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

The door opens. A tall, thin man who looks too young to have left school comes in holding two mugs of tea. Proper mugs that look like bone china, one with green stripes and one with brown. Mine is chipped at the top. ‘Perfect timing.’ Sergeant Zailer smiles at her colleague, then at me. He mouths something at her, pointing at her notebook. She says, ‘Apparently nobody’s hurt,’ and gives him a look I can’t decipher. ‘Thanks, Robbie.’ Once Robbie has left us alone, closing the door behind him, she says, ‘Drink your tea and relax, Ruth. There’s no hurry. I know you’ve got something you want to tell me, and we’ll get there, I promise. The questions I’m asking-they’re all standard. Nothing to worry about.’

In other words, there is no way I can avoid answering them. What a fool I was to imagine Charlie Zailer would be more sensitive than any other police officer. After what happened to her, she probably resolved to fill the space her feelings used to occupy with sheet metal. I tried to do the same thing myself for a long time; I understand the logic behind it.

To my relief, she doesn’t ask again why I left Lincoln. Instead, she wants to know if I have a job. I lean forward. Steam from my tea wets my face. Somehow it’s comforting.

‘I work for my boyfriend,’ I tell her.

‘What’s his name?’ She watches me carefully.

‘You know his name.’

‘Aidan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Surname?’

‘Seed.’

‘And what does Aidan do?’

‘He’s got his own picture-framing business, Seed Art Services. ’

‘Oh, I’ve seen the sign. You’re by the river, aren’t you? Near that pub, what’s it called…?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you worked for Aidan?’

‘Since last August.’

‘Where did you work before that? When you first moved to Spilling?’

I tell myself this will be over soon. Even the worst things end eventually.

‘I didn’t, at first. Then I worked at the Spilling Gallery.’

‘As a picture-framer?’

‘No.’ The word comes out like a cry of pain. It feels like a punishment, this long, drawn-out, pointless interrogation. ‘I didn’t know how to frame pictures then. My boss did the framing. I was a sales assistant-a receptionist, but I also sold pictures to customers. Aidan trained me properly, when I went to work for him.’

‘So now you know how to frame pictures.’ Charlie Zailer sounds pleased with my achievement. ‘Did you work when you lived in Lincoln?’

‘I had my own business.’

She smiles encouragingly. ‘I’m not psychic.’

‘I had a garden design business. Green Haven Gardens,’ I say quickly, before she can ask me.

‘Quite a change, then-garden designer to picture-framer. Your boss at the Spilling Gallery, what was his name?’

‘Saul Hansard,’ I say weakly.

She puts down her notebook and pen. She watches me, the bony fingers of her right hand playing with the ring on her left. It’s a single diamond-a small one with gold claws around it, sticking up from the gold band it’s attached to. She’s engaged. I feel excluded from her private happiness, and know I have no right to. It’s a sign of how far back I’ve slipped since London.

The better you understand yourself, the easier it is to change, my books say.

‘So, you and Aidan Seed work together, framing pictures by the river. Ever been flooded?’ Sergeant Zailer asks brightly. ‘I know the pub has. Oh-the Star, that’s what it’s called. I’ve seen your sign-“Seed Art Services, Conservation Framing”-but I assumed you’d shut down. Whenever I look, there’s a sign in the window saying you’re closed.’

I stare at her. I can’t do this any more. I stand up, knocking my legs against the table, spilling tea. More from her mug than mine. ‘Aidan believes he killed a woman called Mary Trelease,’ I tell her again. ‘I know he didn’t.’

‘We’ll be getting to that in a moment,’ she says. ‘Sit down, Ruth. I asked you a question: Seed Art Services is still up and running, is it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I snap, feeling humiliated. ‘Aidan and I work there, six days a week, sometimes seven. The sign in the window says “Closed except for appointments and deliveries”. We’re too busy to have people dropping in with little odds and ends. If someone only wants one picture framed and they spend half an hour choosing the frame and the mount, we make a loss on that job.’

Charlie Zailer nods. ‘So, who are your customers, then?’

‘ Why? For God’s sake, why does any of this matter? Local artists, museums and galleries, some corporate customers…’

‘And how long has Aidan been in business? His workshop’s been there for as long as-’

‘Six years,’ I cut her off. ‘Do you want to know where we both went to school? Our mothers’ maiden names?’

‘No. I’d like to know where Aidan lives, though. With you?’

‘As good as.’

‘Since when?’

‘Two, two and a half months.’ Since our night in London. ‘He’s also got his own flat, attached to the framing workshop. It’s more of a storeroom than a flat, really. It’s got a tiny kitchen in one corner that barely works. You can’t have the gas rings and the oven on at the same time.’ I stop, aware that I’ve told her more than I needed to.

‘Most single men could live in a grimy bucket and not notice. ’ Sergeant Zailer laughs. ‘So does he own or rent his… premises?’

‘He rents.’ I brush my hair away from my eyes. ‘Before you ask, yes, he also pays his rent on time.’

She folds her arms, smiles. ‘All right, Ruth. Thanks for your patience. Now, tell me about Aidan and Mary Trelease.’

Unsure whether I’ve passed or failed whatever bizarre test she has just inflicted upon me, I try to compose myself and say clearly, ‘He didn’t kill her.’

‘Let me clarify this point one more time: to your knowledge, nobody-neither Aidan nor anyone else-has hurt or killed Mary Trelease. Correct?’

I nod.

‘She’s unharmed?’

‘Yes. You can check…’

‘I will.’

‘… you’ll see I’m right.’

‘Then why does Aidan think he killed her?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. He won’t tell me.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

‘No. It’s ruining both our lives.’

She slaps the palm of her left hand flat on the table. ‘I need a bit of context here. Who is this Mary Trelease? What does she do? Where does she live? How old is she? How do you and Aidan know her?’

‘She lives in Spilling. She’s an artist. A painter. She… I don’t know how old she is. I think maybe about my age. Thirty-eight, forty. Maybe older.’ None of the answers I know are the answers we need. Charlie Zailer hasn’t realised this yet, but she will. I’m terrified that, as soon as she does, she’ll give up on me.

She looks the way I am sick of feeling: at a loss.

Eventually she says, ‘Well, this is a new one. You’re saying that Aidan-how long has he been your boyfriend, by the way?’

‘Since last August.’

‘Okay. So pretty much since you started working for him?’

I nod.

‘Aidan believes he’s killed Mary Trelease, yet you know for a fact that she isn’t dead or even injured?’

‘That’s right.’ I flop back in my seat, grateful to be understood, finally.

Charlie Zailer’s eyes are narrow.

‘Forgive me if this seems like a stupid question, Ruth, but… have you told Aidan that Mary Trelease isn’t dead?’

‘Yes.’ I start to cry. I can’t help it. ‘I’ve told him over and over. I’ve told him until my throat’s sore and my voice is gone.’

‘And how does he respond?’