Keep You Close Page 8

  It took two hours to work through the box but there was nothing that hinted at any discord in Marianne’s life, nothing suspicious. The only thing Rowan noted mentally was how much money James Greenwood was making from her work. His cut on Eldritch alone had been £122,500 and by the time she reached the end of the papers, Rowan had counted another five remittances with sums similar and, in one case, bigger. If Marianne had been earning a lot of money, so had he.

  Eight

  The Gloc wasn’t an obvious place for a senior policeman to drink but Rowan had known Theo would suggest it. Where else would he have chosen? As soon as she pushed open the door, familiarity wrapped itself around her along with the smell of warm beer. The walls of the tiny vestibule were crusted with flyers for metal gigs and motorbike-repair ads, just as they always had been, and AC/DC were on the jukebox, ‘Back in Black’. The barman had a head of hair to rival a young Ozzy Osbourne.

  It was darker inside than out. When her eyes adapted, she ordered a pint of the IPA and took it to one of the dim alcoves that contained the seating.

  She’d been here a few times with Marianne back in the days when they’d relied on the fail-proof ID Turk had had made for them, but The Gloc – The Gloucester Arms – really belonged to her time at university, when she’d come once a week or so with a group from Brasenose that also included Theo. Hidden down an alleyway off towny Gloucester Green, this old pub with its low ceiling, wooden floor and exclusively metal playlist had been their way of checking back in with the real world. From her current vantage point, she could see a pair of bearded dudes in their fifties wearing T-shirts and leather waistcoats, and a couple in his-and-hers biker jackets who looked as if they’d been sitting there since the last time she’d been in. The only real change was the absence of smoke: back then, before the ban, it had swirled overhead a foot thick by the end of an evening.

  Metallica took over on the jukebox. Ten to seven. She was early but having been alone in the house all day, it was a relief to get out. This afternoon, she’d been in Marianne’s new bedroom on the first floor but it hadn’t told her much. She didn’t seem to have spent much time there: there was no radio or television, and the only book on her bedside table was a well-thumbed copy of Bodies by Susie Orbach. The one photograph showed her with Adam and Jacqueline at the dining table, a recent Christmas, judging by the ivy woven around the candlesticks. Who’d taken it? Fintan or James Greenwood? She hadn’t seen or heard of one at the funeral but perhaps Adam had a girlfriend.

  ‘Rowan.’

  She looked up sharply to see Theo standing beside the little table.

  ‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  She shook her head. ‘You didn’t.’ She edged round to give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘And you, though I almost didn’t. Was it always this dark in here?’ It was still there, she thought, the faint stamp that growing up in the Black Country had put on his accent.

  ‘I think so, but we were always too wasted to notice.’

  He grinned. ‘On which note, to the bar.’ He nodded at her glass, eyebrows up.

  ‘No, fine for now. Thanks.’

  She watched as he gave his order to Ozzy, stooping slightly to be seen under the rack of hanging glasses. He’d come straight from the office – the station – and under the long black coat, he wore a dark jacket and white shirt that made her think of school uniform. Theo had always been boyish. Possibly it was his amiable expression – he’d had smile lines around his eyes at twenty – or perhaps it was the hair, which was dirty-blond, thick and cut in a sort of thatchy non-style. Like a tow-headed toddler’s, post rough-and-tumble, she thought, describing it for Marianne.

  He pocketed his change and returned, sliding onto the bench and taking a pint pot of pistachios from the deep hip pocket of his coat. ‘Here. Dive in.’ He touched the rim of his beer glass to hers. ‘So what are you doing back?’

  She told him about the doctorate and the Bodleian archives. ‘But you’re obviously doing really well,’ she said. ‘I saw you on TV just before Christmas with the Marley Farm thing. Chief Inspector Theo Marsh at Oxford Crown Court – I nearly fell off the sofa.’

  ‘You saw that? God, how embarrassing.’

