Sophie Hannah - The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

‘After Trelease destroyed all Aidan’s pictures from the TiqTaq exhibition, she painted her own versions of them.’

‘We’ve found seventeen of these in her house,’ Kombothekra chipped in. ‘Only one’s missing. You can guess which.’

‘I’m almost certain that once Mary-sorry, once Martha realised that one of the pictures she’d destroyed was possible proof that Aidan had committed a murder, she immediately painted a version of that picture herself, from memory. Why wouldn’t she? She painted copies of the other seventeen pictures from his TiqTaq show.’ Charlie paused for breath before saying, ‘Ruth Bussey agrees with me, sir.’

‘Well, then.’ Proust’s voice was granite. ‘What more could I hope for in the way of verification?’

‘Sir, if we can find that picture, maybe show it to Len Smith… I mean, I know a painting doesn’t exactly prove anything, but we could maybe use it as leverage, to get him to talk…’

‘Remember when you and I sat in a noisy café in town, sergeant, and you told me you weren’t good enough for CID? I’m inclined to agree. I wasn’t then, but I am now. You’re talking about a painting that might not exist. Have you asked Martha Wyers’ parents about it?’

‘They couldn’t help us, sir,’ said Kombothekra.

Cecily and Egan Wyers were embarrassed by everything to do with their daughter’s paintings, which they’d already decided to sell as a job lot as soon as a decent amount of time had elapsed. Simon found that shocking, no matter what Martha had done. The word Mr and Mrs Wyers had used most often in connection with their daughter since her death was ‘mortified’. Egan Wyers, in particular, was furious that Martha had enlisted the help of his domestic staff in order to get her hands on the paintings from Aidan’s exhibition, and bought their silence afterwards with money he’d given her. He appeared to be angrier about that than about the murder Martha had committed. Every time his wife shed tears over the death of her only child, he shouted at her that there was no point, that nothing could be done about it now.

‘There’s no picture that fits the bill at Garstead Cottage,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Or at Villiers. I spoke to Richard Bedell, the deputy head, who as good as told me that even if the school did have any paintings by Martha Wyers, which they don’t, they’d be binning them round about now. I got a pretty heated earful from Bedell about how the Wyers family had done unimaginable damage to the school’s reputation. Apparently Martha used to wander round the grounds crying and accosting girls, telling them she’d died and come back to life. A lot of the pupils found it scary, and others became so obsessed with Villiers’ own resident loony that it distracted them from their work. There was nothing the school could do, though, because of the Wyers’ generous sponsorship. They had to let Martha have the cottage.’

‘Their greed was their downfall,’ said Proust. ‘I’m not going to lose sleep on their behalf. Villiers is still standing and still rich. The same can’t be said for Martha-Mary-Wyers-Trelease or whatever her names were.’ Seeing the others looking at him oddly, he added with relish, ‘And I won’t be losing sleep for her either. Now, do we have any other ideas about how to proceed? Ones that don’t involve us relying on the rumour of a copy of a painting?’

‘What if we could persuade Seed to go and see Smith in prison?’ said Kombothekra.

‘Absolutely not.’ Simon turned to Charlie, sure of her support until he saw her face. ‘Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea?’ he said. ‘After what that evil bastard put him through, we’re going to persuade him to pop in for a chat?’

‘It might be good for Aidan to see Smith face to face,’ said Charlie. ‘To tell him the truth and ask him to tell the truth. Look where lies and avoidance have got him. Ruth Bussey’s certainly in favour of having everything out in the open-he might listen to her, even if he’s reluctant at first. Why don’t we explain the problem to Aidan instead of trying to protect him as if he’s a kid?’

‘And if he can’t talk Smith into telling the truth? Then he feels like a failure on top of everything else he’s had to go through, and it’s our fault.’

‘I think it’s a reasonable idea,’ said Proust. He’d avoided the word ‘good’, reluctant to pollute Kombothekra’s mind with praise. ‘Don’t worry, Waterhouse. It won’t be down to you to do the persuading. I think Sergeant Zailer might manage that without your clodhopping assistance.’

‘I don’t work for you any more, sir. I work for-’

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘If it’s got to be done, I’ll do it. I know I’m not…’ He paused.

‘The list is endless, isn’t it?’ said Proust. ‘The list of what you’re not. Top of it is this: you’re not going to be concerning yourself with Aidan Seed from hereon in.’ Proust opened his desk drawer, pulled out what looked like a large book. Except it wasn’t. It was… oh, shit, it couldn’t be…

‘Yes, Waterhouse. Brand new, with shiny cover and unbroken spine. The Automobile Association’s latest road atlas of Great Britain. I bought it with a ten-pound note I found in the bin by the photocopier shortly after our last tête-à-tête.’

‘Sir, you can’t…’

‘There are two categories of people in this world, Waterhouse: those who admit to the mistakes they’ve made and attempt to compensate, and those who correct them retrospectively in their own minds by pretending they never happened. If something succeeds, they were behind it all the time. If it fails, they never supported it in the first place.’ Proust leaned back and folded his arms across his belly. ‘I like to think I belong in the first category. If I get something wrong, I put my name to it and do my best to atone for my mistake.’

Simon, Charlie and Sam Kombothekra stared at him, dumbfounded.

‘On this occasion, I’m pleased to say I couldn’t have behaved better and therefore have nothing to atone for,’ the Snowman went on. ‘Whatever our colleagues in London had to say about you, Waterhouse, I stuck resolutely to the view that you were reliable and would be proved to be so. While others doubted, I always knew you’d be back here where you belong. How would it have looked if you’d returned to discover that I’d reassigned Mrs Beddoes and her multifarious misdemeanours to Sellers or Gibbs? I did no such thing. I fought off many attempts, on the part of colleagues who shall remain nameless…’-Proust scowled at Kombothekra-‘… to purloin work that was rightfully yours. You all know I have my faults, but I’m happy to say disloyalty isn’t among them.’

He held out the road atlas for Simon to take. ‘Happy travels, Waterhouse. May the prevailing winds be with you.’

‘Do you think he’s all right in there?’ I ask Saul for about the twentieth time. We’re in Sam Kombothekra’s car in the car park at Long Leighton prison, waiting for Aidan, Charlie and Sam to come out.

‘I think he’s more than all right,’ Saul says, as he has twenty times already. ‘What about you? Can you face what might happen? ’

‘If Aidan can, I can.’ Yesterday I donated my entire collection of self-help books to Word on the Street, where I’d bought most of them. This morning I took down my Charlie Zailer wall. None of that was real. The progress Aidan and I have made since that night at Garstead Cottage-that’s real. Substantial.

Saul pats my hand. ‘I’m going to tell you something Aidan made me promise not to,’ he says.

‘What?’ My heart dips. ‘We agreed no more secrets. When did he…?’