The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

comes from a book-so what?’

‘She might not be right in the head, but she’s not a danger to the sarge-that’s all that matters, right? What are you doing?’

Gibbs had his phone clamped to his ear. ‘Ringing Waterhouse. If some freak had pictures of my bird all over her wall, I’d want to know about it.’

‘We’re not supposed to be-’

‘So you keep saying.’ Gibbs turned on him. ‘You and the Snowman. You can be his best fucking frosty friend if you want to, but I’m with Kombothekra on this one. Waterhouse has done nothing-no more than usual anyway.’

‘I’m not saying he has.’

‘Then where’s your loyalty?’

‘It’s not our decision to make, is it? When the Snowman finds out you and Kombothekra have been feeding Waterhouse information behind his back, I’ll still have a job.’ Sellers grabbed Gibbs’ phone out of his hand and held it in the air. ‘You could keep yours too if you don’t do anything stupid.’

‘This is about Stacey, isn’t it? What Charlie said about her at the party-the vibrator and all that.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’

‘Course it has. With you, it comes back to pussy every time. Remember how the Brazilian conversation started? You were speculating about the Snowman’s daughter. How about I tell him that?’

Sellers slumped against the door. He knew when he was beaten.

Gibbs grinned. ‘It’s not a problem-I’m used to it. All you need to do is remember you’ve got no claim to thinking you’re better than anyone else and we’re sweet. Now give me back my fucking phone.’

‘Where is she?’ DS Coral Milward knocked her rings against the underside of the table. ‘I’ve left her two messages. She’s not got back to me.’

‘She mentioned something about an art gallery,’ said Simon. ‘Where’s DC Dunning?’

Milward’s eyes dipped at the mention of his name. ‘He’s not looking round White Cube, that’s for sure.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Why don’t you ask Sergeant Zailer? She’s an art lover, apparently. ’

‘Dunning not into art?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Is it the aftershave?’ Simon asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your antipathy towards Dunning.’

Milward pulled her thick arms out from under the table and folded them. The knocking sound stopped. She was wearing a new shirt since this morning, with pearl cufflinks. ‘So the rumours are true,’ she said. ‘I’d heard that overstepping the mark is your speciality.’

‘I’m on your side, for what it’s worth. You smile more. And stink less.’

‘Don’t fuck me about, Waterhouse. Is your fiancee’s art gallery jaunt this afternoon connected to my case?’

‘You’d have to ask her.’

Milward leaned forward. ‘We know Aidan Seed used to be an artist. He was a bright young thing, had a successful exhibition, then jacked it in. Why? Most people don’t deliberately balls up promising careers. Present company excepted.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Trouble is, I don’t believe you.’

Simon shrugged. ‘Your problem.’

‘Saul Hansard didn’t know either. Him I did believe.’

‘Why would Seed have confided in Hansard?’

Milward let him see that she was debating whether or not to tell him. She made him wait a few seconds for her answer. ‘Seed was working as Hansard’s assistant when he had his one and only exhibition in London. Also when he decided to stop painting and take up framing.’

‘Seed worked for Hansard?’ Simon frowned. ‘Ruth Bussey worked for Hansard before she worked for Seed.’

Milward seemed to be waiting for him to continue.

‘Mary Trelease used to have her work framed by Hansard.’

‘Not while Seed worked there. Later. Later still, she switched to a London gallery, the same one that hosted Seed’s solo exhibition in February 2000: TiqTaq, on Charlotte Street. That’s where Zailer is now, am I right?’

‘Think you’d have got as far as you have without our help?’ Simon asked her.

‘Where have I got? Two thirds of the way down a dead-end street, if you ask me.’

‘Did Hansard tell you Bussey and Trelease met at his gallery, and had a row that ended in a physical attack? Seed killed Gemma Crowther as revenge for what she did to Ruth Bussey. He’s going to kill Mary Trelease for the same reason. Maybe Stephen Elton too, unless Elton’s guilty plea and the fact that he didn’t actively participate in the attack on Bussey in Lincoln…’

‘You know about that?’ Milward smiled. ‘You didn’t know this morning.’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ said Simon, trying to keep his anger down.

‘So who did? See, the trouble I’m having is that you seem to know a fraction too much. If I find out you’ve had contact with Bussey, Seed or Trelease and not told me…’

‘I haven’t. Sounds like you haven’t either. What’s being done to find them?’

‘You should be pleased it’s not your problem,’ said Milward. ‘My problem is that I’ve got a chief suspect-’

‘You mean Seed?’

‘No. I don’t mean Seed.’

‘There was no break-in, right? Narrows your suspects down to Seed or Elton.’

‘I’ve got a suspect and a motive,’ Milward continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Nothing in the bag yet, but I’m hopeful. Meanwhile, on the fringes of my investigation, I’ve got your little mess: Seed, Trelease, Bussey, Hansard.’

‘The fringes?’ Simon couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re wrong. I don’t know what’s going on, not yet, but I know one thing: my mess, as you call it, is centre stage. You’ll get nowhere unless you treat it as such.’

‘You’re an arrogant turd, Waterhouse.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

Milward looked as if she’d like to take a swipe at him. ‘I’ve got motive,’ she told him again. ‘Motive’s where I’m strong. What have you got? Phantom stranglings, pictures disappearing from art fairs, mysterious predictions: Seed naming a series of nine paintings Mary Trelease hasn’t done yet-you expect me to take all that seriously?’

‘No,’ Simon told her. ‘I expect you to bury it because it confuses you. And it’s not nine, it’s eight-the paintings Mary Trelease hasn’t done yet.’

Milward frowned. ‘Nine,’ she said, looking at her notes.

‘The first, Abberton, she’s already done.’

She slammed her file shut. ‘I don’t like all this… clutter around my investigation. I really don’t like it. How did Zailer know a picture went missing from Gemma’s flat the night she was killed? How did she know it was that picture?’

‘She didn’t know. She was guessing.’

Milward let out the breath she’d been holding in several short bursts. ‘We found it in the boot of Seed’s car,’ she said. ‘Abberton. It’s too weird for my taste, but it’s got something to it-not like most of the rubbish that’s peddled as art these days.’

Simon shook his head, trying to take it in. No, that couldn’t be right. Seed might abandon his car-Simon had told Milward this morning why he’d do that-but not the painting, not once he’d removed it from the house after killing Crowther, knocking her teeth out with a hammer and replacing them with picture hooks. Abberton was crucial. It had to be. No way he’d have left it in the boot.

Think. Seed gave Crowther the picture-he must have done. Then he killed her and took it back. Why? That part had never made sense, not really. Why had Simon allowed himself to overlook it for so