He pocketed his change and returned, sliding onto the bench and taking a pint pot of pistachios from the deep hip pocket of his coat. ‘Here. Dive in.’ He touched the rim of his beer glass to hers. ‘So what are you doing back?’
She told him about the doctorate and the Bodleian archives. ‘But you’re obviously doing really well,’ she said. ‘I saw you on TV just before Christmas with the Marley Farm thing. Chief Inspector Theo Marsh at Oxford Crown Court – I nearly fell off the sofa.’
‘You saw that? God, how embarrassing.’
‘No, you looked good – television suits you. Nasty case, though.’ It had been a murder trial, a pair of broke, semi-literate brothers who’d been siphoning diesel from a tractor when they’d been caught by the farmer and shot in the back. It had become a national news story that led to much debate in the papers and on Question Time about rural poverty and inadequate policing.
‘It was a mess,’ Theo said. ‘Glad it’s over.’
‘You like it, though, generally – the police?’
He nodded. ‘Love it, sometimes. Even though everyone else seems to wish I were a corporate lawyer.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Well, my parents. Police pay? Goodbye, retirement villa in Spain.’ He pulled a face. ‘Poor Mum – I’m an ungrateful sod. But I’ve wanted to be a detective since I saw The Pink Panther. The cartoon version.’
He sipped his beer. ‘I’ve thought about you lately, too,’ he said. ‘Which was why I was so startled when you rang. It was like I’d summoned you.’
‘Really?’ She looked at him. ‘Why were you thinking about me?’ She reached for the nuts.
‘Marianne Glass – your friend.’
Rowan put the pistachios down. ‘I wondered if you would remember.’
‘Of course I did.’
Theo, she’d thought earlier, must have met Marianne two or three times when she’d come back from London to visit Rowan at college. She’d always made an impression on the men she met; every time she came, Rowan spent a couple of galling days afterwards fielding unsubtle enquiries from people who would never have been interested in her. Theo had never been one of the enquirers, though, and, anyway, they’d all been out of luck because Marianne had started seeing someone almost as soon as she’d arrived at the Slade.
‘That’s partly why I’m back, too,’ said Rowan. ‘The timing, anyway. I’m house-sitting, to help her mother out.’
‘The house in Park Town?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Big place. Are you there on your own?’
‘You know it, then?’
‘I was advising the Investigating Officer on the case – for as long as it lasted.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, there was no one else involved, it was obvious, so . . .’
‘How did you know?’ Rowan looked at him over the rim of her glass.
‘She was on her own when it happened. It’s frustrating not to be able to say for sure why or how she fell—’ He broke off. ‘Sorry. Are you sure you want to talk about this?’
‘Yes, it’s okay. Had she been drinking?’
‘No more than a glass. Why do you ask?’
‘No particular reason. About the booze, I mean – it’s not like she had a problem. Generally, about the accident, if that’s what it was . . . It’s just, I’ve got so many questions – I hadn’t spoken to Mazz for ages – but the people who might know are the ones I can’t ask. I can’t talk to her family about whether she might have jumped.’
He frowned. ‘Why? Do you think she did?’
‘Like I said, I hadn’t spoken to her. But . . . well, she’d been depressed in the past, after her father died, so I suppose it’s possible she might have been again. Jacqueline says not, though – the little she’s told me.’
‘Strictly,’ said Theo, ‘I shouldn’t talk about it, confidentiality, et cetera, but we – the police – are sure it was an accident. There was no evidence she was depressed and there were a lot of reasons why she wouldn’t have been: she was in a good relationship, she had an exhibition coming up . . .’
‘In New York. It was one of her dreams.’ Rowan drained her glass. ‘I don’t know. The thing is, I keep thinking about how scared she was of heights. We used to go up on the roof a lot and she never went anywhere near the edge.’
‘When were you last up there with her?’
‘Years ago,’ she admitted. ‘Before her dad died.’
‘People change, you know.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘It’s hard, I know it is, and it’s still really fresh but I don’t think you need to torment yourself by thinking about suicide. Honestly.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
He picked up their glasses and stood. ‘Let’s have another drink.’
‘Did you hear about Clare Donaghue?’ he asked, cracking a pistachio with his thumbnail. ‘She and her husband – Simon, he’s a good bloke – they’d been trying for ages to have a baby, nothing going on, then she had IVF and had triplets.’ He grinned. ‘Three girls.’