  ‘No, you looked good – television suits you. Nasty case, though.’ It had been a murder trial, a pair of broke, semi-literate brothers who’d been siphoning diesel from a tractor when they’d been caught by the farmer and shot in the back. It had become a national news story that led to much debate in the papers and on Question Time about rural poverty and inadequate policing.

  ‘It was a mess,’ Theo said. ‘Glad it’s over.’

  ‘You like it, though, generally – the police?’

  He nodded. ‘Love it, sometimes. Even though everyone else seems to wish I were a corporate lawyer.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Well, my parents. Police pay? Goodbye, retirement villa in Spain.’ He pulled a face. ‘Poor Mum – I’m an ungrateful sod. But I’ve wanted to be a detective since I saw The Pink Panther. The cartoon version.’

  He sipped his beer. ‘I’ve thought about you lately, too,’ he said. ‘Which was why I was so startled when you rang. It was like I’d summoned you.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked at him. ‘Why were you thinking about me?’ She reached for the nuts.

  ‘Marianne Glass – your friend.’

  Rowan put the pistachios down. ‘I wondered if you would remember.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  Theo, she’d thought earlier, must have met Marianne two or three times when she’d come back from London to visit Rowan at college. She’d always made an impression on the men she met; every time she came, Rowan spent a couple of galling days afterwards fielding unsubtle enquiries from people who would never have been interested in her. Theo had never been one of the enquirers, though, and, anyway, they’d all been out of luck because Marianne had started seeing someone almost as soon as she’d arrived at the Slade.

  ‘That’s partly why I’m back, too,’ said Rowan. ‘The timing, anyway. I’m house-sitting, to help her mother out.’

  ‘The house in Park Town?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Big place. Are you there on your own?’

  ‘You know it, then?’

  ‘I was advising the Investigating Officer on the case – for as long as it lasted.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, there was no one else involved, it was obvious, so …’

  ‘How did you know?’ Rowan looked at him over the rim of her glass.

  ‘She was on her own when it happened. It’s frustrating not to be able to say for sure why or how she fell—’ He broke off. ‘Sorry. Are you sure you want to talk about this?’

  ‘Yes, it’s okay. Had she been drinking?’

  ‘No more than a glass. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No particular reason. About the booze, I mean – it’s not like she had a problem. Generally, about the accident, if that’s what it was … It’s just, I’ve got so many questions – I hadn’t spoken to Mazz for ages – but the people who might know are the ones I can’t ask. I can’t talk to her family about whether she might have jumped.’

  He frowned. ‘Why? Do you think she did?’

  ‘Like I said, I hadn’t spoken to her. But … well, she’d been depressed in the past, after her father died, so I suppose it’s possible she might have been again. Jacqueline says not, though – the little she’s told me.’

  ‘Strictly,’ said Theo, ‘I shouldn’t talk about it, confidentiality, et cetera, but we – the police – are sure it was an accident. There was no evidence she was depressed and there were a lot of reasons why she wouldn’t have been: she was in a good relationship, she had an exhibition coming up …’

  ‘In New York. It was one of her dreams.’ Rowan drained her glass. ‘I don’t know. The thing is, I keep thinking about how scared she was of heights. We used to go up on the roof a lot an
d she never went anywhere near the edge.’

  ‘When were you last up there with her?’

  ‘Years ago,’ she admitted. ‘Before her dad died.’

  ‘People change, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘It’s hard, I know it is, and it’s still really fresh but I don’t think you need to torment yourself by thinking about suicide. Honestly.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  He picked up their glasses and stood. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  ‘Did you hear about Clare Donaghue?’ he asked, cracking a pistachio with his thumbnail. ‘She and her husband – Simon, he’s a good bloke – they’d been trying for ages to have a baby, nothing going on, then she had IVF and had triplets.’ He grinned. ‘Three girls.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Rowan laughed. ‘Were they happy?’

