‘Did they start quite so young in those days?’ said Charlie glumly.

‘Mary Trelease bought 15 Megson Crescent only two years ago. Who else has lived in that house? Who’s died there?’

Charlie stared at him. ‘Bloody hell,’ she murmured.

‘We’ve been focusing on the name instead of the other details. Like the house.’

‘But . . .’ Charlie was shaking her head. ‘Why offer a full confession—complete with an address, a description of the scene, the method of killing—and lie about the victim?’

‘I can’t answer that. Yet,’ said Simon. ‘It might not be as crazy as it seems, though. Some truth, some fiction: that’s the mixture that makes for the best lies. Mary Trelease’s death is the fictional part. She’s alive—we know that.’

‘And the true part . . .’ Much as Charlie would have liked to laugh at his theory, she couldn’t help wondering if there might be something in it. There wasn’t a bed in the front bedroom of 15 Megson Crescent now, but before Mary moved in there might well have been. Most people put beds in their bedrooms.

‘Aidan Seed killed someone in that house,’ said Simon. ‘Someone who used to live there. Years ago—just like he told Ruth Bussey.’

21 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

21

Wednesday 5 March 2008

‘Aidan and I used to paint in this room,’ says Mary. ‘Together. For hours at a time, without speaking. After Martha died, I had a key cut for him, for the cottage. He often stayed overnight.’ She turns to me. ‘He slept in the spare room, where you slept last night.’

I make sure to keep my face neutral. There’s something I don’t feel quite right about in this room, but I’m not sure what it is. I stare at the pile of ruined paintings in front of me, barely able to believe it’s real.

‘Do you mind that I didn’t tell you?’ It dawns on me that Mary is talking about Aidan, the spare bed. ‘It’s only a room. I don’t believe rooms retain memories of the past. There’s no such thing as an atmosphere—it’s in people’s minds, like everything of any interest.’

‘You had a key cut for Aidan?’ Suddenly, it seems important to check all the facts. ‘But it’s not your cottage. You don’t own it.’

Mary shrugs this off. ‘So? I’m the one who uses it.’

‘How did Martha’s mother feel about Aidan staying here?’ If I had a daughter who’d hanged herself after being treated badly by a man, I’d want him nowhere near me or any house of mine.

If I’d watched my best friend hang herself, or my lover, or ex-lover, the last thing I’d want is to spend any time at all in the room where it happened.

‘I didn’t tell Cecily,’ says Mary. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’