‘Who are they all?’ Charlie asked.

‘The people in the pictures? Neighbours, mostly, or people who used to live round here. The Winstanley estate collection.’ Mary’s smile was like a sneer, directed at herself. She nodded at the portraits stacked against the opposite wall. ‘I couldn’t tell you most of those people’s names now—I paid them, they sat for me, that was it.’

Charlie looked again at the faces, to see if she recognised anyone she’d ever arrested.

‘You’re wondering why I’d choose to paint strangers who mean nothing to me,’ said Mary, though Charlie hadn’t been. ‘Painting people you care about is like offering yourself an emotional breakdown. I avoid it if I can, though it’s not always possible. Sometimes a compulsion takes hold and you have to suffer the consequences.’

Charlie saw the tension in her posture as she spoke, the way she hunched herself together so that her body became more compact.

‘If you had to paint a portrait, who would you choose? Your fiancé?’ Mary was looking at Charlie’s hand. ‘I saw the ring.’

‘I really don’t know.’ Charlie felt her skin heat up. No way could she paint Simon; it would be too intimate, too close. He’d never let her. He’d ended up staying the night on Saturday, after the party; he and Charlie had slept side by side, but they hadn’t kissed or touched. The hug he’d given her downstairs—that had been it in terms of physical contact. Still, Charlie was pleased. She’d never been able to persuade him to stay the night before. It was progress.

‘Definitely not your fiancé,’ said Mary. ‘So either you don’t care enough about him to bother, in which case I’d call off the engagement, or you know what I’m talking about: like offering yourself a breakdown.’

‘You said pretty much all your pictures were here,’ Charlie changed the subject. ‘Where are the rest, if you never sell your work?’

‘Ruth Bussey’s got one. I gave it to her as a present.’ A smile played around Mary’s lips. ‘Remember the sempervivum I showed you outside?’

Charlie didn’t. Then she realised Mary was talking about the rubbery green rose sticking out of the wall.

‘Ruth told me it was called that. I didn’t know. I don’t know any plant names. My experience of gardening is limited. I completely ruined a garden once and decided to leave it at that. After I gave Ruth the painting—I hadn’t given anybody a present in a long time and it felt strange—but I thought to myself, she’s given me a present too. That name: sempervivum. Live for ever, live always—that’s what it means.’

‘You aren’t in the habit of giving presents?’ Charlie asked gently. There was a story here, and she found herself wanting to know what it was. Where was the garden Mary had mentioned? Where did she live before Megson Crescent?

‘No presents,’ said Mary. ‘I’m not giving you a picture for free, and I won’t sell you one. I only gave Ruth one as a form of apology.’