‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘Bryony told him as soon as she saw him the next day. He’d been in London overnight after a late dinner with a collector from India. That was why she was staying here. She did that if he was away, apparently; she didn’t like being alone in their house at night.’
‘Will you charge him? Aiding and abetting, would it be, or perverting the course of justice?’
‘That’s yet to be decided.’
‘Our opinion’s irrelevant, obviously,’ Adam said, ‘but if it did have any weight, I know I can speak for my mother when I say we’d never want that, charges against James. We’d never blame him for trying to protect his daughter.’
Keeping her face carefully composed, Rowan asked, ‘Theo, how about Cory?’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we don’t think Bryony was involved there. We’re a long way off knowing anything for certain but she told us she doesn’t know about it and I’d be really surprised if it turns out she’s lying. Obviously, we’re going to go over everything extremely carefully, we’re not going to take anything at face value, but first off, she’s admitted her involvement in your sister’s death, Adam, and to be frank, as a detective, you develop an instinct for these things after a while. Nine times out of ten – more than that – I find that if I think someone’s telling me the truth, they are.’ He looked directly at Rowan. ‘And vice versa.’
Making sure Adam couldn’t see, Rowan returned the look, stony-eyed.
‘You have to be careful with obvious explanations,’ Theo said. ‘It’s the easiest way to make mistakes.’
‘Also,’ said DS Grange, ‘the pathologist’s report isn’t in yet so we’re not even sure in that case whether we’re looking at anything unlawful at all.’
‘Thank you,’ Adam said as they showed the police out again. ‘For coming to tell us in person. And for being so . . . gentle about it. I appreciate it.’
To Rowan’s surprise, Theo reached out and put his hand on Adam’s arm in a gesture that reminded her of Jacqueline, her arm-rub of support and consolation. ‘No problem,’ he said.
‘We’ll keep you posted as soon as we know any more,’ said Grange, stepping out into the porch.
Theo patted his jacket pockets as if he were looking for his phone or making sure he had his keys. ‘Right,’ he said, apparently satisfied. ‘We’ll speak to you soon. Quickly, though, before we go, I’ve got to ask: how long have you two been together?’
Taken aback, Adam looked at him and then at Rowan. ‘Why have you got to ask?’
Theo gave a little shrug, playing it down. ‘Pure curiosity. And when we saw each other the other day, you didn’t mention you were in a relationship, Rowan.’
‘Well, maybe we weren’t then,’ Adam said, frowning. ‘We knew each other years ago, obviously, so we’ve known each other a long time, but actually, this – a romantic thing – can we even use the word relationship yet? – it’s brand new. Days.’
Thirty-seven
Adam couldn’t eat the soup she heated up so she made him a sandwich for the car instead. ‘I know you don’t want it now,’ she said, ‘but have a couple of bites later if you can, just to keep yourself going. Driving on an empty stomach, with all this going round in your head . . .’
‘I’ll take it slowly,’ he said. ‘And I’ll text you. Keep your phone with you.’
He took his coat down from the peg and Rowan saw a flash of the dark wool one she’d worn to the river. As he was putting on his scarf, however, footsteps crunched across the drive and, seconds later, a silhouette appeared in the glass door panel. When the bell rang, he looked at her. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
A single silhouette and smaller: not the police, then, or any of the big men who’d haunted the doorstep over the past couple of weeks. Instead, when Adam opened the door, Rowan saw a woman in a navy parka, a pair of black skinny jeans and heels. For a moment, madly, she thought it was Bryony but of course it couldn’t be: she was in custody.
This woman was blonde, too, but her hair was curly and cut short. The crisp afternoon sun shone behind her, creating a halo effect at her temples that reminded Rowan suddenly, startlingly, of Lorna on the day of the party.
‘Mr Glass?’
Her voice was softer than the outfit suggested, with the hint of a Yorkshire accent. With a defensive pang, Rowan recognised that she was pretty, too: navy-framed glasses halfway down a nose with freckles, the remnants of a tan that suggested Christmas skiing.
‘Yes,’ Adam said, cautious. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Hello. My name’s Georgina Parry, I’m with the Mail. I wanted to ask you about Michael Cory.’
Fear hit Rowan broadsides and as if she’d actually been knocked off her feet, tumbled underwater, she had to fight for breath. The hallway swam in front of her eyes.
Half an hour ago, while she’d been in the kitchen, Adam had answered the landline. The call had lasted less than a minute, she hadn’t got into a position to hear what he was saying before he’d hung up. He’d come straight downstairs, anyway, his jaw clenched. ‘It’s started.’
‘What has?’