‘I think the tea and cake would have been more like cheap cider and smack, sir,’ said Charlie.
‘We’re getting sidetracked,’ said Simon. ‘Of course Smith isn’t going to tell the truth: that he ruined his stepson’s life, then brought in a woman who’d already been judged unfit to be around children to ruin it a bit more. Smith might have loved Seed—he might have needed him as a comfort blanket—but that need placed Seed directly in the path of Mary Trelease, and he knows it. Night after night, she’d wait until Smith was out of it and force herself on Seed. Eventually, he got so desperate that he closed his hands around her throat and put a stop to it once and for all, for which I don’t at all blame him, and what was Smith doing when that happened? Sleeping off a bottle of whisky at the far edge of the mattress, drooling onto his sweat-soaked pillow? Do you think anyone’d want to tell that story about themselves? Smith’s going to cling on to his lie for dear life, whatever he thinks Seed might or might not want him to do.’
‘Which is why we find ourselves in a predicament,’ said Proust, righting his empty mug. He knew exactly how pleased everyone was that the knocking noise had stopped; Simon could see it on his face. ‘Thank you, Waterhouse, for defining things so clearly. Len Smith will cling to his story. Aidan Seed, as soon as he’s strong enough to do any clinging, will doubtless cling to his, and the CPS will cling with equal ardour to their right to finish work on the dot of three o’clock, after which time they get a nosebleed if they remain at their desks, as we all know.’
‘Have you told him about the painting?’ Charlie asked Sam.
‘I wouldn’t rely on Sergeant Kombothekra to transmit information if I were you. Considerable time and energy could have been saved if his initial searches, which he assured me were exhaustive, though perhaps he meant exhaust
ing
, had brought to light a twenty-six-year-old murder.’
‘I was looking in unsolveds, sir,’ said Kombothekra. ‘There’s no database of victims’ names. How was I supposed to . . .?’
‘What’s this about a painting?’ Proust asked Charlie.
Simon swallowed a sigh. Hopeless; why was she even bothering?
‘I don’t know it exists, sir, but if it does, it might help to clarify things.’
‘I see,’ said the Snowman, wanting her to see he was sickened by what he’d heard. His sickened look was similar to his despicable traitor look; one suggested disgust provoked by stupidity and the other disgust inspired by treachery, but that was the only difference. ‘So we’re in the realm of rubbing lamps and waiting for genies to appear, are we?’
‘Aidan Seed painted a picture called
The Murder of Mary Trelease
. Martha Wyers destroyed it along with all his others, so obviously we don’t know what it depicted, but Ruth Bussey thinks there was something significant in it, and I’m inclined to agree with her. There must have been something, so that when Wyers found out from Kerry Gatti that Aidan’s stepfather was banged up for killing a Mary Trelease, she thought she knew that he hadn’t. Seed isn’t yet strong enough to answer all our questions, and I’m not sure when he will be, but . . .’
Charlie paused; looked at Simon. He nodded. She’d got this far—might as well let the Snowman hear the rest.
‘After Trelease destroyed all Aidan’s pictures from the TiqTaq exhibition, she painted her own versions of them.’
‘We’ve found seventeen of these in her house,’ Kombothekra chipped in. ‘Only one’s missing. You can guess which.’
‘I’m almost certain that once Mary—sorry, once
Martha
realised that one of the pictures she’d destroyed was possible proof that Aidan had committed a murder, she immediately painted a version of that picture herself, from memory. Why wouldn’t she? She painted copies of the other seventeen pictures from his TiqTaq show.’ Charlie paused for breath before saying, ‘Ruth Bussey agrees with me, sir.’
‘Well, then.’ Proust’s voice was granite. ‘What more could I hope for in the way of verification?’
‘Sir, if we can find that picture, maybe show it to Len Smith . . . I mean, I know a painting doesn’t exactly prove anything, but we could maybe use it as leverage, to get him to talk . . .’
‘Remember when you and I sat in a noisy café in town, sergeant, and you told me you weren’t good enough for CID? I’m inclined to agree. I wasn’t then, but I am now. You’re talking about a painting that might not exist. Have you asked Martha Wyers’ parents about it?’
‘They couldn’t help us, sir,’ said Kombothekra.
