Nothing. The lawn was empty and so – she craned, looking right – was the patio. She peered into the shadows around the shed and down at the far end by the wall beyond the birches. Nothing. In the time it had taken her to get down, had he gone?
She let go of the breath she’d been holding then almost immediately froze again. There was something. There, behind the rhododendron at the end of the bed above the patio, just visible, a – shape, a black absence of light. As she stared, it began to take on form: an elbow, a knee. A hood.
She gripped the candlestick. The police – she reached for her phone then stopped. Cory knew.
The shape took on greater definition. He was facing away from the house, she realised, not towards it: she was looking at the tip of a shoulder, a back. He wasn’t crouched but sitting on the stones at the edge of the flowerbed, just a few feet from where Marianne had fallen.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Did he know she was watching? Did he think he was hidden there, behind the bush? Then she realised something else. Cory was big – tall and broad. The darkness, the palimpsest of shadow around the bush, made it hard to be sure, but the figure looked slighter than he was.
Silently, she stepped away from the window and crept back to the stairs. At the little window at the turn, she paused and looked out. He was still there.
On the first floor she opened the door to Seb’s study and slipped inside, tensing at every creak of the old boards. The spines of his books gleamed in the half-light. She moved towards the window.
Still there. Reaching up, she felt the catch on top of the sash. She expected a shriek, brass on brass, but the movement was smooth, as if the window had been opened recently. Bending, she got hold of the handles then shoved the window as hard as she could. Without resistance, it slipped up the runners and slammed against the top.
She saw him start and scramble sideways, almost falling as he got to his feet. A flash of white inside the hood, white hands, but he dipped his head, hiding his face, and darted into the shadow of the garden shed.
‘Hey!’ she shouted, leaning out, but all she heard was the soft sound of trainers on flagstones and then the crunch of the gravel path. She ran across the landing to Seb and Jacqueline’s bedroom but their window was stiff and it took three attempts and all her upper-body strength to force the lower pane. There – it screeched upwards just as the hooded figure rounded the end of the front wall and was lost from sight. She listened to the footfalls on the pavement until they faded from hearing, sure she was right: Cory was too big – too heavy – to be so light on his feet.
Nineteen
‘What happened to your face?’
And good morning to you. Still half-asleep, Rowan put up a hand and felt the raised line across her cheek. ‘It’s just a scratch.’ He waited but she declined to elaborate. Why should she?
But perhaps she should be grateful. He’d woken her from a dream in which smoke had been filling a small low-ceilinged room with wooden walls, the air rapidly growing acrid, more and more difficult to breathe. A fire alarm had started ringing and she’d woken, breathing hard, only understanding when it rang again that it was the doorbell. A moment later, she remembered that Savills were coming to do the valuation, and she got up quickly and threw on some clothes. Instead of the agent, though, here was Cory, take-away coffees and a white paper bag in hand. The light in the sky behind him was weak, the sun still low.
‘What time is it?’ She suppressed a yawn.
‘A few minutes before nine. I woke you.’
‘No, I was up.’
He nodded, Sure, and handed her one of the paper cups. ‘Can I come in?’
On the stairs to the kitchen, Rowan remembered the same spot at midnight, looking out of the little window. She’d lain awake until after three, despite having taken more of Marianne’s Ambien. Her mind had been spinning, a whirl of progressively more alarming possibilities.
‘Plain croissant or chocolate?’ He pulled out a chair at the table and opened the bag. He seemed somehow to have concluded that they were in this together, she realised; this was morning conference.
She weighed her options before deciding on the element of surprise. ‘Was that you in the garden last night?’
‘What?’
‘Were you in the garden last night? About midnight – just after.’ She was watching him carefully but if his puzzled expression was put on, it was very good.
‘Someone was here?’
‘Someone working for you – a researcher? An assistant?’
Cory looked at her as if she were gibbering. ‘Researcher? What are you talking about?’
‘You really don’t know? You’re telling me the truth?’
‘You think I’m sneaking into the garden at night? Or sending someone. Seriously? To do what?’
‘Watch the house.’
For a moment Cory looked as if he were going to laugh but as fast as the humour lit up his face, it died absolutely. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it wasn’t me – nothing to do with me. Here – sit down.’