  ‘Overwhelmed, I think. And then, a month after they were born, Si was seconded to Kuala Lumpur so he had to pack up and ship out leaving her with these three tiny creatures. They didn’t get medical permission to fly for months because they were so small. She used to send me these emails at three a.m., poor girl.’

  ‘Didn’t you go out with her for a while?’

  ‘That was Claire With An I.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘How about you? Who are you in touch with?’

  Rowan put down her glass, realising as she did that it was nearly empty again. ‘I saw Alex Busby quite a bit when I was at the BBC – not a surprise that he’s doing so well.’

  ‘I wondered if he’d be interviewing me about Marley Farm – that would have been really odd.’

  ‘And actually, a couple of weeks ago, I bumped into Sarah Gingell on Tottenham Court Road. I was on my way to Foyles and she was getting off a bus.’

  Theo frowned. ‘How did she look?’

  ‘Frankly? Terrible.’

  ‘Was she off her face? What time was it?’

  ‘Three, maybe half-past. Wasted. Neither of us was saying anything funny but she kept laughing – it was weird. Depressing.’

  ‘You go along thinking you’re immune, that things like that aren’t going to affect you and your friends, but …’ Theo shook his head. ‘You just have to be grateful it’s not you and make sure you take your opportunities when they come.’ He reached round the corner of the table and rubbed the top of her arm. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Out on the empty pavement, Iron Maiden muzzled by the heavy pub door, their voices were suddenly loud. The wind had picked up, driving away the cloud that had smothered the sun during the day and revealing two or three stars bright enough to compete with the light pollution.

  ‘So.’ He smiled and his breath made a cloud.

  ‘So.’

  He moved towards her and backed her gently up against the wall. His hands were warm around the sides of her face. ‘I’ve wanted to do this since I walked in.’ Rowan smelled the sweetness of beer on his breath as he leaned in another inch and let his lips touch hers. A shiver travelled over her shoulders and down her arms.

  ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. Not at the moment.’ She tipped her face up, expecting him to kiss her, but instead he pulled away.

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He tucked her arm under his and they walked down towards Gloucester Green, past the student theatre onto Beaumont Street. The façade of the museum was lit up like an ancient Greek temple. By the entrance to the car park at the Randolph, he led her into the shadows and kissed her properly, sliding his hands inside her jacket, touching the small of her back with cool fingertips. ‘So now just one question remains,’ he said.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Your place or mine?’

  ‘Yours,’ Rowan said. ‘It wouldn’t feel right, going back to Fyfield Road.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. The thing is, I live out in Wytham these days.’

  ‘Do you?’ She was surprised.

  ‘We can’t drive, we’ve both had too much to drink and, frankly,’ he pulled her against him, ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ he said, smoothing a strand of Rowan’s hair over the pillowcase. ‘I have a really distinct memory of looking at your hair. It was the morning after Worcester Ball – do you remember?’

  ‘I remember going in the lake in a dress that was dry-clean only. It was ruined – I had to throw it away.’

  ‘Your hair was still wet when we got back. I remember looking at it on the pillow like this and trying to work out what colour it was. It’s not blonde, is it, but it’s not really brown, either. There’re bits of copper but you don’t see them unless you look quite closely. Perhaps tawny’s the word.’

  ‘Tawny? I like that.’

  Repositioning his elbow, he leaned over and kissed her slowly. ‘Why did we never go out?’

  ‘We were young and stupid?’

  He pulled her closer and she turned onto her side. Cheek resting on his shoulder, she gently stroked the fine hair on his chest. They lay in silence for a minute or two, enjoying the warmth of the bed in the cold room.

  ‘You know what you said about Marianne being alone?’ she said.

  ‘Hmm.’ He’d closed his eyes.

  ‘What made you so sure?’

  He shifted a little, not falling asleep, Rowan realised, but concentrating on the sensation of her hand on his skin. ‘The snow,’ he said. ‘There was one set of footprints going into and out of the house and she made them both.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She had wellies on – navy blue Hunters. She was wearing them when she died and we’ve got CCTV footage of her in them buying cigarettes in North Parade a few hours before, after the snow fell, so …’

  ‘Were there prints on the roof?’

