Mary looks worse than I remember. That scored crêpe skin, the horrible woolly hair, like a knitted doll whose maker had a few balls to spare and got carried away. I want to wrench the ugly, coarse spirals out of her scalp one by one. ‘Ruth,’ she says, clutching the door with both hands, clinging to it as she pulls it back to let me in. ‘You came back.’ She’s surprised. Was she counting on my being scared for ever?

‘Where is he?’ I ask.

‘He?’

I barge past her, pushing open doors. There’s no one in any of the downstairs rooms. Only me and Mary in the hall. And the people in the paintings on the walls, the small woman with doughy skin and pointed features all bunched up in the middle of her face. In one of the pictures she’s looking in a mirror and her reflection is staring straight at me. She looks mean, as if she wants to accuse me of something.

‘Ruth?’ Mary touches my arm. ‘What’s wrong? Who are you looking for?’

‘Aidan. Where is he?’ I start to climb the stairs.

‘Aidan Seed? The man the police keep asking me about?’ Mary follows me. ‘I don’t know him.’

‘You’re lying! He was here last night. He was here last weekend. ’

‘Calm down.’ She comes towards me on the landing, tries to take hold of me.

‘Get away from me!’

‘All right. Don’t worry, I won’t touch you. Can we sit down and talk about this? I don’t understand what’s happened or what you’re accusing me of, but I promise you, Aidan’s not here.’

I turn away from her and give the door behind me a hard shove, smacking it against a wall. The bathroom. Tiny. No Aidan. Above the lavatory there’s an airing cupboard. I start to pull out towels, sheets, pillowcases. Soon it’s empty.

Nothing.

‘Where is he?’ I say again.

‘He’s not here, Ruth. Let’s go downstairs and talk. I was hoping you might have brought me something.’ She mimes writing.

My eyes move to the next door, the one she’s blocking with her body. ‘Get out of the way. He’s in there, isn’t he? With all the paintings.’

Her smile dips, pulls into a tight line. ‘Your Aidan Seed isn’t here. I can see you’re not going to believe me until you’ve checked for yourself. Go ahead, be my guest. I’ll be downstairs, when you’re ready to talk.’

Once she’s gone, I start to search the rooms. In her bedroom, I empty drawers and a wardrobe, not bothering to put anything back. I look under the bed, behind the mould-spotted curtains. Aidan isn’t there. Nor are his clothes or any of his possessions.

A voice in my head whispers: What if you’re wrong?