‘I don’t.’ Mary’s face turned blank. As if she’d been expecting trouble and now it had arrived. ‘I never sell my work. Ever.’

‘But . . . so . . .?’

‘You mean why. That’s what you want to ask me: why? If that’s what you want to ask, ask.’

‘I was actually thinking more . . . are all your pictures here, then? In this house?’

There was a long pause before Mary said, ‘Pretty much.’

‘Wow. How long have you been painting?’

‘I started in 2000.’

‘Professionally, you mean? What about as a child?’

‘No,’ said Mary. ‘I never painted or drew as a child. Apart from when I had to, at school.’

Of course not professionally; painters who sold none of their work couldn’t be called professional. I should be asking different questions, thought Charlie. I should be asking about Aidan Seed and Ruth Bussey, and then I should be going to work. Why aren’t I?

She knew the answer, but it was a few seconds before she was willing to admit it to herself: because now she too was . . . scared would have been putting it too strongly, but something about 15 Megson Crescent and its occupant unsettled her. Perhaps it was nothing more than a bad atmosphere in the house, the result of years of neglect. Whatever it was, Charlie couldn’t allow herself to give in to the urge to get the hell out as quickly as possible.

‘I said you could see my paintings, not grill me about them,’ said Mary. ‘If you’re not careful I’ll change my mind. I don’t normally show my work to anybody.’

‘Why me, then?’

Mary nodded. ‘It’s a good question.’ She smiled, as if she knew the answer but wasn’t about to divulge it. ‘Come on. Most of the pictures are upstairs.’

Charlie followed her into a narrow hall which was as unattractive as the kitchen. The carpet had rotted away from the walls on both sides, and was patterned with red and brown swirls, apart from near the front door where it was black. The wallpaper had half peeled off the walls. It was dark beige with a few lighter streaks and patches; it might have been magnolia at one time. A small, low radiator had lost most of its dirty-grey chipped paint. Charlie stopped to look at the painting above it of a fat man, a woman and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen sitting round a small table. Only the boy was fully dressed; the other two were in dressing-gowns. The woman was small and slender with sharp, close-set features. She was shielding her eyes with her hands and looking down. Her posture suggested a headache. No, a hangover—there were empty bottles all over the table. A morning-after-a-heavy-night scene, Charlie guessed.

At the foot of the stairs was another picture of the same man and woman, this time without the boy. The woman was combing her hair in front of a mirror, wearing a strappy white nightie. Behind her, the fat man lay on a bed reading a tabloid newspaper.