Cecily and Egan Wyers were embarrassed by everything to do with their daughter’s paintings, which they’d already decided to sell as a job lot as soon as a decent amount of time had elapsed. Simon found that shocking, no matter what Martha had done. The word Mr and Mrs Wyers had used most often in connection with their daughter since her death was ‘mortified’. Egan Wyers, in particular, was furious that Martha had enlisted the help of his domestic staff in order to get her hands on the paintings from Aidan’s exhibition, and bought their silence afterwards with money he’d given her. He appeared to be angrier about that than about the murder Martha had committed. Every time his wife shed tears over the death of her only child, he shouted at her that there was no point, that nothing could be done about it now.
‘There’s no picture that fits the bill at Garstead Cottage,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Or at Villiers. I spoke to Richard Bedell, the deputy head, who as good as told me that even if the school did have any paintings by Martha Wyers, which they don’t, they’d be binning them round about now. I got a pretty heated earful from Bedell about how the Wyers family had done unimaginable damage to the school’s reputation. Apparently Martha used to wander round the grounds crying and accosting girls, telling them she’d died and come back to life. A lot of the pupils found it scary, and others became so obsessed with Villiers’ own resident loony that it distracted them from their work. There was nothing the school could do, though, because of the Wyers’ generous sponsorship. They had to let Martha have the cottage.’
‘Their greed was their downfall,’ said Proust. ‘I’m not going to lose sleep on their behalf. Villiers is still standing and still rich. The same can’t be said for Martha-Mary-Wyers-Trelease or whatever her names were.’ Seeing the others looking at him oddly, he added with relish, ‘And I won’t be losing sleep for her either. Now, do we have any other ideas about how to proceed? Ones that don’t involve us relying on the rumour of a copy of a painting?’
‘What if we could persuade Seed to go and see Smith in prison?’ said Kombothekra.
‘Absolutely not.’ Simon turned to Charlie, sure of her support until he saw her face. ‘Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea?’ he said. ‘After what that evil bastard put him through, we’re going to persuade him to pop in for a chat?’
‘It might be good for Aidan to see Smith face to face,’ said Charlie. ‘To tell him the truth and ask him to tell the truth. Look where lies and avoidance have got him. Ruth Bussey’s certainly in favour of having everything out in the open—he might listen to her, even if he’s reluctant at first. Why don’t we explain the problem to Aidan instead of trying to protect him as if he’s a kid?’
‘And if he can’t talk Smith into telling the truth? Then he feels like a failure on top of everything else he’s had to go through, and it’s our fault.’
‘I think it’s a reasonable idea,’ said Proust. He’d avoided the word ‘good’, reluctant to pollute Kombothekra’s mind with praise. ‘Don’t worry, Waterhouse. It won’t be down to you to do the persuading. I think Sergeant Zailer might manage that without your clodhopping assistance.’
‘I don’t work for you any more, sir. I work for—’
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘If it’s got to be done, I’ll do it. I know I’m not . . .’ He paused.
‘The list is endless, isn’t it?’ said Proust. ‘The list of what you’re not. Top of it is this: you’re not going to be concerning yourself with Aidan Seed from hereon in.’ Proust opened his desk drawer, pulled out what looked like a large book. Except it wasn’t. It was . . . oh, shit, it couldn’t be . . .
‘Yes, Waterhouse. Brand new, with shiny cover and unbroken spine. The Automobile Association’s latest road atlas of Great Britain. I bought it with a ten-pound note I found in the bin by the photocopier shortly after our last tête-à-tête.’
‘Sir, you can’t . . .’
‘There are two categories of people in this world, Waterhouse: those who admit to the mistakes they’ve made and attempt to compensate, and those who correct them retrospectively in their own minds by pretending they never happened. If something succeeds, they were behind it all the time. If it fails, they never supported it in the first place.’ Proust leaned back and folded his arms across his belly. ‘I like to think I belong in the first category. If I get something wrong, I put my name to it and do my best to atone for my mistake.’
Simon, Charlie and Sam Kombothekra stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘On this occasion, I’m pleased to say I couldn’t have behaved better and therefore have nothing to atone for,’ the Snowman went on. ‘Whatever our colleagues in London had to say about you, Waterhouse, I stuck resolutely to the view that you were reliable and would be proved to be so. While others doubted, I always knew you’d be back here where you belong. How would it have looked if you’d returned to discover that I’d reassigned Mrs Beddoes and her multifarious misdemeanours to Sellers or Gibbs? I did no such thing. I fought off many attempts, on the part of colleagues who shall remain nameless . . .’—Proust scowled at Kombothekra—‘. . . to purloin work that was rightfully yours. You all know I have my faults, but I’m happy to say disloyalty isn’t among them.’
