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.