‘What’s her name?’ asked Charlie, driving too fast in her excitement.
‘If you don’t know, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to—’
‘Mary Trelease?’
A heavy sigh. ‘If you know, why are you asking me?’
‘I’m on my way to you now,’ Charlie told Draisey. ‘When I get there, I’ll need you to—’
‘I’ll either be too busy to help you, or I’ll be asleep,’ came the firm reply. ‘I’d strongly advise you to save yourself the trip. You’re not the first police officer I’ve said this to, and you won’t be the first to wish you’d listened to me when you’ve wasted a good night’s sleep for absolutely no reason. Good night, sergeant. ’
‘Mary Trelease died in 1982,’ Charlie shouted into her phone, but Claire Draisey was gone.
Charlie drove at twice the speed limit all the way to the motorway. Once she was on it, she rang the number Coral Milward had left on her voicemail. When the DS answered, she said, ‘It’s Charlie Zailer.’
‘Where the fuck are you? Where’s Waterhouse? Anyone’d think we weren’t all on the same side here. Who the fuck do you both think you are, treating me like I don’t exist?’
‘I think Simon’s at Villiers,’ Charlie told her. ‘I’m on my way there now.’
‘You’re on your way to my office is where you’re on your way to.’
‘’Fraid not,’ said Charlie.
‘They should have got rid of you two years ago—I would have done, if you’d been one of mine. They’re sure as hell going to wish they did once they’ve heard what I’ve got to say about you. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. I’m going to take your career and your future and every fucking thing you’ve got and stick it up my big fat arse before shitting it out again. You’d better—’
Charlie switched her phone off. On the same side? Funny, that was never the impression Milward gave. She’d said nothing about having dispatched anyone to Villiers. Despite what Claire Draisey had told her, Charlie had no way of knowing if anyone from the Met was on their way to the school. She decided to stick with her original plan and head for Garstead Cottage, even if it meant losing her job. Ruth Bussey and Mary Trelease were there—hadn’t Draisey said so?
She turned on Kate’s car stereo and heard what sounded like a live gig—raucous applause and cheering, electronic music almost drowned out by hands and voices. When the clapping died down, a man started to speak. He didn’t say who he was, but Charlie guessed he was Kate’s sons’ headmaster, or one of their teachers. This was a school concert on CD. He was thanking something called the Wednesday Club Ensemble for its synthesised rendition of ‘Ten Green Bottles’.
Hearing the title jolted something at the back of Charlie’s brain. She breathed in sharply and turned off the stereo. Six Green Bottles—that was the name of a painting in Aidan’s TiqTaq exhibition. Surely . . . no. If it was true, it would be crazy. She forgot to steer, and drifted halfway into the next lane as, suddenly, several other things clicked in her mind, then swerved to get herself back on track, ignoring irate beeps from other drivers. It was crazy, no doubt about that, but she was right. She had to be.
She’d seen several unframed paintings on the walls at Mary’s house. One was of a man, woman and boy sitting round a table covered with empty wine bottles. Green bottles. Charlie hadn’t counted, but she was willing to bet there were six of them. She’d also seen a picture of a woman looking in a mirror, the same woman from the bottles picture. And from the photographs in Kerry Gatti’s file. That’s why Charlie had recognised the face—she’d seen it before, on Mary’s walls. The first Mary Trelease, the one who died in 1982. A woman looking in a mirror . . . Another of the titles Charlie had seen on Aidan’s TiqTaq sales list was Who’s the Fairest? Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
And the picture Ruth Bussey had described to her that had been in one of the downstairs rooms at 15 Megson Crescent, of a boy writing ‘Joy Division’ on a wall—that had to be Routine Bites Hard, another of Aidan’s titles. The first line of Joy Divison’s best known song, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, a song Charlie had heard thousands of times, contained those words, that phrase. She sang it under her breath, trying to assemble the bizarre chain of events in her mind.
