The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

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‘Stephen Elton says there’s no way Len, aka Aidan Seed, would have killed Gemma.’ Milward’s voice seemed to come from a distance. ‘Says the three of them were close friends. Seed slept on their sofa regularly rather than drive home late-and no, he and Gemma weren’t having an affair, before you ask. Elton was adamant Gemma would never be unfaithful-saw it as being beyond the pale. As opposed to nearly torturing a woman to death,’ she added tersely, ‘which doesn’t seem to have troubled her conscience unduly. I’ve seen Elton lie and I’ve seen him tell the truth, and he was telling the truth when he said that.’

‘I never thought Crowther and Seed were having an affair,’ said Simon. He’d seen the way he’d looked at her as they walked down the street together. It wasn’t how a lover would have looked at her; Simon knew that for sure, despite never having been anyone’s lover. Are you a virgin, Simon? Charlie had asked him once, years ago. He didn’t give her an answer, still hadn’t.

His phone rang in his pocket.

‘Go ahead,’ said Milward. ‘If it’s Zailer…’

‘It isn’t.’ Simon was relieved to see Chris Gibbs’ name on his screen instead of Kombothekra’s. Surprised too. He listened to what Gibbs had to say, keeping his replies to the absolute minimum, aware of Milward’s eyes on him.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked, seeing him put his phone back in his pocket.

Simon’s best ideas always arrived in a rush, like a shot of adrenalin to the brain. This one was no different. ‘What came first, Crowther’s death or the mutilation of her mouth?’ he asked.

‘The removal of the teeth was post-mortem. Why? What are you thinking?’

‘What about the weapons: gun, hammer, the knife used to cut back her lips? Have you found any of them?’

Milward shook her head, as Simon had known she would. The killer was hanging on to them, planning to use them again. A killer who knew how to stage a production, who liked melodrama, who had perhaps killed before… ‘You come across the name Martha Wyers?’ he asked.

‘The writer?’ Milward frowned. ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘You’ve heard of her?’

‘Only since about an hour ago. She and Seed were part of a promotion that The Times and Vogue jointly-’

‘I know about that,’ Simon cut her off. ‘Mary Trelease did a portrait of Martha Wyers dead, with a noose round her neck.’

Incredulity flickered in Milward’s eyes. Then she said, ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

‘No. Kerry Gatti was part of the same promotion-a comedian. He can’t have been very funny, because he gave it up and became a private detective. He’s been following Ruth Bussey.’

Milward’s eyes narrowed. ‘On whose behalf?’ she asked eventually.

‘No idea. Tell Proust to lift his ban and I’ll go back to work and find out.’

‘We can find that out,’ Milward said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve got to think this through: Mary Trelease painted a portrait of Martha Wyers? How did they…?’

‘Have you interviewed her?’

‘Mary Trelease? We’re working on it.’ Simon took this to mean that wherever Trelease was, she wasn’t at 15 Megson Crescent.

Milward leaned forward. ‘The witnesses who saw you outside Crowther and Elton’s flat say they saw an old woman there, too, after you’d gone. Unfortunately they were too busy making notes about you to pay much attention to her, but the one thing they were certain of was…’

‘Wrinkles and lines all over her face?’ said Simon quickly.

Milward nodded. ‘We’ve spoken to a bucketload of Mary Trelease’s reprobate neighbours at Megson Crescent. All any of them wanted to talk about was how old she looks, how much older than her real age.’

So Trelease had been at Gemma Crowther’s flat the night she was murdered. ‘I don’t think Martha Wyers’ suicide was suicide, ’ said Simon.

Milward threw her pen down on the table. ‘I don’t know whether to have you lynched or offer you a job,’ she said.

Neither option appealed. Simon didn’t want to work for Coral Milward. He wanted to work for that treacherous bastard Giles Proust. ‘Put me back where I belong,’ he said. ‘Let me help you as part of my team, helping your team-I know that’s what they’re doing, about a quarter as effectively as they would be if I was with them.’ He hadn’t meant to threaten Milward when he opened his mouth, but that was the way he seemed to be heading. Time to make it explicit. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘If you want anything else from me, you know what you need to do.’

Jan Garner didn’t smile when Charlie walked into her gallery. ‘I preferred it when the police didn’t turn up every five minutes,’ she said. ‘None of you ever buys anything.’ She was standing in the window, arranging artificial roses in a green glass vase- pink, yellow and white ones. They had tiny clear beads stuck to their petals and leaves: fake drops of water.

‘Any other police who’ve been here are nothing to do with me,’ Charlie told her. ‘They’d have been Met.’

‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’

‘They’ve probably told me less than they’ve told you.’ Charlie didn’t stop to give Jan Garner time to dwell on the subtle dishonesty of her answer. ‘The artist you told me about, the talented one who gave up painting after his first show sold out-was his name Aidan Seed?’

Jan nodded.

‘That’s why Mary Trelease chose you, this gallery,’ Charlie told her, aware that she didn’t have to.

‘Mary knew Aidan?’ Jan’s shock appeared to be genuine.

‘Not according to her. Did Aidan ever mention the name Mary Trelease, as far as you can remember?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for eight years,’ said Jan. ‘I don’t think so, no. Although… this’ll sound daft, but when Mary walked in here last year and ordered me to frame her pictures, her name rang a bell. I put it down to one of those spooky deja vu things, but maybe Aidan did mention her. It’s impossible to remember after all this time.’

‘What about Martha Wyers?’ Charlie asked. ‘Did he mention her?’

Jan looked surprised. ‘That was the name of the dead writer Mary painted. You saying it jogged my memory. I don’t remember Aidan talking about her, no. Ow! Thorn,’ she explained, sucking her finger. ‘Not real, but still sharp. People look down their noses at silk flowers, but I love them. They’re not phoney, they’re representations. I’ve always thought it odd that the same people who buy paintings of flowers to hang on their walls wouldn’t give houseroom to man-made roses like these.’ Was there a nervousness to Jan’s chatter, or was Charlie imagining it?

‘A couple of months before Aidan’s exhibition here, he was featured in The Times,’ she said. ‘In an article called “Future Famous Five”.’

Jan was nodding. ‘It was a huge coup, publicity-wise.’

‘You don’t remember the name Martha Wyers from that article? ’

‘No,’ she said, after a brief hesitation. ‘You mean…?’

‘Martha was one of the five.’

Jan dropped the rose she’d been holding, pinched the skin of her neck between her thumb and index finger. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘Of course you are. Stupid question. I couldn’t tell you any of the names now, apart from Aidan’s. I didn’t keep the whole piece, only the bits about Aidan and TiqTaq. I keep anything and everything relating to my exhibitions.’

‘Yesterday, you mentioned Aidan’s private view,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s like a private party for the friends and family of the artist, is it?’

‘And of the gallery. Collectors, critics, other gallery owners. We all like to impress… Yes.’ Jan stopped. ‘You’re right.’

Charlie had a feeling the question she’d been about to ask would prove unnecessary.

‘A couple of them came to Aidan’s private view, a couple of the future famous five. I remember him mentioning it. I’m not sure how pleased he was.’