‘. . . 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.’
9
Tuesday 4 March 2008
It’s four o’clock, and I’m finally ready.
I’ve spent the day going through every file and piece of paper at Seed Art Services. I started at six in the morning; I locked the door, pushed both bolts across and sat in the hall with the lights off, using a torch I’d brought from home, so that the workshop would appear empty to passers-by. There were a few knocks at the door, people calling my name and Aidan’s, but I hardly heard them.
Aidan keeps meticulous records, and once I was satisfied I had a full list, I phoned each of his business contacts and asked them if Aidan was with them, or had been yesterday evening and overnight. They all said no.
Aidan has two friends that I know of. One, Jim Mair, lives in Nottingham. Aidan told me he works for the Citizens Advice Bureau. The other is David Booth, Aidan’s best friend from school, whom I’ve met several times. He works at a brewery in Rawndesley. I believed him when he told me he hadn’t seen Aidan since a bit before Christmas last year.
It took me a while to track down Jim Mair. When I did, he sounded puzzled that I should even have thought to try him. He hadn’t seen Aidan for nearly ten years, he said.
Aidan’s parents are both dead, and he drifted out of touch with his stepfather a long time ago. He has a brother and a sister, seven and nine years older than him respectively, with whom he exchanges Christmas cards every year, though he speaks to neither of them. I found their details in his address book and rang both to ask if Aidan was with them. Both said no and sounded alarmed by the suggestion that he might be.
I am not disheartened. I knew I would find him in none of these places, with none of these people, and always expected that I would have to take the next step.
For the second time, I am about to set off to 15 Megson Crescent. I’m not scared any more, neither of Mary nor of finding Aidan there. It will be almost comforting to have my worst fears confirmed, as I know they will be. A conspiracy: the hardest thing of all to forgive; conspirators who don’t care if you forgive them because they don’t care about you and never did.
Because there’s only one way that any of this makes sense: if Aidan and Mary are working together to drive me out of my mind.
I lock the workshop. As I pull my car keys out of my pocket, a scrap of paper falls to the ground: Charlie Zailer’s mobile phone number. I asked her for it last night; she looked as if she was going to say no at first. I pick it up, feeling guilty for ignoring her advice:
Don’t go to Mary’s house.
I drive along the Silsford road, under the overhanging trees that lean in on both sides to meet in the middle—a tunnel of lush foliage. Where I am now it’s beautiful, but soon the trees will thin out, the road surface will deteriorate, and I’ll see grimy squat houses that make my lodge house look enormous. A little further on I’ll pass the primary school that’s made of grey-green concrete and looks like a prison block, and Bob’s Bargain Centre on the corner of the street that leads to the Winstanley estate.
Last time, I drove so slowly I must have looked like a kerbcrawler—anything to put it off. Today I slam my foot down on the gas. I want to get it over with.
Her house hasn’t changed. Aidan’s car isn’t parked outside, or anywhere else on Megson Crescent. I bang on the door. ‘Open up!’
Mary looks worse than I remember. That scored crêpe skin, the horrible woolly hair, like a knitted doll whose maker had a few balls to spare and got carried away. I want to wrench the ugly, coarse spirals out of her scalp one by one. ‘Ruth,’ she says, clutching the door with both hands, clinging to it as she pulls it back to let me in. ‘You came back.’ She’s surprised. Was she counting on my being scared for ever?
‘Where is he?’ I ask.
‘He?’
I barge past her, pushing open doors. There’s no one in any of the downstairs rooms. Only me and Mary in the hall. And the people in the paintings on the walls, the small woman with doughy skin and pointed features all bunched up in the middle of her face. In one of the pictures she’s looking in a mirror and her reflection is staring straight at me. She looks mean, as if she wants to accuse me of something.
‘Ruth?’ Mary touches my arm. ‘What’s wrong? Who are you looking for?’
‘Aidan. Where is he?’ I start to climb the stairs.
‘Aidan Seed? The man the police keep asking me about?’ Mary follows me. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘You’re lying! He was here last night. He was here last weekend. ’
‘Calm down.’ She comes towards me on the landing, tries to take hold of me.
‘Get away from me!’
‘All right. Don’t worry, I won’t touch you. Can we sit down and talk about this? I don’t understand what’s happened or what you’re accusing me of, but I promise you, Aidan’s not here.’
I turn away from her and give the door behind me a hard shove, smacking it against a wall. The bathroom. Tiny. No Aidan. Above the lavatory there’s an airing cupboard. I start to pull out towels, sheets, pillowcases. Soon it’s empty.
Nothing.
‘Where is he?’ I say again.
‘He’s not here, Ruth. Let’s go downstairs and talk. I was hoping you might have brought me something.’ She mimes writing.
My eyes move to the next door, the one she’s blocking with her body. ‘Get out of the way. He’s in there, isn’t he? With all the paintings.’
Her smile dips, pulls into a tight line. ‘Your Aidan Seed isn’t here. I can see you’re not going to believe me until you’ve checked for yourself. Go ahead, be my guest. I’ll be downstairs, when you’re ready to talk.’
Once she’s gone, I start to search the rooms. In her bedroom, I empty drawers and a wardrobe, not bothering to put anything back. I look under the bed, behind the mould-spotted curtains. Aidan isn’t there. Nor are his clothes or any of his possessions.
A voice in my head whispers:
What if you’re wrong?
The second door won’t open all the way. The room is too full of Mary’s pictures. Carefully, I manoeuvre myself in. There’s a pounding sound coming from downstairs: music. I hear the word ‘survivor’ shouted once, twice. The smell of smoke drifts up to me. I know she’s in the kitchen with a cigarette in her hand, waiting for me to admit defeat.
If a person wanted to hide in this house, this is the place they’d pick. One by one, I drag the canvases through to the other room, Mary’s bedroom. She must be able to hear what I’m doing, but she doesn’t try to stop me. Before long, the room is full. Canvases are piled up on the bed, leaning against it on every side. I’ve used up every inch of space, yet the front bedroom is still far from empty. I’ll have to start putting things in the bathroom.
My arms ache, but I can’t allow myself to give up, even though I know by now that I won’t find Aidan here.
I stop when I see a word I recognise. It’s been written in black marker pen on the back of an unframed picture: BLANDFORD.
Abberton
,
Blandford
,
Darville
,
Elstow
,
Goundry
. . .
Hardly daring to touch it, I force myself to turn the canvas round. A chill spreads through me. It’s unfinished, but Mary has done enough work on it to make it instantly familiar. An outline of a person—again, one that could be male or female. Head and shoulders only this time, and nothing inside the black line, not yet. Behind the figure, part of the background has been painted in: a bedroom. This one, the one I’m standing in—Mary’s picture room. The curtains and wallpaper are the same, though there are no piles of pictures in the painted version. Instead, there’s a double bed with a chair next to it. On the chair, there’s a glass ashtray with a hand holding a cigarette over it, the ash waiting to drop.