She crossed the kitchen quietly and made her way up to the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, making sure she was invisible from the landing, she stopped and listened again but there were no sounds of opening drawers or feet on creaky boards.
He’d taken his rucksack up with him; that was what had struck her. When he arrived, she’d noticed, he hadn’t dropped it under the coat pegs as they always used to do with their schoolbags. He’d brought it with him down to the kitchen and kept it by his feet, and in the few seconds she’d had her back to him, clearing the coffee things, he’d picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.
As quietly as possible, she went upstairs. From the hallway, she’d seen that the door to Seb and Jacqueline’s room was closed. Going along the corridor to Marianne’s, she composed her face into a benign expression just in case but when she put her head around the door, her suspicions were confirmed: the room was empty. As she turned to go, there was a squeak overhead.
The pieces dropped into place one by one but when she reached the top landing, what she saw through the open doorway still shocked her.
Turk was on his knees in front of the worktable, one of Marianne’s square boxes pulled out, its lid off, five or six A4 sketches ranged on the boards around him. The rucksack’s soft canvas mouth was open and next to it, also open, was what it had contained: a rigid artist’s carrying case. A sheaf of papers rested on it now, a charcoal sketch of a pair of cupped hands on the top.
‘Explains why the police couldn’t find any signs of a breakin.’
Turk hadn’t heard her coming. He spun around, eyes wide with shock.
‘But it’s not burglary if the owner asks you in, is it?’
He scrambled to his feet. Under the studio’s relatively low ceiling, he seemed even taller and as he stepped towards her, Rowan felt a moment of physical fear. He was strong – much stronger than she was.
‘She would have given them to me if I’d asked. Don’t act like I’m stealing.’
She considered that. Marianne did give her friends sketches – her own were downstairs in the wardrobe as they spoke. ‘Why didn’t you ask then?’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you ask Adam just now? And why the hell did you let Mazz go on thinking someone was breaking in?’
But then, clicking like domino tiles, another run of connections: the nerdy ‘friend of a friend’ with his chickpea curry; the unrenovated kitchen; the radio jingles; the film script that was clearly going nowhere. And the high prices that Marianne’s work commanded. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’ve been selling them.’
Turk laughed as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard but it didn’t work. The hollowness was patent and, out of the blue, Rowan felt a bolt of pity for him.
‘Where did all the money go, Pete?’ she said, gentler. ‘From Liars in Love? You made a fortune, didn’t you? The deal, royalties . . .’
‘It was years ago,’ he spat. ‘Years and years ago. Divide it up, calculate the annual salary, and I’d have made more tossing the fries in McDonald’s.’
‘Wouldn’t that have been better than stealing from a friend?’
A different laugh now, bitter. ‘You’re going to lecture me about taking from Mazz? Really?’ He laughed again and this time he actually sounded amused.
‘What are you talking about?’ she said.
‘Come on, Ro, was there ever a bigger leech than you? Coming here like something out of Oliver Twist, the poor little latch-key kid whose daddy didn’t love her, grateful for any pathetic crumb of attention that fell from the Glasses’ table.’
She felt it like a punch in the gut. Unkind – so unkind – but not untrue. She’d tried not to be or at least not to show it but, yes, at times she had been grateful.
‘Mazz was happy when you finally got the message and buggered off,’ he said. ‘She was relieved.’
Another punch. ‘Did she tell you that?’
‘She didn’t need to. Remember that afternoon? She couldn’t wait to be shot of you.’
To her horror, Rowan felt a lump in her throat. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare bloody cry, Rowan. It wasn’t true – she knew it wasn’t. He didn’t know the whole story: Marianne had clearly never told him. The thought was fortifying, a shot of energy.
‘What’s the plan now?’ Turk was saying. ‘Get your claws into Adam? Sorry if I messed things up this morning but I wouldn’t worry – I’m sure you’ll use your wiles to find a way back in, wind him round your little finger. Poor sod – I should warn him.’
Don’t rise to it, she cautioned herself. Don’t show him he’s getting to you.
‘Perhaps I should put him in touch with Josh.’
‘What?’
‘Remember him? He really liked you, Rowan, I think he loved you, but you dropped him without a word, moved on as if the whole thing had been a one-night stand. He told me you tried to talk to him at the funeral like nothing ever happened.’