wouldn’t blame him if he told her to get stuffed and get out.
But when his reply finally came, his tone was unexpectedly playful. ‘And if I say yes? I sign a contract in blood and the devil gets my soul when you’ve granted all my wishes?’
The tension in her neck eased. ‘I prefer ink, but I’ll take blood if you insist. I’m a modern Mephistopheles. I don’t want my Faustus’s soul, just fair payment.’
At the corners of his lips was a movement Becky interpreted as a mouth-shrug, rather than a smile. ‘Is striking these Faustian bargains your full-time job?’
‘It was. I finished my last commission a couple of weeks before I had my son, he’ll be two in September, and you would be my first client since he was born. But before Dylan came along I’d been doing this eight years. I also do some events work.’
‘Events work?’
Becky stifled a sigh and the urge to tell him she thought of her current employment as putting out fires for people too posh to piss on them themselves. Instead she said, ‘Crisis management, that sort of thing.’
He nodded. ‘So, what do you need from me? I expect my sister has already told you everything she thinks she knows.’
‘She’s told me a bit, but I need to hear things from you. How about we start with your routine? What do you do on a typical day?’
‘I get up at seven. I take Phoebe, my daughter, to school and sometimes go shopping. Maybe a run after lunch, and the gym about three times a week. Then cleaning, washing, gardening … I collect Phoebe from school, make dinner and three nights a week I teach a class at the adult education college.’
Becky glanced at the patchwork of stains on his faded T-shirt. ‘And I guess in there somewhere you paint?’
Charlie rubbed his left thumb across the dried black smear on his right knuckles and sighed. ‘Every day. I try.’
‘And what do you do at the weekends?’
He shrugged. ‘More of the same.’
‘Your daughter will be eighteen in October?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And she doesn’t drive herself to school?’
‘Sometimes, when I don’t need the car.’
‘This coming academic year will be her last year at school?’
He nodded.
‘Is she planning to go to university?’
He rubbed his brow line. ‘I don’t know. She might prefer art college.’
‘She’s an artist too?’
‘She’s good. She’d be better if she practised.’
Becky tapped her index finger on the table. She had been warned he would be less than receptive, but Charlie’s monotone mumbling was testing her mask of composure and her conversation skills. What did she have to do to get more than eight words out of him?
‘Your sister mentioned your wife left about six years ago. Does your daughter hear from her?’
His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together. A flush appeared around the edge of the beard and he scratched his cheek, raking his nails through the thick hair. ‘She sends birthday cards.’ He coughed, but failed to dispel the sudden venom in his tone. ‘Christmas too, last year.’
Becky swallowed a sigh. While part of her was delighted to have provoked any display of feeling from Charlie, angering him at this early stage would be stupid. She needed to retreat to less sensitive ground. What had Lauren said about a home studio? His pride and joy, an inner sanctum?
‘I believe you have a studio here. Is it upstairs?’
Charlie’s lips curled and he snorted, holding back a laugh. ‘It’s outside.’
If you could make someone laugh, you were halfway to getting them to like you. Sensing progress, she pushed on.
‘May I see it?’
He tilted his head to one side and fixed her with a disconcerting stare. It seemed to absorb every surface detail while slipping under her skin to seek out her secrets. Was this a professional habit or an attempt at intimidation? Well, if it were the latter, he was out of luck.
Charlie blinked first. ‘All right,’ he said, rising and beckoning for her to follow him out into the garden. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
Chapter 2
Charlie waited for Becky to step out onto the concrete band which had once been the northbound platform.
Even with his eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight, Charlie noted with pride how the garden was at its best in early summer. The air was still. Birds were singing in the sycamore trees and bees hummed among the sweet pinks of the border roses. And next to him, shading her eyes with her hand as she scrutinised every inch of it, was