That I didn’t understand no longer mattered to me. Aidan didn’t either; I could see that clearly, from the way the frown-lines on his forehead deepened as he listened to what I had to say. When he’s worked it all out, he’ll tell me, I thought. At least now he seemed to believe me. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Mary Trelease was alive.

Aidan said nothing in the taxi on the way to King’s Cross. Neither of us mentioned the Gloria Stetbay painting. Four thousand pounds, and it would probably be found by a maid and thrown in the bin. I should have gone back for it—I can see that now; it was criminal not to—but at the time I didn’t feel entitled to go back and claim it as my own, not once Aidan had decided to leave it in the hotel.

On the train, forty minutes into the journey, he finally spoke. ‘When we get back, we’ll go to mine to pick up a few things and then we’ll go to yours,’ he said. ‘I’m moving in with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight from now on.’ He said it as if he was passing sentence, suggesting something that would be unwelcome to me—a punishment—instead of what I’d wanted to happen since the day I met him.

‘Good.’ I searched his face for an indication of his meaning. Was he worried about me and wanting to stay close to protect me? Did he think Mary Trelease was a danger to us? Or was it a lack of trust that made him feel he had to watch my every move?

Did he regret not having killed Mary, now that he knew he hadn’t?

I had no way of answering any of these questions. ‘I’d love it if you moved in,’ I said.

But my punishment wasn’t over yet. Aidan said, ‘I’ll need that proof you promised me. If the painting you’re talking about really exists, if you didn’t make it up, find it. Find it and bring it to me.’

8 - 4/3/08

8

4/3/08

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.