Four letters came from galleries hoping to lure Marianne away from James Greenwood. Painstakingly worded – Rowan imagined their writers labouring over every phrase – they boasted about the careers they had made and let her know that should she ever think of changing representation, ‘for whatever reason’ as one of them said, they would be delighted to talk to her. Two went so far as to suggest meetings. Were they just fishing or had there been rumours that Marianne might move? If so, what did that say about her relationship with Greenwood?
Another request for a university visit; an invitation to contribute to a literary journal discussing the body in contemporary art; a batch of printed emails about an interview for a German magazine; and then an eau de nil envelope embossed with the linked Gs of the Greenwood Gallery. It had been opened but the paperwork was still inside. Easing it out, Rowan saw a remittance advice form dated November for a work referred to as Eldritch. The amount at the bottom, transferred by BACS to Marianne’s account, it said, was ￡227,500 plus VAT. The payment was net of the gallery’s commission of thirty-five per cent: the sale price of the picture had been ￡350,000. For a few seconds, Rowan stared at the numbers. She’d known, of course, that Marianne’s work sold for a lot of money, she’d even guessed at these sorts of prices, but it was something else to see it. A third of a million for one picture.
It took two hours to work through the box but there was nothing that hinted at any discord in Marianne’s life, nothing suspicious. The only thing Rowan noted mentally was how much money James Greenwood was making from her work. His cut on Eldritch alone had been ￡122,500 and by the time she reached the end of the papers, Rowan had counted another five remittances with sums similar and, in one case, bigger. If Marianne had been earning a lot of money, so had he.
Eight
The Gloc wasn’t an obvious place for a senior policeman to drink but Rowan had known Theo would suggest it. Where else would he have chosen? As soon as she pushed open the door, familiarity wrapped itself around her along with the smell of warm beer. The walls of the tiny vestibule were crusted with flyers for metal gigs and motorbike-repair ads, just as they always had been, and AC/DC were on the jukebox, ‘Back in Black’. The barman had a head of hair to rival a young Ozzy Osbourne.
It was darker inside than out. When her eyes adapted, she ordered a pint of the IPA and took it to one of the dim alcoves that contained the seating.
She’d been here a few times with Marianne back in the days when they’d relied on the fail-proof ID Turk had had made for them, but The Gloc – The Gloucester Arms – really belonged to her time at university, when she’d come once a week or so with a group from Brasenose that also included Theo. Hidden down an alleyway off towny Gloucester Green, this old pub with its low ceiling, wooden floor and exclusively metal playlist had been their way of checking back in with the real world. From her current vantage point, she could see a pair of bearded dudes in their fifties wearing T-shirts and leather waistcoats, and a couple in his-and-hers biker jackets who looked as if they’d been sitting there since the last time she’d been in. The only real change was the absence of smoke: back then, before the ban, it had swirled overhead a foot thick by the end of an evening.
Metallica took over on the jukebox. Ten to seven. She was early but having been alone in the house all day, it was a relief to get out. This afternoon, she’d been in Marianne’s new bedroom on the first floor but it hadn’t told her much. She didn’t seem to have spent much time there: there was no radio or television, and the only book on her bedside table was a well-thumbed copy of Bodies by Susie Orbach. The one photograph showed her with Adam and Jacqueline at the dining table, a recent Christmas, judging by the ivy woven around the candlesticks. Who’d taken it? Fintan or James Greenwood? She hadn’t seen or heard of one at the funeral but perhaps Adam had a girlfriend.
‘Rowan.’
She looked up sharply to see Theo standing beside the little table.
‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
She shook her head. ‘You didn’t.’ She edged round to give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you.’
‘And you, though I almost didn’t. Was it always this dark in here?’ It was still there, she thought, the faint stamp that growing up in the Black Country had put on his accent.
‘I think so, but we were always too wasted to notice.’
He grinned. ‘On which note, to the bar.’ He nodded at her glass, eyebrows up.
‘No, fine for now. Thanks.’
She watched as he gave his order to Ozzy, stooping slightly to be seen under the rack of hanging glasses. He’d come straight from the office – the station – and under the long black coat, he wore a dark jacket and white shirt that made her think of school uniform. Theo had always been boyish. Possibly it was his amiable expression – he’d had smile lines around his eyes at twenty – or perhaps it was the hair, which was dirty-blond, thick and cut in a sort of thatchy non-style. Like a tow-headed toddler’s, post rough-and-tumble, she thought, describing it for Marianne.