The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

Abberton’s handwritten? Had it been added at the last minute?

‘I told you-I made a mistake. Someone bought this picture yesterday.’ The smile was still there but it was straining to stay in place. ‘I meant to put a “Sold” sticker on, but I never got round to it. I was rushed off my feet.’

‘You told me it had been quiet since you got here,’ I blurted out. ‘I don’t believe the picture’s sold. Why won’t you sell it to me?’ I had to be allowed to take Abberton away with me. I had to. Aidan needed to see it; it would make everything all right between us again, as if his confession last night and his anger today had never happened.

The young woman screwed her eyes up, the better to inspect me: this crazy specimen that had put itself in front of her. ‘Do you think I don’t want to make money? I’d gladly sell it to you if it was for sale.’

A combination of confusion and desperation had emboldened me, and I spoke to a complete stranger as I never would have dared to if there had been less at stake. ‘Show me the sales form,’ I said. ‘Show me your copy, the yellow copy.’ I indicated the form she’d been filling in for me. All the artists and galleries at the fair had the same ones, with three layers: white, yellow and green. Aidan and I had watched Gloria Stetbay’s assistant fill one in yesterday and keep the yellow copy for herself.

‘This is ridiculous.’ Dyed-hair woman tried to laugh, but it wasn’t convincing.

I walked towards her. She moved to stand in front of Abberton, as if she feared I might snatch it off the wall. ‘You represent Mary Trelease, is that right? If her painting’s up on your stall, that means you must represent her.’ Aidan had taught me the basics about how the art world worked. ‘If this picture is sold, I’d like to buy something else by her. Does she have other work that’s available?’

‘I wouldn’t know that sort of thing. You’d have to pop into our gallery on Charlotte Street and-’

‘Is someone there now, one of your colleagues?’ I wasn’t going to let it drop. She was lying to me, and I would force her to admit it. ‘You could ring and ask them. Tell them you’re with someone who’s keen to buy any painting you’ve got by Mary Trelease, as long as it’s signed, dated and recent.’

‘There’s no one there who’d… Look, I’m not…’ She was getting flustered. She spread both her hands and lowered them slowly in a calming gesture. ‘To be honest, I don’t think we’ve got any other stuff by her, okay?’

‘Do you represent her or don’t you?’

‘I’m not going to discuss details of the gallery’s relationship with a particular artist…’

‘An artist who refuses to sell any of her work,’ I snapped. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Mary Trelease sells her paintings to nobody. Why not?’ I was certain my hunch was correct. Mary often used to bring in pictures for Saul to frame, ignoring me as she walked past me time after time, yet he never put her work up in the gallery. Saul always exhibited paintings by the artists he framed for; he used to tell me all the time that it was the best way to advertise his own work as well as theirs. So why not Mary’s?

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said the woman. ‘All I know is, we’ve sold one picture for her. This one.’ She jabbed her thumb at Abberton. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t un-sell it. I’d be happy to sell you any of the other stuff you can see here. Everything else is available.’

I shook my head. ‘If Abberton’s sold then whoever bought it will be back here to collect it, won’t they? Did they say when?’ An art fair wasn’t like a gallery exhibition, Aidan had told me the day before. You didn’t have to wait until it finished to collect your purchases-you could pick them up any time before the end of the last day.

I got no answer, so I kept pushing. ‘Are they coming to collect it? Or did they pay extra to have it delivered to their home? Can you check that for me, on the yellow form?’

‘No, I can’t. Even if I knew, I couldn’t… Look, I really don’t see how I can help you any more. I hope I’m not going to have to call security.’

This shocked me, the idea that someone could feel threatened by me. ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘Just… could you do me one favour?’

She eyed me suspiciously, waiting for the worst.

‘Could you make sure the picture stays where it is until I come back? I don’t care about buying it-I don’t want it. But I need to show it to my boyfriend and… I don’t know where he is.’

‘The tall bloke in the donkey jacket you were looking for?’

I nodded.