He held out the road atlas for Simon to take. ‘Happy travels, Waterhouse. May the prevailing winds be with you.’
29
Tuesday 1 April 2008
‘Do you think he’s all right in there?’ I ask Saul for about the twentieth time. We’re in Sam Kombothekra’s car in the car park at Long Leighton prison, waiting for Aidan, Charlie and Sam to come out.
‘I think he’s more than all right,’ Saul says, as he has twenty times already. ‘What about you? Can you face what might happen? ’
‘If Aidan can, I can.’ Yesterday I donated my entire collection of self-help books to Word on the Street, where I’d bought most of them. This morning I took down my Charlie Zailer wall. None of that was real. The progress Aidan and I have made since that night at Garstead Cottage—that’s real. Substantial.
Saul pats my hand. ‘I’m going to tell you something Aidan made me promise not to,’ he says.
‘What?’ My heart dips. ‘We agreed no more secrets. When did he . . .?’
‘He’s going to ask you to marry him. Later today, whatever happens in there. He’s got an engagement ring in his pocket. What will you say?’
I feel faint with relief. ‘Yes. Obviously.’
‘Good. I knew that would be your answer.’
‘Then why tell me and spoil the surprise?’
‘There have been enough surprises already,’ said Saul. ‘With any luck, there won’t be any more for a good long while.’
I open the car door, seeing Charlie walking towards us across the car park. Something’s not right. She’s looking purposeful, walking too quickly. ‘I need you both to come inside,’ she says.
‘I don’t want to see him,’ I tell her, panicking. ‘Aidan doesn’t want me to . . .’
‘You won’t see Len Smith. You’ll be nowhere near him.’
‘Is Aidan all right?’
‘He’s doing fine. He’s doing brilliantly.’
‘Then what . . .?’
‘It’s better if I show you. I’m assuming neither of you’s got your passport or driving licence with you.’
‘No.’
Saul shakes his head.
‘Then leave everything in the car—wallets, bags, the lot.’
‘But . . .’
‘Be quiet and listen. Until we get back here, your names are Tom Southwell and Jessica Whiteley. You’re both here for a job interview—English teacher, education department. You handed over your passports this morning—they’ve got them—and you’ve just nipped out for lunch. Right?’
I’m about to tell her I can’t do it when I hear Saul say, ‘Right.’ I make a face at him behind Charlie’s back, but he doesn’t notice. He’s busy mouthing, ‘Tom Southwell’ to himself.
When we reach the glass-sided hut that’s set into the high wire-mesh fence, Charlie says her name with confidence, for our benefit as well as that of the uniformed guard inside. ‘You’ve got my ID already. There I am.’ She points to her name on his list. ‘Oh, it wasn’t you before, was it? Sorry.’
‘No probs.’
‘Same with us,’ says Saul easily. ‘Tom Southwell and Jessica Whiteley.’
‘In you come,’ says the guard. He has to unlock three gates for us. Charlie tells him we know where we’re going and he leaves us to it.
‘Where
are
we going?’ I ask.
‘Patience, Ruth,’ says Saul. I give him a look. He’s the one who’s supposed to dislike surprises; he’s all talk.
‘To the education department,’ says Charlie.
‘I don’t want to teach English in a prison,’ I tell her. ‘What’s going on?’
Eventually, we come to a wide corridor with green-painted walls. I think of the last time I followed Charlie down. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like that one, this one has pictures on the walls, the prisoners’ artwork, some of it excellent. Charlie stops in front of a picture, and when I look at it, my heart surges up to fill my throat.
‘Her,’ I say, feeling the same horror I’d feel if she were to materialise in front of me, back from the dead. I’d recognise her style anywhere. I recognise the picture, too, from Aidan’s description.
‘We were right,’ says Charlie. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock, but you had to see it. I couldn’t not show it to you. We were right, and my boss was wrong. Ex-boss,’ she corrects herself.
‘
The Murder of Mary Trelease
,’ I say. ‘So she did do a copy. But . . . how did it get to be . . .?’