Jan dropped the rose she’d been holding, pinched the skin of her neck between her thumb and index finger. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘Of course you are. Stupid question. I couldn’t tell you any of the names now, apart from Aidan’s. I didn’t keep the whole piece, only the bits about Aidan and TiqTaq. I keep anything and everything relating to my exhibitions.’

‘Yesterday, you mentioned Aidan’s private view,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s like a private party for the friends and family of the artist, is it?’

‘And of the gallery. Collectors, critics, other gallery owners. We all like to impress . . . Yes.’ Jan stopped. ‘You’re right.’

Charlie had a feeling the question she’d been about to ask would prove unnecessary.

‘A couple of them came to Aidan’s private view, a couple of the future famous five. I remember him mentioning it. I’m not sure how pleased he was.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘There’d been some kind of contretemps when they got together to have their photo taken. I don’t think I ever knew all the details, but it was something to do with one or more of them calling Aidan pretentious. Which he wasn’t,’ said Jan defensively. ‘He could be too intense and earnest at times, but there wasn’t a grain of pretence about him.’

‘So Martha Wyers might have been there, at Aidan’s private view?’

Jan shrugged.

‘Could Mary Trelease have been there too?’

‘I suppose she might have been. It was a bit of a blur that night—private views always are. I was madly busy and the place was packed. I don’t remember individuals, only a big crowd of people, almost too big to squeeze in.’

‘Did anything happen that struck you as out of the ordinary? ’ Charlie asked. ‘Anything at all?’

‘I don’t think so. Two punters had a fairly predictable row about whether to buy a picture or not. A mother and daughter, I think. That’s right, yes. I remember thinking I wouldn’t have dared tell my mother how to spend her money, God rest her soul. It’s amazing how tactless people can be—tussling in front of the artist like that. “It’s not worth two thousand quid!” “Well, I think it is!” Usually I keep schtum, but on that occasion I butted in and told the daughter she was crazy.’

It didn’t sound crazy to Charlie. Two thousand quid? Was there any reason for art to be so expensive?

‘I don’t mind if people genuinely can’t afford it,’ said Jan. ‘But in this case, it wasn’t about money. The daughter said the paintings were cold and unforgiving, that they had a “rotten soul”—I’ve never forgotten that. She was talking nonsense, and her mother looked upset by it, so I gave her a piece of my mind. Thank goodness Aidan didn’t hear her.’