She sighed, and seemed to soften. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ‘but if the buyer comes to pick it up, there’s not an awful lot I can do.’

I left without saying thank you or goodbye. I’d wasted enough time already. She was right. Assuming Abberton really was sold and she wasn’t lying, the person who had bought it could arrive to collect it at any moment. I ran outside and stuck out my arm to stop a taxi, then realised there weren’t any, only several people who looked as if they were waiting. One glanced at his watch, sighed and walked off down the road.

‘Come on,’ I breathed through gritted teeth. A taxi had to come. I had to get back to the hotel-that’s where Aidan would be. He’d have gone back there to check out, to pick up our bag and the Gloria Stetbay. A taxi appeared, and a woman in a grey trouser suit with a mobile phone pressed to her ear moved forward to greet it. She opened the back door. I ran at her with my wallet already open and offered her twenty pounds if she’d let me take it instead. It was an emergency, I told her. She looked unconvinced, but took the money and stepped back, relinquishing the cab.

At the Drummond, I told the driver to wait outside for me. I didn’t have the patience to wait for the lift, so I ran up four flights of stairs to room 436. I banged on the door and called Aidan’s name. ‘Please be here,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’

The door opened, but not very far. I heard footsteps walking away. I pushed the door fully open, banging it against the wall. Aidan stood in the centre of the room with his back to me. Short of leaving me stranded outside in the corridor, he couldn’t have been less welcoming. I didn’t care; I knew this bad patch would end as soon as he’d heard what I had to say. ‘Mary Trelease, ’ I panted.

He swung round.

‘What does she look like?’

‘I don’t know. That depends how long it takes a body to decay. You’d need to ask a pathologist.’

‘Skinny, masses of black curly hair that’s starting to go grey, cut-glass accent, bad skin-lined, like a much older woman’s. Pale brown mole beneath her lower lip that’s shaped like… like a double-ended spanner, sort of. Or how you’d draw a dog’s bone in a cartoon…’

Aidan roared and flew across the room at me, clamping his hands around my arms. I screamed, frightened by the strength of his reaction. ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded. ‘Where did you get that description from?’

‘I’ve met her. Aidan, you’ve got to listen to me. You haven’t killed her. She isn’t dead. She’s an artist, isn’t she? Remember the woman I told you about, the one I had a run-in with at Saul’s gallery? It was her! The picture she brought in, the one I wanted to buy-I’ve just seen it at the art fair, on a stall belonging to a gallery. TiqTaq, they’re called. The painting’s called Abberton. It’s of a sort of person, but with no face…’

Aidan released me, staggered back across the room as if propelled by a physical force. ‘No,’ he said. Flecks of white had appeared at the corners of his mouth. He wiped them away with his hand. He’d started to sweat. ‘Shut up. Shut up. You’re lying. What are you trying to do?’

‘You got it wrong!’ I told him triumphantly. ‘You didn’t kill her, years ago or at any other time. She’s not dead. The picture I saw, Abberton, it’s dated 2007. It wasn’t framed when I met her six months ago, but since then she’s had it framed. She’s alive, Aidan.’ I didn’t need to ask if the woman I’d described was the right one; his face was white with terror.

‘I killed Mary Trelease,’ he said. ‘But maybe you’ve known that all along. Maybe that’s why you turned up at the workshop asking for a job, and why you’re telling me this now.’ Fury blazed in his eyes. ‘Who are you really, Ruth Zinta Bussey?’ His sarcasm shook my heart. ‘What was the plan?’ He walked towards me slowly. ‘Make me fall in love with you and then wipe me out? Drive me insane? Is that going to be the extent of my punishment, or is there more to come? Are you going to go to the police?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ I sobbed. ‘There’s no plan. I love you! I’m not trying to punish you, I’m trying to make you see that you’ve done nothing wrong. Come back to Alexandra Palace with me and I’ll show you the picture, Abberton. I’ve got a taxi waiting outside.’

He looked at me, through me. ‘Abberton,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘You’re telling me