In 1982, Len Smith had killed his partner, Mary Trelease, according to the official version of events. In 2000, Aidan’s first exhibition at TiqTaq had been a huge success, after which, unusually, he’d decided to give up painting. Charlie thought of the photograph Jan Garner had shown her of his Supply and Demand , the picture that had been reproduced in the exhibition catalogue: a woman at the top of the stairs, looking down at a boy. Charlie hadn’t focused on their faces, but she knew they were the same woman and boy she’d seen in the unframed pictures on Mary’s walls: the first Mary Trelease and . . . it had to be the young Aidan. And the older man—Aidan’s stepfather, Len Smith? Smith had two other stepchildren, Aidan’s brother and sister—could it be them in the painting Charlie had seen upstairs at Megson Crescent, the fat, dark pair with eyebrows that dominated their faces? Yes—had to be. Thinking about it, there was a resemblance between them and Aidan.
Mary had copied the pictures from Aidan’s exhibition. No, they’re not mine. That’s what she’d said. Then, only moments later, she’d admitted to painting them. Now Charlie understood. Mary had repainted Aidan’s pictures herself, the exact same scenes, though the paintings couldn’t have been more different from Aidan’s muted, painstakingly realistic ones. Charlie smacked the steering wheel in triumph as she realised she had the answer to another question: the copies, Mary’s versions of Aidan’s pictures, were unframed because they had to be. The people who framed for Mary—Saul Hansard and, later, Jan Garner—had seen Aidan’s exhibition; they’d have spotted what Mary was doing if she took her copies in to be framed, and she didn’t want them to know.
Why? Why paint someone else’s pictures?
Charlie lit a cigarette, her brain on overdrive. The nine buyers: Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry, Heathcote, Margerison, Rodwell and Winduss. Their addresses didn’t exist and neither did they. Ruth Margerison of Garstead Cottage didn’t exist. Garstead Cottage belonged to Villiers, Mary’s old school.
And Martha’s. Martha Wyers had also been a Villiers girl.
An unpleasant sensation, like the brush of cold fingers, crept up Charlie’s spine. What sort of person was she dealing with here? What sort of mind? Could it be that Mary had bought all the pictures from Aidan’s exhibition, using false names? Apart from the three paintings bought by Saul Hansard, Cecily Wyers and Kerry Gatti, and Charlie knew that at least two of those had been sold on to Maurice Blandford shortly afterwards.
The story, when Charlie told it to herself, seemed too outlandish to be possible. Mary Trelease was killed at 15 Megson Crescent in 1982. In 2008, another woman, also called Mary Trelease, lives in the very same house. That alone was chilling enough. Not everyone, thought Charlie, would be capable of first dreaming that up and then putting it into practice. Everybody enjoyed a good scary story; hardly anyone knew how to bring one to life.
And in between 1982 and 2008? How did the story bridge a gap of twenty-six years? A job interview, at which a woman falls in love with a man she doesn’t know. She writes a book about him. Later, she meets him again when they both have their photographs taken for a feature in The Times. It must seem to her as if fate has reunited them. A little later still, she attends the private view of his first art exhibition. She studies his work carefully, being obsessed with him. She sees a painting called The Murder of Mary Trelease. She thinks nothing of it, not until some time has elapsed, time during which her obsession has intensified. She hires a private detective who tells her the man’s father is in prison for killing a woman called Mary Trelease, and, of course, she remembers the picture. But the picture says something different about who committed the murder. Not in an obvious way—there’s no graphic depiction of violence—but subtly, so
that the woman, our heroine, thinks she’s the only one who knows the truth.
Anyone who cared about stories would know that only the most important character gets to be in that position: knowing everything while everyone else knows nothing. That would be good for the ego, thought Charlie, though ultimately not good enough to restore an irretrievably contaminated specimen to health. This was a woman who, after a failed suicide attempt, painted herself dead, with a noose round her neck. As she wished she could be, or as she thought she deserved to look?
Charlie thought about Ruth Bussey and her self-esteem exercise, her failure to put up flattering photographs of herself alongside the pictures of Charlie, in spite of the book’s orders. For the past two years, Charlie had avoided looking at images of herself; she’d avoided being photographed as far as possible. How much more must you have to hate everything you are, were and might ever be to pour all your energy into painting yourself contorted and defeated by death?
