Rowan had felt the first breath of cold air, the gust of wind before the door slammed shut. She saw suddenly that there was another way this could all go wrong.
‘What you have to ask, Mazz,’ she said carefully, ‘is how the police would see it. A jury, come to that. Would anyone – apart from you, it seems – think I had a reason to want Lorna out of the way? I really doubt it. You, though – watching your parents’ marriage break up, your mum going to pieces . . . And the drawing is so obviously yours. No one else draws – could draw – like that.’
Marianne looked as if she were about to vomit. ‘Where is it? The drawing – where is it?’
‘I’ve taken it. I’m going to look after it until I’m sure I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. I’m going to keep it safe.’
—
Except in the end, after a decade, she hadn’t. Of all the stupid, stupid mistakes to have made. If everything fell to pieces now, she had no one to blame but herself.
What if Adam hadn’t been driving yesterday when Cory called him? What if Cory had told him about the drawing, Marianne’s plan for Lorna’s death? It would have changed his view of his sister forever, torn his world apart.
And what if Cory had told him more than that? Her heart made a strange double beat, two punches against her chest wall. Cory’s lie about the call had confirmed it: he was still digging. Compromising as her story had been, as much damage as it could have done her, he still hadn’t believed it. He’d still thought there was more. How much had he discovered?
She’d been right to do what she’d done; the proof had come almost immediately. Before pushing his body away from the bank, she’d searched his pockets. His phone was locked and of course she had no idea of his code but as she’d held it, it had vibrated in her hand like a frightened mouse. A text message appeared on the blank outer screen:
J Spelman
Hey Mikey. Looking 4wd to Tues. Usual spot? Btw, asked re yr friend Rowan but Jon P didn’t know her. Sure it’s Queen Mary? Maybe diff college within uni? xJ
When she turned off the studio lights, Rowan had the fleeting impression of herself as a mother; Marianne the child she was leaving curled up in bed. Good night, sleep well.
No more mistakes. Everything depended on meticulous attention to detail now. The moment she’d picked up the stone, she’d felt her brain shift gears. She remembered what Marianne had said about the times she knew she was doing her best work, how the world became brighter; everything was relevant. It was as if her senses had sharpened. The temptation had been to take the phone with her, destroy it, but no, she’d calculated at once that it would look suspicious if it were found elsewhere. The water would ruin the handset, buying her time, but whether they found it or not, the police would be able to get Cory’s data. She’d tossed it into the river. The stone was much heavier, it travelled only ten or twelve feet, but she’d thrown that in, too.
As she’d made her way through the undergrowth along the bank at the meadow’s edge, staying below the eye-line of anyone walking a dog or looking out of a window in the houses across the field, she’d felt like a fox, keen-eyed and pricked of ear, nose alive to every new scent in the air.
She’d come out on Bedford Street, headed up to Iffley Road and then into town. The walk back to the house was several miles but it had been safer than taking a taxi with a driver who might remember her or a bus with a CCTV camera and a timed ticket. She’d had to leave Cory’s car where it was. It would attract attention, a Mercedes like that abandoned in an empty car park, but that was still preferable to the risk of being seen driving it. And where would she have taken it? Plus, if his death was going to look like an accident, his keys were better in his pocket. When the body was found, the police would use someone with knowledge of the river to work out where he’d most likely gone in and the location of the car would help confirm it. Everything had to add up.
Down in the kitchen, the washing machine was still churning away with her jeans and shirt and socks. The trainers, drying on top of the radiator, emitted a smell part pond-water, part hot rubber. They were dark so their wetness hadn’t drawn attention on the way back but when she’d taken them off, her feet had been clammy and deathly pale, rubbed sore at the heel. She hadn’t felt a thing while she’d been walking.