They waited for Theo and Grange in the sitting room. When Rowan heard their feet coming up the front steps, she felt another rush of adrenaline. It was as if she were walking a tightrope over a dizzying gully, peace on the far side, the promise of a future with Adam, but first the narrow cable underfoot, the knowledge that any misstep now could be ruinous.
Coming in from Benson Place, she’d allowed herself a single nerve-settling brandy. Adam had arrived back just after six so she’d had two and a half hours to work out the best way to make known what she’d discovered while attracting minimum limelight herself. She’d realised at once that going direct to Theo could backfire dangerously. She imagined the puzzled frown above those twinkling eyes: So this morning you knew nothing at all, Rowan, and now, suddenly, you bring us the scalp of Marianne’s killer?
Adam had seen Bryony’s phone on the table this morning, however, and before he left, she’d told him that to pass some time and keep herself occupied – she couldn’t study today, after hearing the news – she would walk over to Southmoor Road and return it. It was a small thing, just an innocent-seeming seed, but what she had to say would seem all the more plausible for having grown from it.
But there was also the question of time. On the one hand, it wasn’t good that her discovery had come so close on the heels of the news of Cory’s death – Greenwood’s haste was what had drawn her attention, after all – but on the other, the sooner focus shifted to Bryony, the better. Theo’s phone call had shown her how thoughtfully he was working. She imagined him doing his jigsaw puzzle in the same methodical way as the Glasses at Christmas, separating out the edge pieces, making the frame, then patiently – piece by piece, minute by minute – building the picture. The two and a half hours she’d waited for Adam had seemed an eternity.
As soon as he came through the door, he’d known from her face that something had happened. ‘Tell me,’ he said. When she’d finished, he sat with his head in his hands for a full minute. ‘This is a nightmare,’ he said finally.
‘I’m so sorry, Adam.’
‘There’s no way you’re making a mistake?’
‘It’s possible – anything’s possible. I mean, we won’t know for sure until the police talk to her – but James’ response – the way he slammed the door in my face like that . . . I don’t think so.’
Her mind had proffered another image of Theo at his jigsaw and she’d felt almost mad with frustration. Come on, Adam, she wanted to shout, call the police, do it, but even after he’d fetched his phone, he’d hesitated. ‘I like them, Rowan,’ he said. ‘Both of them. Greenwood’s a good man. And Bryony – she’s so young. This—’ He made a despairing gesture, raising his hands from his knees then letting them fall limply back. ‘Even if it’s true, doing this . . . I feel dirty.’
Though he’d made the call, he let her tell the police the story. ‘It was you who worked it out, Ro.’
Theo and Grange barely uttered a word while she told them about Bryony’s phone, the boots in the hallway, Greenwood’s alarm, Martin Johnson’s confirmation. All the time she was talking, her heart fluttered with anxiety, at times seeming to stop altogether and then giving a run of sharp, clutching beats that threatened to take her breath away. And their eyes seemed not to leave her face for a moment, even though DS Grange made note after note in the book balanced on his knee.
She’d expected them to be excited by such a major break – the solution, potentially – but instead Theo in particular was muted, even deflated. She thought of Cory the day he’d broken into the house and found Marianne’s drawing, the way the light in him had seemed to go out. She wondered if Theo was embarrassed. She, an amateur, had managed to work out that Bryony had been there the night of Mazz’s death while his investigation had concluded it was an accident.
He looked at her, face solemn. ‘This is a very serious allegation, Rowan.’
‘It’s not an allegation,’ she said. ‘They’re observations. Thoughts.’
‘No. If you’re right, you’ve given us motive and opportunity.’
‘Bryony was eighteen just before Christmas, she had a party,’ Adam said suddenly. ‘If she did . . . I mean, if she was . . . involved, she’ll be tried as an adult, won’t she? Not a juvenile.’
Rowan thought she saw sympathy in Theo’s eyes. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he said. ‘There could still be a completely different explanation. We need to talk to her.’ He stood up from the sofa then looked at DS Grange, who was flipping back through his notes as if he were searching for something. ‘Okay, David?’
‘Just to double-check I’ve got everything straight,’ he said. ‘The footprints in the snow we know about – you told Ms Winter about those when you met for drinks.’ Drinks. Rowan saw the tangle of sheets on the bed upstairs, Theo’s blond head next to hers on the pillow, the fine hair on his chest so unlike Adam’s thick dark mat.
He avoided her eye. ‘Yes.’
‘But the information about the shoe size, or Marianne and Bryony sharing shoes at least – that came from Peter Turk?’
She nodded.