Was that why Marianne had jumped? Perhaps she hadn’t meant to say anything – why would she, suddenly, after so many years? – but he’d got to her. Was that why she’d sent the card? Was that why she’d been frightened, needed Rowan’s help? With a sick feeling, she thought of the five days it had taken to reach her.
A pattering sound pulled her out of her thoughts. The snow had turned to slush, and the clumps falling beyond the shelter of the upper balcony, inches from her feet, were so wet they melted on contact. The cold of the concrete reached through her jeans and woollen coat into her bones.
Why was Cory doing this, really? His portrait, some spurious rubbish about the ‘truth’ of a person? Rowan felt another surge of anger. What crap. It was about publicity, fame – his fame. The Hanna Ferrara story wasn’t an unfortunate turn of events – you didn’t need many operational brain cells to know that painting one of the world’s most famous women complete with an eight-inch penis would get you media attention. No, what would take brainwork was devising a way to top that, up the stakes, keep yourself newsworthy. Unveiling a high-profile young artist as a killer, though – that might do it.
—
She stayed too long by the river and when she reached the gate out of the meadow, it was locked for the night. Nine in summer, said the sign, dusk in winter. The railings by Christ Church and the gate between Corpus Christi and Merton were both too high to climb so she had no choice but to stumble all the way back to the river in the dark to see if she could still get out behind the Head of the River pub. As students, she and three or four others from Brasenose – Theo was there – had found a way through when they’d crashed Corpus Ball but the sky had been lighter then, a summer’s night, and the back of the pub had been much better lit. They’d been laughing, already slightly drunk, on an adventure, but now she was on her own, wet and shaking with cold. In the intervening decade, the thicket of elder and bramble in which the railings were embedded had grown very nearly impenetrable, and she cut her hands and left cheek as she fought her way through.
The slush had become rain and, finally, drizzle, and hazy orange clouds hung below the streetlights on Folly Bridge. The pavement was black. As she trudged back up St Aldate’s past the police station, she was overtaken by exhaustion. Walking to Fyfield Road would take at least half an hour.
She turned to look over her shoulder and as if she had willed it into existence, a cab with its light on came around the corner. Her hips ached as she lowered herself into the back seat and gave the address.
Head against the rain-speckled window, she watched the city pass, shops closing, the pubs coming to life. Her worst fear had been realised but at least, she tried to console herself, the situation had come into clearer focus. At least she had an idea of what she was facing now.
She lit a fire as soon as she arrived back but even after a bath and a large glass of wine, she couldn’t warm up. Her hands shook so badly as she buttered a slice of toast that she dropped the knife and sent it skittering across the kitchen floor.
Finally, just after ten, she filled both the hot-water bottles in the airing cupboard, put an extra blanket on the bed and got in. She turned the light off but, almost immediately, her head filled with the kind of thoughts that morphed into horrifying nightmares so she switched the lamp back on and reached for her book.
She was still reading two hours later when, outside the window, there was a scraping sound – a scratch. At once, her body went rigid. Seconds passed, pressure building in her ears from the intensity of the listening. A tick from the floorboards as the house cooled, a clank from the radiator but, otherwise, silence. She’d imagined it or misheard – the day had been so extreme, she was so tired. She listened a few seconds longer then forced herself to relax her shoulders.
Not a scratch this time but a squeak – rubber on wet stone. A shoe. A trainer.
The hairs on her arms stood up. What should she do? The light was on, she couldn’t look out of the window without risking being seen, but turning it off might draw attention, too.
As quietly as possible, she pushed off the blankets. Marianne’s dressing gown was on the back of the door; she put it on and slipped her phone into the pocket. The door handle screeched. On the landing, she took one of the heavy brass candlesticks from the table outside Seb’s office and crept downstairs.
Hand flat against the wall, she made her way to the kitchen. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, a faint glow came in from outside, making it easier to see. Keeping close to the shadow around the cabinets, she edged to the back of the room and leaned forward until she had a view through the window over the sink.