Keep You Close

by Lucie Whitehouse

  ‘I thought you weren’t particularly good friends.’

  ‘No, but we’ve got friends in common, we know each other well enough to have a drink, especially when I hardly know anyone in Oxford any more.’ She tried to put a smile in her voice. ‘I couldn’t just work.’

  Thirty-six

  When Theo told them Bryony had confessed, Adam dropped his head into his hands. Rowan closed her eyes and let the relief wash over her. Thank God.

  ‘As you suspected, Ms Winter,’ said DS Grange, ‘she guessed that Marianne had feelings for Cory, or rather knew – she’d overheard them talking on the phone in the morning. When she and Marianne went up on the roof later the same day to look at the snow, she confronted Marianne who said she couldn’t deny it – apparently she thought it wouldn’t be right to.’

  On the sofa next to Rowan, Adam made a sound of despair.

  ‘So Bryony pushed her?’ Rowan asked.

  ‘It wasn’t quite as simple as that – there was the fact of Marianne’s vertigo to take into consideration. You were right about that being significant, too.’ Theo tipped his head briefly to Rowan.

  ‘Your sister was trying to stop Bryony from jumping, Mr Glass,’ said DS Grange.

  Adam lifted his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Bryony said that when Marianne admitted how she felt about Cory, she – Bryony – was desperate. She loved your sister and knew how badly the news would hurt Mr Greenwood.’

  ‘She said she was trying to make Marianne change her mind.’ Theo’s voice surprised Rowan with its gentleness. She’d expected triumph, a hunter’s delight in the kill, but there was none. ‘If Marianne knew how much it mattered, she said, if she could be made to understand …’

  ‘So Bryony went to the edge of the roof,’ Grange continued, ‘and told your sister she’d jump if Marianne left them. Marianne went after her, tried to pull her back …’

  ‘She slipped?’ Adam said, and Rowan heard a clear note of entreaty.

  But Theo shook his head. ‘We hoped so, too.’ He shot a look at Grange, who gave a slight nod. ‘No. Just as Marianne tried to grab her and pull her back from the edge, it sounds like Bryony lost her temper. She was very distressed when we spoke to her, you can imagine, and it’s going to take time to get a complete picture, but basically, as we understand it now, there was a struggle, some back-and-forth, and in the middle of it all, it sounds like Bryony saw red and shoved her over.’

  The story settled on them like fall-out, and for several seconds there was silence. Adam spoke first. ‘Did James know?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘Bryony told him as soon as she saw him the next day. He’d been in London overnight after a late dinner with a collector from India. That was why she was staying here. She did that if he was away, apparently; she didn’t like being alone in their house at night.’

  ‘Will you charge him? Aiding and abetting, would it be, or perverting the course of justice?’

  ‘That’s yet to be decided.’

  ‘Our opinion’s irrelevant, obviously,’ Adam said, ‘but if it did have any weight, I know I can speak for my mother when I say we’d never want that, charges against James. We’d never blame him for trying to protect his daughter.’

  Keeping her face carefully composed, Rowan asked, ‘Theo, how about Cory?’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we don’t think Bryony was involved there. We’re a long way off knowing anything for certain but she told us she doesn’t know about it and I’d be really surprised if it turns out she’s lying. Obviously, we’re going to go over everything extremely carefully, we’re not going to take anything at face value, but first off, she’s admitted her involvement in your sister’s death, Adam, and to be frank, as a detective, you develop an instinct for these things after a while. Nine times out of ten – more than that – I find that if I think someone’s telling me the truth, they are.’ He looked directly at Rowan. ‘And vice versa.’

  Making sure Adam couldn’t see, Rowan returned the look, stony-eyed.

  ‘You have to be careful with obvious explanations,’ Theo said. ‘It’s the easiest way to make mistakes.’

  ‘Also,’ said DS Grange, ‘the pathologist’s report isn’t in yet so we’re not even sure in that case whether we’re looking at anything unlawful at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Adam said as they showed the police out again. ‘For coming to tell us in person. And for being so … gentle about it. I appreciate it.’

