‘I’m . . . heart-broken,’ Jacqueline said, as if she understood the true meaning of the word for the first time. Then, after a pause, ‘Marianne’s dead, Rowan.’ The sound again, its eerie, awful note. ‘She came off the roof into the garden. Her neck . . .’
A momentary flash, the floor giving way underfoot, and the horrifying image of a body in freefall.
Jacqueline was talking and crying at the same time. ‘It was Sunday night, in the snow, but she wasn’t found until Monday morning. She was out there all night in the dark. She was soaking – freezing cold. Her skin – Rowan, they told me her fingers were frozen. I can’t stand thinking about it but I can’t stop—’ She broke off and started sobbing desperately.
Marianne’s hands – the long fingers with the nails she’d kept short for her work, always stained with ink or paint. Her hands – frozen, white. Lifeless. Rowan closed her eyes as pain and horror swept through her.
In the dark hallway, the sound of Jacqueline’s sobs was harrowing, too much to bear. Rowan put out a hand and ran it up and down the wall’s cold flank. Where the hell was the light button? She was on the brink of tears herself now, grief threatening to bubble up and overwhelm her. She took a deep breath but her voice shook as she said, ‘Came off – do you mean, she . . . slipped?’
A hard swallow at the other end, an audible attempt at control. ‘The police said it was an accident. She used to go up there for cigarettes when she was working – you remember, don’t you?’
I remember everything. ‘She was still doing that?’
‘In the snow, the roof would have been slippery and . . . she slipped,’ said Jacqueline, and to her horror, Rowan understood that she was telling herself, too. ‘But no one saw her. No one can tell us what actually happened. After Seb died . . . I used to worry – I banned her from going up there – you remember?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Rowan’s skin was prickling, cold running down her back. ‘Jacqueline, there’s no chance she could have . . . ?’ She couldn’t say the words. ‘She didn’t . . . ? I mean, did it ever come back? The depression.’
‘No. I don’t think so. She’d have told me, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t have tried to hide it? But I don’t know – unless she thought it would hurt me.’ A gulp. ‘As if anything could hurt as much as this.’
‘There wasn’t anything going on that might have upset her? Brought it back?’
‘No. Everything was going so well. Her work – she’s got a show coming up in New York, a solo exhibition . . .’ Jacqueline stopped talking and for a moment there was silence on the line.
Rowan heard footsteps outside and then the rattle of keys against the front door. Before she could compose herself, the door swung open and the fox-faced man from the ground-floor flat slapped the light on. Blinking, she raised a hand, as if it were completely to be expected that she would be standing here in the dark. She felt his eyes on her back as she gripped the key in the lock and forced it. At last, the door yawned open, revealing the steep flight of stairs immediately on the other side.
‘Jacqueline,’ she said, but the back of her throat was dry; she coughed, tried to swallow. ‘I’m so, so sorry. What can I do? I’m still in London, just south of the river – if there’s anything you need, anything at all, will you tell me?’ She reached the top of the stairs and carried the fish and chips to the kitchen where she dropped them straight in the bin. ‘I’m studying at the moment, I’m a student, so I’m around, I’m flexible.’
‘Thank you.’ There was another pause. When she spoke again, Jacqueline’s voice had an edge that Rowan could only remember hearing once before, that dreadful night in the kitchen. ‘I had a call this morning,’ she said.
Rowan felt a cold hand come to rest on the back of her neck. ‘A call?’
‘From some poisonous little cretin at the Mail. He wanted my “reaction”. My reaction. Can you imagine?’ The horrible keening wheeze again, twisted with laughter. ‘What did he think my reaction was going to be?’
‘My God, that’s . . . monstrous.’
‘It’s not just the Mail – they’re all here. I’m surrounded.’
‘What?’
‘Men with cameras – just like old times, sitting across the street in their cars. Waiting. I hate them,’ she said savagely. ‘I want to fetch Ad’s old cricket bat from under the stairs and get out there and batter them, crack their heads open. I would – if it weren’t for him, I’d do it. Can’t you see it? A picture of me on the front page of the Mail, all pig-eyed and wild. Bereaved Mother of Sex-scandal Artist Hits Out.’ The laughter became bleak sobbing.
‘Jacqueline . . .’ But what could she say? What would make the slightest difference?
‘It’s all right.’ With an effort, she brought the crying under control. ‘It’ll die down when they realise there’s no fresh meat. They’ll just rehash the old stories and move on. But if they do track you down, could you . . . ?’