The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

first day: Villiers is one big happy family, and it demands absolute loyalty. And it is happy, to be fair. I wouldn’t have minded sending my daughters. Not much chance of that.’

The boarding houses. I read the paragraph again: ‘This year, for the first time since our Valentine’s Day Talent Contest was launched in 2001, Goundry was the winning house, with a massive total of 379 points. Well done, Goundry! The traditional slap-up victory breakfast will take place on Saturday 1 March in Goundry’s dining hall, and we’ll have no girls (or house mistresses or masters) from other houses trying to sneak in, thank you very much-we know that’s gone on in previous years and this time we’re cracking down!’

It’s crazy, but I’m going to ask him. ‘You don’t happen to know how many boarding houses there are, do you?’

‘Course I do. There’s not a lot about Villiers I don’t know. I’ve been-’

‘How many?’ I focus on his pink neck, try not to think beyond it.

‘Let’s see, now.’ He starts to tap the steering-wheel. I count the taps, feel a numb disbelief take hold of me when they stop at nine. ‘Nine in total.’

‘What are they called?’

Amiably, as if reeling off his children’s names-the daughters he couldn’t afford to send to Villiers-he begins to list them, unaware of the horror that burrows deeper into my mind with each one. ‘Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry-that’s the house that won this year’s talent contest. Caused an uproar, that result. Goundry’s a sporty house. Darville and Margerison are more intellectual. Winduss is your drama and your singing, so of course they expect to win every year.’

Knowing what was coming did nothing to prepare me. New sweat sticks my shirt to my back. I don’t know who they were. They never told us. Isn’t that funny? I’d forgotten Mary saying that until now. ‘Us’: the pupils. The girls weren’t told who the nine boarding houses were named after. Real people, presumably.

‘Where did I get to?’ says the driver. ‘Oh, yes. Goundry. Then there’s Heathcote. Margerison, which I mentioned-one of the more academic houses. Rodwell and Winduss-or Luvvies, as it’s known unofficially-those are the last two.’

The traffic has started to move, slowly but picking up speed all the time. The gaps between the cars are growing wider. ‘Looks like we’re on our way,’ he says.

‘Stop. Please,’ I say shakily. Everything has changed in the time it took him to list nine names.

‘This is a motorway, miss. I can’t stop. Are you all right?’

‘Can you pull over?’

‘I can do, if you want me to.’ For the first time, he leans out of his seat and turns to look at me. The skin of his face is as pink as the back of his neck, puffy around his mottled cheeks. He has a white moustache that covers the whole space between his mouth and his nose, and a grey beard. His would be a good face to paint; it has more colours and textures than most.

My mind swings back to Mary’s portrait of Martha Wyers, to the different textures and colours death gave her face: the white-encrusted lips, the blotchy chin…

I pitch forward and grab the headrest in front of me, breathing fast and hard as certainty rushes in. The picture of Martha… oh, my God.

‘Are you all right, miss?’

‘Not really. Can you stop on the hard shoulder?’

‘It’s a bit dangerous, is that. There’s services coming up. I’ll stop there for you.’

The discoloured patches on Martha Wyers’ chin. I assumed they were bruises, or some kind of bodily fluid that had come from her mouth-vomit or blood. I shied away from the specifics because they were grotesque.

Maybe there was some blood or bruising, but there was something else as well: a pale brown smudge below Martha’s lower lip, shaped like a child’s drawing of a dog’s bone. A birthmark.

I think of the paint splashed over the pile of cut-up paintings, of the cows mooing in the fields beyond Garstead Cottage. Mary walking in a slow circle around the heap of debris in her dining room, letting out a low moan, an animal sound…

‘Do you have a mobile phone?’ I ask the driver. ‘I need to borrow it. I can give you some money.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘You’re welcome to it.’ He passes it through the gap between the driver and passenger seats. ‘Don’t you have one? I thought everyone had one these days.’

‘Not me,’ I say. Not Aidan either. It was one of the many things we found we had in common early on; both of us hated the idea of having our privacy invaded by ringing wherever we went.

I dial directory enquiries, and, lowering my voice, ask to be put through to Lincoln police station. I expect to hear a recorded greeting, but a woman answers. ‘Good evening, Lincolnshire police. How can we help?’

I ask for PC James Escritt, steeling myself for bad news: his shift ended an hour ago; he doesn’t work there any more; they have no idea where he is now.

I can only ask him, no one else. If he isn’t there…

‘Hold the line,’ says the woman, and a few seconds later I hear a voice I haven’t heard for years. He sounds no different.

‘It’s Ruth Bussey,’ I tell him, knowing he hasn’t forgotten me any more than I’ve forgotten him.

I wait for him to ask me how I am, make small talk. Instead, he says, ‘I’ve heard the news.’

‘News?’

‘Gemma Crowther’s death.’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ I tell him. The taxi swerves slightly to the left.

‘I know that,’ says Escritt.

‘I need to ask you a favour,’ I say. And then, not caring how odd it sounds, either to him or to the man whose phone I’m using, I ask if he’d be willing to check my gardens. Not all of them-there are too many for that. Only the ones that appeared in magazines, the ones I won awards for. There are three of them. I give him the addresses. After a short hesitation, I say, ‘And Cherub Cottage.’

Escritt doesn’t ask for a reason, or quibble about the strangeness of my request. ‘What am I looking for?’ he asks.

‘I want to know if any of them have been interfered with in any way. Destroyed.’

‘You mean by new owners?’ he says. ‘Ruth, you can’t expect-’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about attacks on the gardens. Have any of the owners reported any criminal damage last year or this year?’

There’s silence as Escritt wonders why I think anyone might want to vandalise work I did years ago. He knows my answering silence means I’d prefer not to explain.

‘I’d say no to most people,’ he says eventually.

‘Thank you.’

‘It might take me a while. Can I reach you on the number you’re calling from?’

‘For a bit. I’m not sure how long, but… yes. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you try to be quick? If anything was reported…’

‘I’ll ring you,’ he says curtly.

I clutch the phone. The driver doesn’t ask for it back. He doesn’t say anything. I pull my diary out of my bag and find Charlie Zailer’s number. After my conversation with James Escritt, I want to talk to someone else who knows who I am, who will call me ‘Ruth’ instead of ‘Miss’.

There’s no ringing, only a recorded voicemail message. She must be talking to someone else, or have her phone switched off. ‘It’s Ruth Bussey,’ I say. ‘Ring me back as soon as you get this message. The number’s…’ I break off.

‘07968 442013,’ says the driver. His voice carries no trace of his former bonhomie. It’s full of apprehension, or disapproval; I can’t tell which.

I repeat the number and press the ‘end call’ button, then lean forward and drop the phone onto the passenger seat. ‘Thank you.’

‘Services coming up. Are we still stopping?’

Say no. Go back to Spilling. Go home. Let the police deal with it.

‘We’re going back,’ I say. ‘To Villiers. Drive along the hard shoulder if you have to-just get me there as quick as