Putting the phone back in her pocket, she felt Bryony’s again and remembered why she’d come here: Greenwood.
The velocity with which he’d sent Theo in her direction had piqued her interest at once. Why had he been so keen to do that? Directing the police to Jacqueline or Adam made sense – it was their daughter and sister whom Cory had been friends with – but to Rowan, specifically? Was he trying to deflect attention from himself? And if so, why?
What if he’d got wind of the situation between Marianne and Cory after all? Maybe Marianne had even told him, tried to end their relationship. But then what? Had he driven her to jump? Threatened her? With what? Dumping her from the gallery? No, that wouldn’t have mattered very much – the letters in her box of paperwork showed how many other options she had. What if he’d discovered what she’d done to Lorna? Rowan’s stomach turned over but then she remembered how upset he’d been in the studio that afternoon, how defensive of her. And anyway, how would he have found out? No, it didn’t feel right, none of it added up. But there was something. Something . . .
She turned onto Southmoor Road and walked along until she came to the house that Bryony had gone into last night. Opening the little gate from the street, she went up the path to the door. The glass in the bay window on the raised ground floor shone like water, cleaned very recently, and through it she could see exactly the sort of sitting room she’d imagined Greenwood would have: heavy lined curtains, an abstract oil above the original fireplace, books packed tight on the shelves either side. She felt another flush of anger at Marianne: she was so spoiled, she always had been. To have all this and even consider giving it up.
As Rowan pressed the bell, the telephone rang inside. A few seconds later, there were footsteps on a wooden floor and James Greenwood’s patrician voice as he answered. Then the deadbolt clunked and the door cracked open. Surprise and annoyance and, she thought, a hint of relief flickered across his face before they disappeared behind a mask of bland good manners. He pointed at the phone by his ear and held up a finger.
‘Saul, can I call you back? I’ve got someone at the door. Yes, on your cell – a minute or two.’
Greenwood put the handset on the stand then came back to the door. He’d barely said her name before the phone started ringing again.
‘Please,’ Rowan said, ‘do get it. I can wait.’
‘They’ll call back, whoever it is. But how can I help? The media’s got hold of the news about Michael and the phone’s ringing off the hook, as you can see, so I really haven’t got time to . . .’
‘No, of course. I won’t hold you up: I just came to drop off Bryony’s mobile. She left it at Fyfield Road yesterday.’
It was a simple thing, a small and simple thing, and if she’d been anyone else – if she hadn’t been her father’s daughter – she might have missed it.
At the mention of Bryony and Fyfield Road, a momentary but unmistakable look of alarm crossed James Greenwood’s face and Rowan realised that she was right: he was afraid. But of what?
Making no attempt at subtlety, she peered behind him into the house. All was good taste and order: a sisal stair carpet and another abstract oil, the hall table with the phone and a glass-based lamp. And then, this side of the table, lined up neatly next to one another on pages of newsprint as if to dry off after a walk together, two pairs of wellies, father’s and daughter’s: his basic dull green ones of the kind that cost a tenner, hers navy Hunters. Envy was her first response – not for you, Rowan, a dad like that; closeness like that. Her second was navy Hunters.
Greenwood seemed to see the flare that went up in her mind and he moved closer to the doorway, blocking her view. ‘Was there anything else?’ he said, voice icy.
She put her hand on the jamb, preventing him from shutting the door. ‘Are those Bryony’s boots, James?’
A look passed between them, and along with the fear in Greenwood’s eyes, Rowan saw pure hatred. ‘Are they?’ she pressed.
She moved her fingers just before he slammed the door in her face.
The rain started as she stepped out from under the porch, and by the time she reached Walton Well Road again, barely a minute later, it was coming down hard and cold, driven by the pernicious breeze that had sprung up as enforcer. Rowan barely noticed: she was dizzy with revelation, almost ecstatic. If earlier she’d been frightened that her face would give away her guilt, now she was afraid that anyone passing would be struck by her euphoric relief.