Was that the story in her head? Charlie wondered. A woman who loathes herself, in spite of having all the money in the world to buy art, the services of private investigators, whatever she wants? In spite of her immense talent, and everything she could achieve if she looked forward instead of back? She can’t, though, that’s her tragedy. Her only story’s an old one, yet she’s terrified of it ending. That’s why she plays games, withholds the truth in a way that lets you know she’s keeping something from you, forcing you to play hide and seek with her. She has to make it last, because once the game’s over, there’s nothing left for her.
He seems to have got hold of the idea that he killed you.
Not me.
A woman who knows about leaving you wanting more, about making up people and names that don’t exist. Someone who, no matter what she calls herself, no matter what she does with her time, will always be first and foremost an inventor of stories.
Martha Wyers.
‘My understanding was that DC Dunning would be coming in person, and bringing a warrant with him,’ said Richard Bedell, Villiers’ deputy headteacher.
‘He will, on both counts,’ said Simon, who had been less than frank and done nothing to correct Bedell’s assumption that he and Dunning worked together. Bedell was younger than him, and wore faded jeans, a cream fleece and loafers. Simon had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t talking to an unusually confident sixth-former who’d been left in charge of his father’s office. The room was the size of most schools’ assembly halls. Simon was trying to sit comfortably on a lumpy plum-coloured chaise longue, and found he kept needing to raise his voice to make himself heard across an expanse of beige carpet that was set into a border of hardwood flooring, perfectly even on all sides.
Bedell’s oversized desk was covered with piles of exercise books at one end—red and dark green, some thin, some fat with paper inserts, all bedraggled—and telephones and mugs at the other. He had three phones, none of which was a mobile, and twice as many mugs, two of them navy blue and yellow, bearing the school’s logo. On the carpet beneath his desk was a coil of black wires from the telephones and his computer, printer and fax machine that looked as if it would take many years to untangle.
‘All I’m asking is to be pointed in the direction of Garstead Cottage,’ said Simon. ‘If Ms Trelease doesn’t want to talk to me, she doesn’t have to. We’ll wait for Neil Dunning to arrive with his warrant. I’d like to try, though. As I explained before, I’m concerned about her safety.’
‘And as I explained before, DC Waterhouse, I’ve already established that Mary doesn’t want to see or speak to you or any of your colleagues, or have you in her home. She became quite hysterical at the prospect, and I can’t afford . . .’ Bedell broke off. His chin puckered as he swallowed a yawn. ‘Let me spell it out for you,’ he said, as if granting Simon a special favour. ‘Egan and Cecily Wyers have been extremely generous to us over the years. Villiers isn’t like Eton or Marlborough, or most of the public schools you might have heard of—we haven’t got vast reserves of capital to fall back on when times are hard. If our numbers fall, as they have recently, and there’s less coming in from fees, we’re in trouble. Frankly, we need the support of parents like the Wyerses—it’s thanks to them alone that we’ve got a brand spanking new theatre building.’ He threw up his hands, a gesture that invited Simon to contemplate the narrowly avoided catastrophe of the school’s having to go without this particular asset. ‘Our part of the bargain is the cottage, providing a safe haven for Mary where she can get on with her work in peace. In view of which, I’d like to ask you what I asked DC Dunning: is a warrant and all it entails strictly necessary? Because, I won’t lie to you, it’s not going to go down well with Egan and Cecily.’
‘Do Mr and Mrs Wyers have a particular interest in Mary Trelease?’ asked Simon.
Bedell’s face dropped, losing all its expression. ‘Pardon?’ he said.
Simon repeated his question.
‘Don’t you detectives communicate with one another? I explained the situation to DC Dunning in all its irregularity.’
Simon was considering how best to respond to this when Bedell said, ‘I’m going to give him a quick call, if that’s all right. He said nothing about you turning up, and . . .’
‘You’ve seen my ID,’ said Simon. He was getting into that cottage, even if he had to tie Bedell up with telephone wire. ‘Did Dunning tell you he wants to speak to Mary Trelease in connection with a murder?’
