‘That was the first threat. He took great pleasure in telling me the painting didn’t even have me in it, or a murder. He said he liked titles that kept people guessing. Now does it make a bit more sense to you—him confessing to the police that he killed me? It’s part of a game he started years ago.’

Her question barely registers. My eyes have fixed on a name I wasn’t expecting to see: Saul Hansard. Saul bought one of Aidan’s paintings. Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow—they’re all there too, under the heading ‘Buyers’. Cecily Wyers also bought one of Aidan’s paintings, as did someone called Kerry Gatti (Mr).

‘You understand why Aidan wants to kill me,’ says Mary in a lifeless voice. ‘I didn’t stop painting. He did. He can’t allow that to go unpunished.’ She starts to cry. ‘I took such care to make sure he never found out. I didn’t exhibit my work, didn’t sell it—I did everything I could to keep my painting a secret, but he still found out. Thanks to you.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I know it’s not your fault.’ Her fingernails dig into my skin. ‘For years, after what he did to me, I painted nothing but him. Over and over again, from memory: how his face looked when he told me what he’d done. Each time I finished a picture of him, I destroyed it immediately and added it to the pile. My exhibition, ’ she says sadly. ‘The only one I’ll ever have.’

My heart beats as if someone’s bouncing it against the wall of my chest. I stare at the names and addresses of the people who bought Aidan’s pictures, picture I’ve never seen. If I had them in front of me, would it make anything clearer? Would they take me closer to the person Aidan really is? I try to tell myself they wouldn’t, but it’s useless. The need to see them swells inside me—a physical craving, beyond rationality. It’s obvious where I ought to start: with my friend, Saul Hansard.

I look up, catch Mary’s eye. I don’t even have to ask. She knows. She understands. ‘I’ll call you a cab,’ she says.

22 - 5/3/08

22

5/3/08

‘If we work on the assumption that Aidan Seed strangled someone—an unknown woman—in the front bedroom at 15 Megson Crescent, that means he can’t also have killed Crowther,’ said Simon. He’d been to the bar and returned with a pint for himself and one for Charlie, though she’d told him twice that she wanted a vodka and orange. ‘The methods are too different.’

‘The situations might have been different,’ she pointed out. ‘One might have been spur of the moment, one planned.’