Rowan took a small sip of wine and cautioned herself: under no circumstances could she afford to get drunk tonight. ‘Ad, I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘Is the house on the market now? Will people be coming to see it?’
‘No. We can’t put it on the market until her estate’s settled; we needed a valuation for probate as well. Marianne left me her share – but I don’t know. Even though I find it so hard being there, when we got the valuation, I just felt . . .’ He shook his head again. ‘I can’t live there, not now, maybe not ever, but the idea of selling it, letting it go out of the family . . . Even though we’d decided that Mazz would live there and I only had a third, I somehow always thought I’d bring up my kids there.’
The night air was sharp as they left the restaurant, the sky over the High Street cloudless. The city lights put paid to any stars but a huge moon hung overhead, the grey lacework of craters like a veil over its face.
At Fyfield Road, the front garden was full of silver light, the steps clearly visible without help from the carriage lamp, and even in the hallway, the glow of the moon through the panels in the front door was enough to show the edge of the telephone table and the lamp, the shapes of the coats on the pegs. They kissed in the semi-darkness then went downstairs to get some water to take up to bed.
Adam went ahead of her but three steps into the kitchen, he stopped so abruptly Rowan almost trod on his heel. When she reached out to switch on the light, he grabbed her wrist.
‘What’s . . . ?’
In the dim light, she saw him hold a finger against his lips then point towards the window. ‘There’s someone in the garden,’ he murmured.
Rowan went cold.
He put up his hand, indicating that she should stay still, then stepped into the shadow of the units. Out of direct sight of the window, he began to move towards the back of the room.
Sweat broke out across her body; she felt it on her forehead and under her arms, between her breasts. No thoughts at first, just fear, but then they came spilling, one after another: this was it; Cory had been right that someone else knew, and now, in front of Adam, it was all going to come out. Everything was ruined, and all of it – trying to discover what happened to Marianne; dealing with Cory – had been for nothing. She hadn’t even been given a chance.
Adam reached the back of the kitchen and, stooping to stay hidden, manoeuvred his way to the door. He held up his hand again, Stay there, and for a second she considered running forward, creating a diversion so that whoever it was could get away. But before she could move, Adam reached for the key in the dish, shoved it into the lock and yanked the door open.
In the same second he sprang out on to the patio, Rowan saw a figure start up from behind the rhododendron at the end of the raised bed but, moving too fast, he slipped on the frosty grass and in the moment it took him to get both feet planted again, Adam was up the steps to the lawn. ‘You – get back here!’
He was fast but the other man was smaller and nimble, and he managed to get far enough ahead of Adam to be out of arm’s reach until, with a sharp cry, he tripped on the edge of the flagstone path and went sprawling.
With a guttural sound, Adam threw himself down on top of the man but then, across the freezing garden, she heard him say, ‘Oh, Christ.’
Between the navy beanie and the black Puffa jacket, Bryony’s face was milk-white. Despite the cold, her hands were bare and as she came into the kitchen, Rowan saw that her palms were bleeding. The knees of her jeans were muddy, too, and the left one was ripped.
‘I’m so sorry, Bryony,’ Adam said. ‘If I’d had any idea it was you . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have some bruises.’ She gave him a pale smile. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d like to be rugby-tackled by you.’
Had she looked in her direction as she’d said it? Rowan wasn’t sure. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said.
‘Here, let me see.’ Adam took the chair next to Bryony and gestured that she should hold out her hands. He grimaced. ‘There’s a lot of mud in there. You should probably have a tetanus jab tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘No, it’s not worth risking. I’ll take you to Casualty myself if you don’t want your dad to know.’
‘Thanks but I can do it on my own. Easy to explain to Dad, anyway. I’ll just say I fell over.’
Adam stood and went to the cabinet that housed the fuse box and the family’s first-aid supplies. At the bottom of the old ice-cream container where Jacqueline had kept them, he found three antiseptic wipes and a pair of tweezers. ‘Come and run them under the tap, get the worst off, then I’ll see what I can do.’
He directed a gentle stream of water over Bryony’s palms then brought her back to the table where he put a clean towel on his knees and bent over her left hand.
‘So what’s with the night manoeuvres?’ he asked, eyes trained on the tweezers. Bryony winced as he pulled out a piece of grit.