‘Bryony?’
The slender girl in the middle of the trio stopped, seemed to pause, then turned around. Rowan saw James Greenwood’s eyes, his high forehead, and felt a stab of panic: this was a mistake; she shouldn’t have come. Bryony would tell her father and he’d know for sure that something was going on, that Rowan was still poking around days later, that she’d lied when she’d gone to the gallery. As quickly as it came, though, the doubt was replaced by the conviction that, risk though it was, she was doing the right thing. She’d allowed Adam and Turk to sidetrack her but Cory’s call had pulled her back, reminded her of what was at stake.
‘I’m Rowan Winter,’ she said, stepping away from the wall. ‘An old friend of Marianne’s. We met briefly at the wake – I don’t know if you’ll remember.’
Bryony’s face registered a fleeting expression – was it surprise?
‘I’m sorry to accost you like this. I’m staying at the house at the moment, looking after it for Jacqueline. I wondered if we could talk.’
The dark-haired girl on Bryony’s left raised her eyebrows a degree or two, as if to say, minder-like, ‘Is this woman bothering you, Bry?’
‘Talk?’ Bryony shook her head. ‘No. I mean, I don’t know – I’m not sure.’
‘A couple of minutes,’ Rowan said.
‘I don’t . . . I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.’
‘Why?’
‘The media – journalists – the whole thing’s just out of . . .’
‘I’m not a journalist. Please.’
Bryony looked at her then seemed to give way. ‘Okay, but only if it’s really quick. I have to finish an essay for a class this afternoon and this is the only time I’ve got. I was just going to quickly buy some lunch and . . .’
‘Do you want us to wait?’ asked the other girl, a petite strawberry blonde, but Bryony shook her head. Her purse was in her hand and she opened it and took out a folded note. ‘Will you get me a chicken sandwich? And some orange juice.’
Rowan waited until they moved off. As they crossed the road, the dark girl turned her head and gave her a monitory look: She’s grieving, all right, so don’t mess with her.
It was a better day than the last time Rowan had come, no snow at least, but the breeze had a sharp edge and Bryony pulled her blazer tighter and crossed her arms. Her friends had both been wearing the giant knitted Mobius strips that nine out of ten of the Sixth Form seemed to have but Bryony’s scarf was made of fine cotton, perhaps Indian, shot through with silver thread. There were flicks of pewter liner at the corners of her eyes, against school rules if they were still the same.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Rowan. ‘I know you two were close.’
‘I loved her,’ Bryony said simply.
‘Me, too.’
Bryony only nodded and Rowan saw that her eyes had filled with tears. She cautioned herself to be careful, tread gently. ‘It’s my biggest regret,’ she said, ‘that we didn’t get a chance to straighten things out before . . .’
Not yet trusting herself to speak, Bryony gave another upward nod.
‘I’m sorry, I know this seems insensitive – it is – but I wanted to ask you if you thought anything was bothering Marianne before it happened. Had she talked to you about anything? Peter Turk told me the two of you used to talk a lot so I wondered . . .’
‘Wasn’t it an accident?’ Bryony looked at her, startled. ‘Why are you asking? You went to see Dad, too, didn’t you, in London?’
Shit.
‘Do you think something happened to her?’
‘No – no. That’s not . . .’ Panicking, Rowan tried to think. ‘I mean, the police are sure it was an accident, aren’t they?’ Behind them, the gate opened and another pair of girls came out, the sound of their laughter almost eerily incongruous. It occurred to Rowan now that if one of the staff saw her with Bryony, she would be the one answering questions. ‘She didn’t ever talk to you about dying?’ she said quickly.
Bryony stepped backwards as if Rowan had revealed herself to be dangerously unhinged. ‘No. Why would she?’
She felt as if she were scrambling up a bank of scree that fell away beneath her as fast as she tried to get purchase. ‘No reason,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I suppose I just wanted to make sure. Get some closure. It was so . . . abrupt. When someone goes like that, without warning . . .’
‘Yeah.’ At last, Bryony’s tone seemed to say, something borderline sane.
‘Anyway, apologies again for coming to find you like this. I didn’t mean to upset you.’