possible. The first Mary Trelease had been dead for twenty-six years. Smith was seventy-eight now, Kerry had noted. He’d been denied parole on several occasions.

Charlie was about to put her phone back in her bag when she noticed a small envelope symbol on its screen. A message. How long had it been there? How long since she’d checked? She pressed ‘1’ to play it, expecting to hear Simon’s voice, and heard, with a jolt of surprise, Ruth Bussey’s instead.