The women at the next table were leaving, taking their time to put on coats and gather their shopping, and it dawned on Rowan that he was waiting for them to go. She felt a burst of alarm that she quickly fought down. Whatever he was about to say or do, she had to stay calm. She sipped her coffee and tried to look as if it were natural for them to sit in silence.
Eventually the women moved out of earshot and Cory raised his head. He glanced around and then leaned forward. ‘Look,’ he said, barely audible. ‘I think we should level with one another.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Clearly you’re suspicious about Marianne’s death and so am I.’ He looked around again. The café was busy, though, the table next to them the only one vacant now, and with the stone floor and plate-glass window, the acoustics were awful: it would be hard for anyone to hear him over the ambient roar of conversation, the coffee machine, the clatter of plates and cutlery.
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I went up on the roof with her three times, Rowan. I thought she was joking about the vertigo until I saw it. She was fucking terrified – terrified. There’s no way that she went near the edge and slipped. That’s bullshit.’
Rowan looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘So something else happened.’
‘But she was on her own – no one else was there.’
‘They’re sure?’
Sparing him the details of how she’d come by the information, she told him what Theo had said about the footprints.
‘And there’s no way someone could have been hiding in the house before it started snowing and then left afterwards?’
‘He said not. They searched the place top to bottom.’
Cory sat back heavily in his chair, as if he’d been listening to a long story and had finally heard the ending he’d been dreading. ‘You looked at the pictures again?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘When we talked, she kept coming back to dying – death. Almost every time. The idea of it, the absolute finality.’
Rowan stared at him. ‘Did you know she’d had a breakdown? Did she talk to you about that?’
‘When her father died? Yes, she did.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell anyone she was obsessed with dying? Or suggest it might be a good idea to get some help?’ Her voice drew the attention of the couple sitting two tables over, who looked up, startled, then quickly looked away.
Saying nothing, Cory turned around, motioned for the bill and stood up. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He walked fast, striding through the market as if he were the only real thing in it, the tables outside the café, the shop-fronts and other people all just stage-setting for a drama in which he was the lead. Angry, she followed him, weaving around window shoppers and a double buggy, struggling to keep him in sight. He headed towards the High Street, barely looking over his shoulder. The snow was falling faster, starting to settle now where it wasn’t disturbed, and as he came out onto the pavement, he pulled a blue knitted hat from his pocket. She saw him look at the road, assessing his chances, but the lights had just turned green and a line of city buses revved at the crossing, engines emitting clouds of oily breath. As they waited, not speaking, Cory lifted his chin and offered his broad face to the sky.
Across the road, he headed towards Carfax then turned the corner on to St Aldate’s. ‘Where are we going?’ she called to his back.
‘Somewhere we can talk.’
Past the entrance to Christ Church and on towards the river. Her heart was beating quickly, half in alarm, half because of the sheer speed at which he was forcing her to move. The pavement was slick, and twice she slipped and nearly fell.
When they reached the gate to the meadow, he made an abrupt left. Untrodden, the lawns of the formal college gardens were white over. The cathedral loomed, a dark hulk against the marbled sky. A group of tourists was taking pictures from the flagged path but for the first time she could remember, the wide unpaved avenue that bordered the meadow itself was deserted, not a soul in sight. Nonetheless, Cory went halfway to the river before he started to slow down.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘The reason I didn’t try and get help for her,’ he said, spinning round, ‘is that I didn’t think she was talking about suicide. Okay? You think I would have stood by and let that happen? You think I’m a monster? For fuck’s sake!’
‘What am I supposed to think? You tell me her pictures of dying girls are self-portraits, you tell me she couldn’t stop talking about death . . .’
‘Yes! I said she couldn’t stop talking about death. Death. Not suicide.’
Rowan felt rage billow through her, hot and red. ‘You . . .’
‘They’re a self-portrait because they describe how she felt. Eaten – consumed, you remember?’
She opened her mouth but anger made her temporarily speechless. She took a breath. ‘Everyone says she was happy – or content. She had so much good stuff going on, things to look forward to. She was . . .’
Cory nodded, as if she was finally getting it. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Marianne wasn’t suicidal.’