The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

at Kombothekra. ‘You’ve got kids. Don’t you ever stop them doing something they’re gagging to do because you think you know what’s best for them and they don’t?’

‘Maybe Smith wants it to be true,’ said Charlie. ‘That he killed Mary Trelease. Better for his pride: he strangled his girlfriend when he caught her trying to force herself on his teenage stepson. In that version of the story, Smith gets to come out a hero, in his eyes and, for sure, in the eyes of most of the guys he’s been swapping stories with since the early eighties. I’d bet everything I own that Smith did sexually abuse Aidan. Maybe he couldn’t help himself, and hated himself for it-if he genuinely loved Aidan, he might well have done. If he tells the world and possibly himself, too, that Mary Trelease was the abuser, and that he put a stop to the abuse by killing her, he’s redeemed, isn’t he?’

‘Exactly,’ said Simon. ‘Think about the other version of the story: for years, he sexually abused the stepson he loved because he was lonely and desperate and fucked-up after his wife died. Then he got a new girlfriend-Mary Trelease, a cinema usherette whose own two kids had been taken into care, an alcoholic and a heroin addict. Smith brought her into the family home, into his bed, but even then he couldn’t let Seed go. He made Seed sleep in the bed with them…’

‘Aidan was his comfort blanket,’ said Charlie.

‘Whatever he was, Smith wasn’t willing to do without him. Maybe he stopped abusing him once he had Trelease to take care of his sexual needs, but Seed still had to lie there every night, listening to the two of them having sex.’ Simon kept his eyes on Proust as he spoke. He knew Charlie thought talking about sex made him uncomfortable, and he hated the way she studied his behaviour. It made him feel like an alien under a microscope.

‘You’ve read the brother and sister’s statements, sir,’ she said. Her less confrontational tone made Simon aware that he’d been raising his voice. Keep your cool. First, find some from somewhere, then when you’ve got it, keep it. ‘Aidan used to creep out on to the landing to get away from Smith and Trelease, but Smith would come out of the bedroom stark naked-he’d actually interrupt sex with his girlfriend-to drag him back in. If he was in that bed, Aidan had to be in it too: house rule. The brother and sister each witnessed it on more than one occasion. Both said that, as well as being aggressive, Smith was clearly scared.’

‘According to both siblings, Smith claimed he couldn’t sleep if Seed wasn’t in the bed with him,’ said Kombothekra, looking down at his notes. ‘Said he had panic attacks. Maybe he felt the same even after he got together with Trelease.’

‘Pity we can’t put Seed brother and sister behind bars,’ Proust muttered. ‘For presenting themselves as victims of equal status as much as anything else. By the time Mary Trelease appeared on the scene, they were both about to leave home. They couldn’t have gone to the police once they’d left? No, not them-they opted to drop in for tea and cake every so often instead, witness one or two horrors, then be on their way.’

‘I think the tea and cake would have been more like cheap cider and smack, sir,’ said Charlie.

‘We’re getting sidetracked,’ said Simon. ‘Of course Smith isn’t going to tell the truth: that he ruined his stepson’s life, then brought in a woman who’d already been judged unfit to be around children to ruin it a bit more. Smith might have loved Seed-he might have needed him as a comfort blanket-but that need placed Seed directly in the path of Mary Trelease, and he knows it. Night after night, she’d wait until Smith was out of it and force herself on Seed. Eventually, he got so desperate that he closed his hands around her throat and put a stop to it once and for all, for which I don’t at all blame him, and what was Smith doing when that happened? Sleeping off a bottle of whisky at the far edge of the mattress, drooling onto his sweat-soaked pillow? Do you think anyone’d want to tell that story about themselves? Smith’s going to cling on to his lie for dear life, whatever he thinks Seed might or might not want him to do.’

‘Which is why we find ourselves in a predicament,’ said Proust, righting his empty mug. He knew exactly how pleased everyone was that the knocking noise had stopped; Simon could see it on his face. ‘Thank you, Waterhouse, for defining things so clearly. Len Smith will cling to his story. Aidan Seed, as soon as he’s strong enough to do any clinging, will doubtless cling to his, and the CPS will cling with equal ardour to their right to finish work on the dot of three o’clock, after which time they get a nosebleed if they remain at their desks, as we all know.’

‘Have you told him about the painting?’ Charlie asked Sam.

‘I wouldn’t rely on Sergeant Kombothekra to transmit information if I were you. Considerable time and energy could have been saved if his initial searches, which he assured me were exhaustive, though perhaps he meant exhausting, had brought to light a twenty-six-year-old murder.’

‘I was looking in unsolveds, sir,’ said Kombothekra. ‘There’s no database of victims’ names. How was I supposed to…?’

‘What’s this about a painting?’ Proust asked Charlie.

Simon swallowed a sigh. Hopeless; why was she even bothering?

‘I don’t know it exists, sir, but if it does, it might help to clarify things.’

‘I see,’ said the Snowman, wanting her to see he was sickened by what he’d heard. His sickened look was similar to his despicable traitor look; one suggested disgust provoked by stupidity and the other disgust inspired by treachery, but that was the only difference. ‘So we’re in the realm of rubbing lamps and waiting for genies to appear, are we?’

‘Aidan Seed painted a picture called The Murder of Mary Trelease. Martha Wyers destroyed it along with all his others, so obviously we don’t know what it depicted, but Ruth Bussey thinks there was something significant in it, and I’m inclined to agree with her. There must have been something, so that when Wyers found out from Kerry Gatti that Aidan’s stepfather was banged up for killing a Mary Trelease, she thought she knew that he hadn’t. Seed isn’t yet strong enough to answer all our questions, and I’m not sure when he will be, but…’

Charlie paused; looked at Simon. He nodded. She’d got this far-might as well let the Snowman hear the rest.

‘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 cafe 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