‘Liv’s trying to help, Simon.’ To her sister, Charlie said, ‘A connection between Martha Wyers and Mary Trelease doesn’t really help us. If we need one, we’ve got it already: they both went to Villiers School. They were contemporaries there.’

Olivia looked angry, then puzzled. Then she laughed. ‘You both seem to be assuming that the young visual artist The Times chose was Mary Trelease.’

Simon moved towards her, ready to snatch the papers she was holding from her hand. ‘Was it or wasn’t it?’

‘No, as a matter of fact.’

Charlie pursed her lips. ‘Liv, whatever you’re . . .’

‘We’ve pissed about enough here already,’ Simon called over his shoulder, halfway to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

‘It was Aidan Seed,’ said Olivia, holding the printed-out article for Charlie to take. ‘Now do you want to see this? Yes,’ her face set in a hard smile as she watched Simon’s about-turn, ‘I thought you might.’

15 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

15

Wednesday 5 March 2008

‘When did Gemma die?’ I ask.

‘The police wouldn’t tell me much, but from the questions they asked, it must have been Monday night,’ says Mary. ‘They wanted to know my movements.’ She walks over to the window, opens it, flicks ash out. The cows are still moaning in the fields, as if they’re in pain.

Forty-eight hours ago, Gemma was alive.

‘Why did the police speak to you?’

Mary tucks her hair behind her ears. It springs back, like dark thunderclouds enveloping her thin face. ‘I didn’t believe Charlotte Zailer when she told me you were Aidan’s girlfriend. I thought, no. Can’t be. When I had it confirmed by First Call, my heart nearly stopped. Once I’d got myself together, I drove to Aidan’s workshop, waited outside in my car. A bit later, Zailer turned up with another cop I recognised—DC Waterhouse. He’d been round to see me on Saturday, also about Aidan. The two of them went inside.’

‘I was there,’ I tell her.

‘They stayed for a while, then left, except Waterhouse didn’t go far. He sat in his car and waited at the top of the road. A few minutes later, Aidan came out, got into his car and drove away. Waterhouse followed him, and I followed Waterhouse. The three of us drove to London in convoy. To Muswell Hill.’ She watches me for a reaction. ‘I started to have a feeling, then, that I knew where he was going, except it made no sense.’

‘Where?’ I ask, breathless. All those times Aidan was away, when he told me he’d been in Manchester, working for Jeanette Golenya. Lies, every time.

‘I knew Stephen Elton and Gemma Crowther had been paroled. My First Call guy—he’s thorough. He’d given me their new address, details of their new jobs . . .’

‘What jobs?’

Mary frowns. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’