The woman went to the table and lifted a bent business card. ‘He’s more likely to answer in the evenings.’

Jenny took the card. ‘Thanks.’

Back at the door, she turned. ‘It was a friend of mine suggested this place. Liam Hook?’

The woman nodded in acknowledgement.

Jenny waved along the corridor. ‘Which one is his, out of interest?’

The woman pointed with her chin. ‘Last one down the other end.’

‘Thanks.’

And the door closed.

Jenny walked to Liam’s studio, knocked, nothing. She looked around then stepped back and kicked her boot against the handle. The door juddered in the frame. She booted it again and again, pausing after each time to look along the corridor. Then a fourth kick and the wood of the frame splintered around the lock. Two more hefty boots and the door swung open. She looked around then went in.

The room was full of large canvases, racks of them stacked against the walls, two on easels in the middle of the room, another two laid flat on the floor. There was a table full of paints and brushes along one wall, a sink and draining board covered in paint splatters, cups and jars, dirty rags and towels. Jenny approached the easels. The paintings were six feet by four, swirling abstracts with recognisable elements, skulls and flowers, spines intertwined with vines, animal body parts intermingled with tree roots, soil and earth. She touched a canvas in the corner, rubbed her thumb against the material. She wandered round, soaking it in. The two on the floor were similar, brighter, more blooms and petals blending into hair and fur. She flicked through the stacked canvases, more of the same, strong shapes disappearing into shimmering backgrounds.

She walked round the sink and table, inhaling the turps and paint fumes which reminded her of DIY, doing up the flat in 133Porty with Craig before Hannah was born, sheets covering the floorboards, the pair of them full of optimism.

She returned to the pictures in the middle of the room. They were very good. She looked around. There was nothing in here but painting equipment, no desk or drawers, no laptop, nothing perverse. So this was it, his dirty secret was that he was a talented artist? It didn’t make sense. She looked at the damaged door, sucked in the paint smell one last time, then turned and left.

134

25

HANNAH

She stared at the name on his door. ‘Longhorn’ made her think of someone boasting about his big dick, and she tried to shake an image of a naked Peter Longhorn, massive penis hanging down to his knees.

She knocked on the door, no answer. She knocked again just in case, cleared her throat. She tried the handle and the door opened. She breathed then went inside and closed the door behind her.