The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (11 page)

‘Really, Mother, you have to be careful.’ That was Alex Barton. Alex the son, who must have left the dinner preparations for a while. Nina supposed she should make herself known. There was something shabby about sitting here in the fading light eavesdropping on the conversation inside. But she didn’t move. Writers were like parasites, preying on other people’s stress and misery. Objective observers like spies or detectives.

Except I’m not objective, Nina thought. I don’t like Miranda. I don’t know about her son. He seems harmless enough, but I certainly don’t like her.

The boy continued to speak, sounding concerned and exasperated at the same time. ‘Why don’t we just cancel the rest of the course?’

‘We can’t do that!’ His mother’s voice was sharp. ‘We’d have to give them a refund, and we can’t afford to throw money away. You know how tough things are at the moment. Besides . . .’

‘Besides, what?’

‘I’d rather have the investigation taking place here, where we can keep an eye on what’s going on. If we send everyone home we won’t know what’s happening.’

‘I don’t want to know!’ Alex said. ‘I want to forget all about Tony Ferdinand. You don’t know how pleased I am that he won’t be part of our lives from now on.’

‘You should be careful.’ The mother repeated her son’s words, so that it sounded like a mantra. ‘You don’t want people to think you’re pleased he’s dead.’

‘Of course I’m pleased!’ The words were high-pitched and childish. ‘Given the chance, I’d dance on his grave.’

The spite in his voice took Nina back to St Ursula’s, to one of the dreaded seminars. She’d heard the same note in her own voice that afternoon in London. The afternoon she’d described to Inspector Stanhope, when for once she hadn’t been the object of the group’s criticism. When the relief of someone else bearing the brunt of the bullying had caused Nina to join in, to be almost as cruel as the rest of them. Throwing insults as if they were rocks.

A sudden noise brought her back to the present: wood splitting in the fire, sounding loud as a gunshot in the silence.

‘Ssh,’ Miranda said. ‘You don’t know who might be listening.’

I’m listening, Nina thought, relishing her role as observer. Oh yes, I’m certainly listening. It occurred to her that Vera Stanhope would be proud of her. Then she heard the door shutting and assumed that both people had left the room. She got up quietly and looked inside. The space was lit by a single standard lamp and Miranda was sitting in a chair by the fire. Her eyes were closed and tears ran down her cheeks.

By the time Nina had replaced her coat, scribbled some ideas for her story in a notebook and returned to the drawing room, it was filled with people. Miranda was talking to Giles Rickard, one of the tutors. He was an elderly novelist with a red nose, a large shambling body and arthritis. His crime fiction was superficially gentle and rather old-fashioned, though it contained moments of malicious wit. His detective was a Cambridge don, a mathematician. Rickard had had a late burst of success when a television readers’ group had picked one of his books for discussion, and now he regularly appeared in the best-seller lists. Nina thought it was rather a coup for Miranda to have attracted him to teach on the course. He wore a perpetual air of surprise as if he couldn’t quite believe that fame had come to him at last. With the students he could be occasionally waspish and demanding, but he’d taken to Nina.

‘You write well,’ he’d said when they’d first met in the house, so she’d assumed that he must have got hold of one of her recent books, and that in itself had endeared him to her. And perhaps Chrissie would persuade him to give a blurb for the next title. ‘You’ll see, my dear, it could happen for you too. But success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. You give up a good deal.’ She’d wondered what a man like him could have to give up. He’d never married, had no family. Privacy perhaps. Or leisure. But surely he could turn down the speaking engagements and the book tours. Why, for instance, had he agreed to spend this week at the Writers’ House? It couldn’t be that he needed the money.

Now he waved at her across the room. Miranda, still speaking to him, seemed not to notice. Nina made herself camomile tea and went to join them.

‘What are your plans for the rest of the evening?’ Nina’s question was directed at Miranda. In her room she’d looked at the programme. Ferdinand had been scheduled to lecture on the editorial process in the time before dinner.