  To Rowan’s surprise, Theo reached out and put his hand on Adam’s arm in a gesture that reminded her of Jacqueline, her arm-rub of support and consolation. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll keep you posted as soon as we know any more,’ said Grange, stepping out into the porch.

  Theo patted his jacket pockets as if he were looking for his phone or making sure he had his keys. ‘Right,’ he said, apparently satisfied. ‘We’ll speak to you soon. Quickly, though, before we go, I’ve got to ask: how long have you two been together?’

  Taken aback, Adam looked at him and then at Rowan. ‘Why have you got to ask?’

  Theo gave a little shrug, playing it down. ‘Pure curiosity. And when we saw each other the other day, you didn’t mention you were in a relationship, Rowan.’

  ‘Well, maybe we weren’t then,’ Adam said, frowning. ‘We knew each other years ago, obviously, so we’ve known each other a long time, but actually, this – a romantic thing – can we even use the word relationship yet? – it’s brand new. Days.’

  Thirty-seven

  Adam couldn’t eat the soup she heated up so she made him a sandwich for the car instead. ‘I know you don’t want it now,’ she said, ‘but have a couple of bites later if you can, just to keep yourself going. Driving on an empty stomach, with all this going round in your head …’

  ‘I’ll take it slowly,’ he said. ‘And I’ll text you. Keep your phone with you.’

  He took his coat down from the peg and Rowan saw a flash of the dark wool one she’d worn to the river. As he was putting on his scarf, however, footsteps crunched across the drive and, seconds later, a silhouette appeared in the glass door panel. When the bell rang, he looked at her. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  A single silhouette and smaller: not the police, then, or any of the big men who’d haunted the doorstep over the past couple of weeks. Instead, when Adam opened the door, Rowan saw a woman in a navy parka, a pair of black skinny jeans and heels. For a moment, madly, she thought it was Bryony but of course it couldn’t be: she was in custody.

  This woman was blonde, too, but her hair was curly and cut short. The crisp afternoon sun shone behind her, creating a halo effect at her temples that reminded Rowan suddenly, startlingly, of Lorna on the day of the party.

  ‘Mr Glass?’

  Her voice was softer than the outfit suggested, with the hint of a Yorkshire accent. With a defensive pang, Rowan recognised that she was pretty, too: navy-framed glasses halfway down a nose with freckles, the remnants of a tan that suggested Christmas skiing.

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said, cautious. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hello. My name’s Georgina Parry, I’m with the Mail. I wanted to ask you about Michael Cory.’

  Fear hit Rowan broadsides and as if she’d actually been knocked off her feet, tumbled underwater, she had to fight for breath. The hallway swam in front of her eyes.

  Half an hour ago, while she’d been in the kitchen, Adam had answered the landline. The call had lasted less than a minute, she hadn’t got into a position to hear what he was saying before he’d hung up. He’d come straight downstairs, anyway, his jaw clenched. ‘It’s started.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘The papers are on to it. That was the Telegraph. A reporter.’

  ‘What?’ She’d stared. With everything else that was going on, the police, she’d forgotten about the media. But of course, this was the Glass family. ‘What did they want?’ she said. ‘What did they ask you?’

/>   ‘He wanted to know about Michael’s connection to Marianne. He used the word relationship but I don’t know if he meant …’ Adam had shaken his head. ‘It’s too much. Do we have to go through all this again? Now – so soon? I don’t know if Mum’s going to be able to handle it – or Fint.’ He looked at her. ‘You saw all that at the funeral, with the photographer?’

  She remembered accosting the man in his car outside the house afterwards, trying to buy the pictures. She’d told him he was a carrion crow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Adam told the woman now. ‘I know he’s died, very sadly, but I’m afraid that’s all I do know. You should talk to the police, I …’

  ‘Are you concerned there’s a link between his death and your sister’s?’

