While Jan made the drinks, she pulled an information sheet out of a plastic rack near the door and read about the paper dolls exhibition. It was called ‘Under Skin’. The dolls weren’t cut out of coloured paper, as Charlie had assumed, but out of pages from road atlases which were then stuck together and ‘encased in watercolours’ so that each row looked like a continous, uncut piece of paper. How long must it have taken, Charlie wondered, and what was the point of it, apart from to show that appearances could deceive? Big deal. Did anyone need something so obvious pointing out to them?

Jan appeared from the back of the gallery with two tall china mugs. ‘Right, fire away,’ she said, handing Charlie her drink.

‘Are you familiar with the work of an artist called Mary Trelease? ’

The smile on Jan’s face instantly became strained. ‘Not in touch any more,’ she said.

‘I just wondered . . . I’ve seen some of Mary’s paintings and—’

‘You’ve seen Mary’s work? Where?’

‘At her house.’

Jan laughed. ‘She let you in and showed you her pictures? So I’m guessing you’re her closest friend, if not her only friend.’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Charlie smiled and took refuge in her cup of tea. ‘I hardly know her. I’ve met her once, that’s it. I went to see her about something else.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the Mary Trelease I know, letting a stranger see her paintings. She hates anyone to see her work. She won’t sell it, won’t exhibit, won’t promote herself in any way.’

‘How do you know her?’ Charlie asked.

‘Why do you want to know, if you don’t mind my asking? What did you say your name was again?’

Charlie decided she’d better be frank. She told Jan her name, and that she was with the Culver Valley Police. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so used to firing off questions. I forget that when I’m out of uniform, I need to persuade people to answer me instead of ordering them to.’

‘Mary lives in the Culver Valley,’ said Jan, her eyes sharp. ‘Is your interest in her professional or personal?’

Charlie sipped her tea, and considered carefully before answering. ‘Today’s a day off for me,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose I’d have to say personal, though I first heard Mary’s name when someone—’ She broke off. ‘I’m afraid that, because there is a police angle to this—or, rather, because there might be—I can’t tell you too much.’

‘You said you went to see Mary about something else . . .’ Jan stopped, seeing Charlie’s expression. ‘That’s part of what you can’t tell me, right?’

‘’Fraid so. Look, as I say, I’m here as an interested visitor, not as a cop. There’s really no reason why you should tell me anything. ’