Bedell closed his eyes. Left them closed for a good few seconds. ‘No, he didn’t. This is a disaster, a complete disaster.’
‘I take it you mean for the murder victim,’ said Simon. ‘Gemma Crowther, her name was. She was shot in her home on Monday night. The killer then knocked her teeth out and hammered picture hooks into her gums.’
Bedell winced and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He stood up. ‘Listen, I’d appreciate it if you’d take my word on one thing. Mary has her problems, I won’t deny that. Genius has its price. But she certainly hasn’t killed anybody. That’s taking it too far, to accuse her of that.’
‘I’m not accusing her of anything,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We want to ask her a few questions, that’s all—her and several other people. We’re a long way off charging any of them.’ Genius has its price. A despicable motto, if ever Simon had heard one. Was the price payable in human teeth, for fuck’s sake?
‘Why don’t I ring DC Dunning, see how long he’s going to be?’ Bedell suggested, picking up one of the phones on his desk with a heavy sigh. ‘I knew something like this would happen one day.’
‘You knew Mary Trelease would become involved in a murder investigation?’
‘No, of course not. That’s a rather crass thing to say, isn’t it? I knew there’d be trouble—that’s all I meant. I inherited the situation: Mary and the cottage. If I’d been around at the time, I’d have spoken up strongly against it. Some money’s simply not worth the price. As it is, we could find work for a full-time member of staff dealing with parents’ complaints. There’ll be a shit-storm—pardon my French—if this latest piece of news gets out.’
Bedell’s words made little sense to Simon, who knew only that he didn’t like the picture that was building up. Bedell looked down at his desk, half-heartedly moving a few pieces of paper around. ‘What’s Dunning’s number?’ he asked irritably.
‘I left my phone in the car,’ Simon lied, patting his pockets. He’d had no reception since he arrived at Villiers. It made him nervous, as if his being uncontactable might be causally linked to catastrophe for those he cared about. He imagined his mother’s anguished voice: ‘We tried to telephone, but you didn’t answer . . .’
‘I know where I put it,’ said Bedell. ‘Wait a second.’ He left the room, pulling the door to. Simon heard his shoes squeak as he walked down the corridor, then the sound of a door opening and closing. As soon as Bedell spoke to Dunning, Simon would lose any chance he had of getting into Garstead Cottage. He couldn’t afford to wait.
He
went out into the corridor and down the stairs opposite Bedell’s office door, then down two more flights. He unbolted the door he and Bedell had come in through, went outside and pulled it shut behind him. A long path stretched ahead into the distance, with lantern-style lamp posts and a row of large square brick buildings on either side. How hard could it be to find a cottage? There was nothing that fitted that description in front of him for as far as he could see.
Bedell had left his curtains open when he’d taken Simon into his office. Through the window, Simon had seen a lit courtyard surrounded by long, single-storey prefabricated huts with dark wooden sides that had looked almost oriental. Perhaps Garstead Cottage was one of those.
He walked round to the back of the building, where he found another path that led to what looked like a signpost about 200 metres away. It was much darker here, almost too dark for Simon to read the signs when he reached them. Several rigid rectangles of painted wood with arrow-shaped ends protruded from a pole. One said, ‘Cecily Wyers Theatre’. Another said, ‘Main Building’, but it was the third one Simon read that made him grab the pole and trace the letters with his fingers: ‘Darville’. Beneath it, pointing in the same direction, was a sign that said, ‘Winduss’.
As far as Simon knew, these names belonged to people who’d bought Aidan Seed’s paintings. Who lived at addresses that didn’t exist. For a few seconds, standing alone in the darkness and the silence in front of this strange object that looked a bit like a white tree, its branches at right angles to its trunk, Simon felt like an idiot who didn’t know what to do, or what to think.
There were five paths to choose between. He strained to see as far as he could along each in turn, which wasn’t far at all. Each one disappeared into blackness. There was no sign of the prefabricated huts he’d seen from Bedell’s window. In the end he decided to follow the sign that said, ‘Stable Block’, on the off-chance that Garstead Cottage might once have housed whoever looked after the horses. It was as good a guess as any.
The Dead Lie Down: A Novel Page 44