  From her position behind him, Rowan saw Adam stiffen. ‘As I said, you should …’

  ‘I’ve seen photos of the funeral so I know they knew each other. There’s got to be a connection, hasn’t there? The two of them artists, both here – in Oxford, I mean. And dying so close together – a matter of weeks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Please,’ said Adam, and now Rowan could hear how much it was costing him to keep his cool. ‘I know this is your job but Marianne was my sister. We don’t know anything about Cory’s death at all. Nothing. So please, just … let us do our grieving in peace.’

  Undeterred, the woman opened her mouth again. ‘Can you tell me anything about Cory as a person, then? He was controversial, wasn’t he – Hanna Ferrara, The Woman Who Has Everything?’

  ‘If you want career information, you should talk to his gallerist.’ Adam paused momentarily. ‘His American gallerist, I mean. Saul Hander.’

  Calmly but firmly, he shut the door on her.

  ‘If anything happens, Ro, ring me straight away.’

  ‘I will.’ She breathed in his woody scent then let him go. ‘Adam, will you tell your mum how sorry I am? That I’m thinking about her and sending my love?’

  ‘Are you really going to try to work?’

  ‘I don’t know. No,’ she admitted, ‘probably not. I was, but now …’ She glanced in the direction of the front door. They’d waited ten minutes in the hope that she’d go, but just now, looking out of the window in Seb and Jacqueline’s bedroom, they’d seen Georgina Parry on her mobile in a black hatchback parked across the street.

  ‘The idea of just sitting here and her coming to the door again. Or the phone ringing. If you think it’s okay – to leave the house unattended, I mean – I could go for a walk or have some coffee, wander around and try to distract myself. Theo’s got my number so if anything comes up, I can come back.’

  ‘Are you ready to go now?’ he asked.

  ‘Except for shoes and my purse.’

  ‘Come with me, then – I’ll drop you somewhere.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘You don’t need to run that gauntlet on your own.’

  Thirty-eight

  She asked him to drop her on Parks Road and until half-past four, when it closed, she drifted among the amulets and instruments, pots and African masks in the Pitt Rivers Museum. Coming into the vaulted central atrium, she thought, was like stepping inside a vast, eclectic Victorian intelligence, wonderful, but the museum was always marred for her by memories of her father.

  One wet afternoon when she was eight or nine, he’d been moved by some unexplained impulse to bring her here. She’d been entranced – by the weirdness then, most likely: she remembered standing for a long time in front of the shrunken heads, fascinated and repulsed – and for years thereafter, if there were even a hint of rain in the forecast and thus a chance they would have to spend the afternoon in the house together, he’d whisked her straight here and encouraged her to get lost among the display cabinets.

  Six or seven years ago now, he’d called to ask if she’d meet him for lunch in London. He’d suggested a restaurant in South Kensington and because she’d been giving him excuses for three years by then, she’d capitulated and said yes. Of course, it had been another trap. The table he’d booked was for four: he’d brought Jessica and Harry, who’d just turned six. On the phone, her father had said he’d chosen South Kensington because it would be an easy trip from Putney, where Rowan had been living at the time, but in fact the salient point was its proximity to the Natural History Museum: Harry wanted to see the dinosaurs.

  All he was asking, her father spat across the table when Jessica took Harry to the loo, was for Rowan to be civil to her. She’d refused to go to their wedding and since then had only come face to face with her father’s wife twice, both times ambushes. Her father had known that Harry would charm her, though – how could he not? He was so guileless with his wide brown eyes beneath the chunky fringe of chestnut hair, so openly curious about his ‘big’ half-sister, and when he had asked to hold Rowan’s hand as they’d crossed Cromwell Road, she’d felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. Then, though, she’d watched her father holding his hand as they walked through the museum, crouching to show him how many bones there were in a skeletal foot, pointing out different species of beetle, and she’d felt her heart ice over again. Had her father ever done that for her? Looked at her with soft eyes even once?

  St Giles was chiming seven o’clock as she rounded the corner on to Norham Gardens. With no cloud for insulation, the bright day had turned into a sharp evening and her feet scratched along the pavement past front gardens already spiky with frost. Between the streetlights, her breath looked ghostly.

