She glanced around then went up the short path to the second door along. There were three buttons on the intercom box, and through the glass panel, she saw a brass ‘1’ on the door of the ground-floor flat. The strip of card next to the buzzer for number 3 said ‘Johnson’ but again, she thought, that needn’t be definitive. Maybe Cory put it in to deflect attention or maybe he was sub-letting the place. Ha, said Turk in her ear again.
In broad daylight, noon on a weekday afternoon, it was true the idea seemed ridiculous – how likely was it, honestly, that Michael Cory was lurking here, amusing himself by spying on her across the back gardens? But maybe he wasn’t lurking, at least to his own way of thinking. What if he’d taken the flat to be close to Marianne and now couldn’t bring himself to leave? She purposely hadn’t said anything to Turk but she couldn’t yet rule out the possibility that Marianne and Cory had been in a relationship.
Rowan reached up to press the button – she could lay the whole thing to rest right now – but then she stopped. If it wasn’t Cory in the flat, it would be hard to explain herself, and if by some remote chance it was, she didn’t want to show her hand until she had at least some idea of what he was doing.
When she emerged from the pedestrian shortcut on to Charlbury Road and took off the cap, she saw a line of cloud advancing across the sky. By the time she reached St Helena’s, it was halfway over, a curdled grey cover on an azure pool, its edge bruised yellow.
She took the same spot by the laurel bush and waited. Three minutes after the bell rang for lunch, girls started coming through the gate, some in groups that Rowan recognised from last time. They looked up at the sky and rearranged their enormous scarves, shoved hands into blazer pockets. She rehearsed her approach. With luck, Bryony would come out in a group; it would be easier to get her to talk for a few minutes if she didn’t have to keep a lone friend waiting. Rowan stamped her feet surreptitiously as the body heat she’d generated on the walk began to dissipate. Come on, Bryony.
For five minutes, the gate seemed to open every few seconds but then the gaps lengthened, became a minute, then two. Just before one o’clock, a handful of those who’d been first out returned with M&S carrier bags and vats from Starbucks. She waited until ten minutes past then put her phone back in her pocket and turned to go. Those who were coming out this lunchtime were out; she’d missed Bryony somehow or she’d decided to keep warm and eat at school. Either way, Rowan couldn’t wait any longer.
A number of bus routes ran down the Banbury Road, a straight shot to the city centre, but she kept walking. She felt jumpy, over-caffeinated even though she wasn’t, and walking helped, the beat of her feet along the pavement regulating the rhythm of her heart. The air was static, expectant.
The first tentative flakes of snow started to fall as she passed the Lamb and Flag, and as she rounded the corner onto Broad Street, she experienced a flash of déjà vu: the afternoon she’d bumped into Seb just here, it had been snowing, too. She’d been coming from a lecture at the Taylorian, heading back to college for lunch, when she’d collided with him coming out of the porter’s lodge at Balliol. He’d been on the phone, of course, not looking where he was going, and he’d put his spare hand out and said a distracted sorry before doing a double-take. Then he’d smiled broadly and mouthed, Hold on a moment.
‘Richard? I’ll call you back. I’ve just bumped into a friend.’
A friend, not ‘my daughter’s friend’ or even ‘a family friend’ – it was a casual phrase but she’d been charmed.
‘How are you?’ He’d dropped the phone into his pocket and leaned in to kiss her cheek. A momentary impression of stubble, warm skin, coffee. ‘We haven’t seen you in weeks. Here—’ He stepped back under the cover of the archway, out of the snow.
‘Finals next year,’ she said, following. ‘The work’s starting to ratchet up.’
‘Of course, yes. I haven’t seen Marianne since October, either. She’s been holed up in that garage in Bethnal Green painting all the hours that God sends, apparently.’
Rowan smiled: that garage. ‘I went down to see her a couple of weekends ago.’
‘Did you? So she’s still alive? That’s good.’ He buttoned his coat and she’d thought he was about to say that it was nice to run into her and no doubt they’d see her at Christmas when Mazz was back, but instead he’d checked his watch and asked what she was doing.
‘Now?’ she’d asked, surprised.
‘Yes. I was on my way to the White Horse. Have you had lunch?’
‘I was just heading back to college to do that.’