  He made a noise in the back of his throat: no. ‘By the time the folks next door saw her, the sun was up. The garden’s shaded, luckily.’

  ‘If there had been, you might have been able to tell exactly what happened.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He turned so that he faced her again and shifted closer, putting his hand on her hip.

  ‘No one could have been in the house – hiding – and then left after you’d gone?’

  He broke away and looked at her. ‘No. The house was searched from top to bottom, Miss Marple. No one was here and no one had gone before we got here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.’

  ‘Do you know something, Rowan?’ He was watching her intently now. ‘Do you think someone wanted to hurt her?’

  ‘No. Well, I mean, I don’t know – as I said, we hadn’t been in touch – but I really doubt it. She wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Then accept it for what it was: an accident. Awful, a bloody waste of life and talent, but an accident.’

  She was falling asleep when the mattress dented under her. Opening her eyes, she saw Theo sitting on the edge of the bed. A moment later, he stood and picked his boxer shorts off the floor. She watched as he put on his shirt and trousers.

  ‘You’re not staying?’

  He spun around, caught in the act of zipping his fly.

  ‘I can’t. I have to be in early tomorrow. Meeting.’

  ‘Stay in town, then. Quicker from here.’

  ‘I need to change, have a shower. I …’ Seeing her face, he sat down again and reached across the bed to touch her cheek. ‘Ro, I wish I could but Emily would go crazy. Being very late’s one thing – I can find an excuse, something came up at work – but staying out all night …’

  ‘Who’s Emily?’

  He shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s not play that game.’

  ‘What … ? Christ.’ Rowan pulled the patchwork quilt off the bed and wrapped it around herself. She stood up quickly, feeling suddenly at a disadvantage. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Oh, you knew – I don’t believe you didn’t know. I’ve been married three years, for God’s sake – I’ve got a son. You’re telling me no one from college me
ntioned it to you?’

  ‘Believe what you want. Do you think I would have done this,’ she waved her hand at the bed, ‘if I’d known?’

  He bent and picked up his coat. ‘Well, you’ll have to forgive me,’ he said, throwing it on, ‘if I’d forgotten how morally upstanding you are.’

  The slam of the front door reverberated through the house. Thank God the Dawsons were away. Furious and disgusted with herself, she leaned against the wall and listened as he stamped away across the gravel. She was still wrapped in the quilt: she hadn’t even had time to get her jeans on. Bloody, bloody Theo. She took her coat down from the peg and put it on, the silk lining cold against her bare skin.

  Tomorrow’s hangover was already starting and her mouth was dry. She threw the quilt over the banisters and went down to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  The slate floor was icy underfoot. As she stood at the sink, the overhead lights made a mirror of the window, reflecting her image. The garden was invisible, the spot where Marianne died lost in the dark. Rowan thought about how her body must have looked as the sun came up, the snow around her head dyed scarlet. They told me her fingers were frozen. What had she been wearing? Jeans? A coat? Yes, surely, if she was wearing wellies. Wellies – in her mind’s eye, the scene of Marianne’s death was elevated, heroic even, but—

  Something moved on the other side of the glass. Startled, she dropped the glass into the sink. She’d only seen it from the corner of her eye but it wasn’t leaves on the wind or a bird or animal. It was larger than that, like someone moving, disturbing the light.

  She turned off the tap and moved away. As calmly as possible, she crossed the kitchen and went upstairs, ducking past the window at the turn. Hidden from view from the garden, she ran all the way up to the studio and positioned herself by the window.

  The lights were off and when her eyes adjusted, the garden was quite visible in the moonlight. There was no one by the shed or over by the wall. With the shadows, it was hard to be sure but there didn’t seem to be anyone down at the end by the birch trees, either. Nothing moved.