  She’d spent the past hour and a half at Caffè Nero on the High Street where, to justify lingering, she’d drunk the two large coffees that now added an extra edge to her anxiety. At four, Adam had sent a text to say he’d reached Highgate but she’d heard nothing since. She’d thought he might send a quick message or call to check in but of course, she told herself decisively, he’d be busy with Jacqueline. When she heard about Bryony, she would be devastated all over again.

  ‘Why don’t you stay with her?’ Rowan had asked him. ‘I can hold the fort here.’

  ‘No, she’s got Fint, and it’s not fair to leave you alone here while this is going on. You could go home.’ The idea had seemed suddenly to occur to Adam. ‘Do you want to? God, I’m so sorry – I should have thought.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Until the dust settles, let me stay and keep you company.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She pulled a face.

  ‘Thank you.’ The smile he gave her was genuinely grateful. ‘Having you here makes it a lot easier. For me.’ He’d taken a long breath. ‘God knows what we’re going to do about the pictures now.’

  As she turned in to Fyfield Road, Rowan’s eyes went immediately to the spot where the journalist’s little black car had been parked. It was gone, and she felt her shoulders drop a fraction. She’d been bracing herself for another approach, or worse: what if while she’d been out, the rest of the press had sent people and she arrived back to find a gang of them? But the street was empty and she walked the last twenty yards breathing deeply, letting the freezing air crackle in her lungs.

  Just as she stepped on to the drive, however, quick footsteps ran up behind her and a hand caught at her elbow.

  She gave a yelp of fright; she couldn’t help it. When she spun around, however, she saw the journalist.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, soft-voiced and disarming. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Rowan pressed her hand against her chest. ‘You can’t do that, sneak up on people in the dark.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, fine then.’

  The woman ignored her tone. ‘You were with Adam earlier, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t want to talk to you and neither do I.’

  ‘Sometimes people feel differently when they’re on their own. They …’

  ‘Leave us alone. We don’t know anything, all right? Nothing.’

  ‘Are you his girlfriend?’ the woman said. ‘You were at the funeral, too, weren’
t you? There was a picture of you out here, in the road …’

  ‘Just – piss off.’ Clutching her bag against her chest, Rowan turned and ran up the steps. Her hands were shaking so much it took three attempts to get the key in the door.

  ‘Georgina Parry, from the Mail,’ the woman called from the bottom of the steps. ‘If you change your mind, I’ve put my card through the door.’

  Rowan ripped the card into pieces and stuffed them to the bottom of the kitchen bin. Even the thought of the woman made her queasy. To sit out there for hours in the freezing cold, she must think she was on to something.

  She sent Adam a text to warn him but at half-past nine there’d been no response. Her anxiety rose another notch. It was one thing not to be in touch to see how things were, but not to reply to a text giving him information – that information – was out of character. She went so far as to check that the message had been delivered then told herself he couldn’t text, he was driving. But she’d sent the message just after seven and the journey shouldn’t take two and a half hours. It was Sunday night, too: most of the traffic would be heading into London, not out.

  There’d been a disaster, an accident. He’d been driving under-slept and overwrought, his reactions were dulled … Or – the idea came accompanied by a wash of nausea – what if Theo had called him? What if the police had discovered something new about Cory, managed to link her to him that afternoon? She’d been sure no one had seen them but if she was wrong … At ten, she called Adam but the phone rang out and went to voicemail, and the same thing happened again twenty minutes later. Nerves frayed, she paced the house, incapable of sitting still for longer than a minute. Should she ring Jacqueline? Could she, even? If something had happened to her son now, too … Stop it, Rowan.

  It was almost quarter-past eleven when she heard a key in the door. Seeing Adam, she nearly ran into his arms with relief. She went to kiss him but he pressed his cheek sideways against hers then, a second later, moved away.

  ‘I was worried,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be earlier – I …’

  ‘I’m all right.’