He shook his head. ‘Whatever Marianne did, the truth deserves to be known. And if she did kill someone, clearly it was an accident. Maybe she hit someone in the car. Perhaps it was self-defence – maybe someone broke in here. Something like that – an accident, plain bad luck or one bad decision. For God’s sake, I’m not saying she was a murderer.’
When the estate agent had gone, too, Rowan lay down on Jacqueline’s reading sofa and covered herself with the old tartan blanket. Pulling it close around her shoulders, she allowed herself to imagine for a moment that it was Jacqueline’s arms, a tight hug, supportive, protective. She felt destabilised, unsure of her judgement. Was Cory genuine or was he playing with her? He’d seemed to be telling the truth about the garden but perhaps she’d got that wrong. Did he really think Marianne had killed someone in self-defence or was he backtracking, sensing that he’d gone too far and risked alienating her? When he’d said ‘killed’ yesterday, she’d been sure he meant deliberately, but today he’d seemed to suggest that was preposterous. She’d even heard a silent question, What kind of a person are you, to entertain the idea? when, in fact, she’d never given him any sign that she had. Everything he did felt like that, designed subtly to unsettle her, put her on the back foot.
But what if he’d been telling the truth about the garden? If it really wasn’t him or someone sent by him, then who the hell was it? No one obvious: if the figure had been too small to be Cory, he was also too small to be Peter Turk come to grieve where Marianne had fallen, running away to avoid embarrassment. She didn’t think it was Greenwood, either. Granted, he was slighter than the other two, especially now, but she couldn’t imagine he was so fast on his feet, so – lithe. He wasn’t fifty but nonetheless there was something definitely adult about the way he moved, dignified. Could it be Adam?
Oh, really? said a sardonic voice. Trespassing in his own garden after bumping off his sister? Having installed you here to make it a bit more of a challenge?
Well, who then? she asked it. Who?
Twenty
When Rowan got the call to say she’d been given a place at the university – it was a so-called unconditional offer: two E grades at A-level – her father was in Chile. She tried three times to call him then gave up, relieved. The news was a golden, precious thing: she didn’t want to tarnish it by telling him. It was a week or so before Christmas and when she hung up the phone for the final time, she put on her coat and set off for Fyfield Road. She could still remember how she’d felt, the way in which the world seemed subtly to have remodelled itself. As she’d come over Folly Bridge, the old university part of the city had loomed on the hill, the ogee dome of Tom Tower rising above the leafless winter chestnuts, and she’d felt as if she were walking towards her future.
Jacqueline had opened the door, her green-rimmed reading glasses perched on top of her head whence the springs of her hair threatened imminently to catapult them.
‘I got in,’ were the first words Rowan said.
It took Jacqueline a second to work out what she was talking about but then a huge smile spread across her face. Really, a beam was the word: it was all light and shine and warmth. With a jangle of bracelets and a flurry of red silk shirt – Rowan thought of a Chinese dragon – she had given her a sudden hard hug. ‘Brilliant, Ro! Fantastic! God, I’m so happy for you. Not that I ever had any doubt – I’d have gone round there to protest myself if you hadn’t got an offer.’ Another squeeze then she’d stepped away and yelled up the stairs. ‘Marianne!
‘What did your dad say?’ she said, coming back. ‘He must be so thrilled.’
‘He’s in South America. He’ll probably ring when he sees the missed calls.’
‘He doesn’t know?’
‘I couldn’t get through.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. It always bothered Jacqueline, the amount of time Rowan’s father spent away, particularly if he was uncontactable. ‘Well, Seb’s in London tonight, it’s just Mazz and I, so why don’t we go out, the three of us? To celebrate. You two can go on afterwards,’ she nodded to Marianne, who’d just reached the foot of the stairs, ‘but let me buy you supper first.’