Miranda showed no sign of her earlier distress. The tears had been wiped away and fresh make-up applied. ‘We had a good idea about that. I’ve asked Mark if he’d give us a talk on the crime scene and the role of the CSIs. It would fit in nicely with the writing exercise you set today. What do you think?’

Nina paused. ‘I do wonder if a lecture on true crime might be a bit close to home. Rather lacking in taste?’

‘We’re all
thinking
about poor Tony’s murder,’ Miranda said, ‘even if we’re too tactful to discuss it. I don’t suppose a lecture on the subject will upset anyone, especially as poor Joanna was something of a stranger in our midst. We seem to have very thick skins here.’

Nina saw that was true. The only person who’d shown genuine emotion at Ferdinand’s death had been Miranda herself, and it seemed she could switch that on and off at will. She was astonished that Mark Winterton had agreed to speak to them. Perhaps Miranda had bullied him into it, because he’d always seemed a shy and retiring man.

His lecture, however, was surprisingly entertaining, and he seemed to come to life talking about his work. He began by explaining the process of securing a crime scene. The students were more attentive than Nina had seen them – certainly more focused than when she’d been speaking on literary matters – and she found herself fascinated too. What was it about the ex-policeman’s talk that intrigued and even titillated? Why this bizarre interest in the process of managing the crime scene? Because, like crime fiction, it gave violent death a shape and a narrative? It turned an inexplicable horror into a process, into people’s work.

Winterton’s voice was pleasant and light. ‘The first officer called to a crime is responsible for securing the scene,’ he said. ‘Even if he’s a new constable and a senior officer turns up, his duty is to restrict access until the CSIs give permission. It wasn’t always like that! One of the first murders I investigated, the chief constable turned up with half a dozen friends – all in evening jackets and dicky-bow ties. They’d been at some smart do, and gawping at a poor woman who’d been battered to death by her husband provided the after-dinner entertainment.’ He paused. ‘And some officers call those the good old days.’

Lenny Thomas stuck up his hand. ‘What do you think of the way the police are handling Tony Ferdinand’s murder?’

Winterton gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, I’m not prepared to comment on a colleague’s work. If you’re personally involved, even as a witness, you have a very different perspective on an investigation.’ He glanced to the back of the room.

Turning, Nina saw that Vera Stanhope had returned and was standing there next to her good-looking young sergeant. Ashworth gave the inspector a wry grin and she flapped her hand at him, a gesture that said:
Don’t you have a go at me too.
So perhaps Inspector Stanhope had a tendency to become personally involved in her cases. Perhaps her perspective on the investigation was flawed. The rest of the audience realized the detectives were there and fell silent as if they were expecting an announcement from Vera – news perhaps that Joanna had been charged and that the investigation was officially over. But Vera only said, ‘Don’t mind us, folks! We’re just here to pick up a few tips.’

The interruption and the arrival of Vera Stanhope and Joe Ashworth seemed to put Winterton off his stride. He continued to lecture, but in a dry and formal way as if he were talking to a group of young trainees, emphasizing the need to follow procedure. It was about bagging evidence and taking photographs. All interesting enough, but without the human element that had captured their interest previously. It seemed to Nina that the appearance of the detectives had reminded him of a real death – the death of someone they’d all known – and, even if the victim hadn’t been particularly well liked, he no longer considered murder a fit subject for entertainment.

Yet it was fictional murder that had captured her imagination. She now had her central character and the germ of an idea, which was both simple and audacious.
What fun if I can pull this off!

While all around her the residents were asking Mark Winterton questions about fingerprints and DNA, in her mind Nina was out on the terrace in an October dusk, watching a murderer kill a woman who was sitting on a white wrought-iron chair.

Vera’s meeting with Ron Mason, the superintendent, had gone surprisingly well. She thought she couldn’t have handled it better. Her boss was a small man, given to fits of irritability, but she’d caught him on a good day. Perhaps he was so unused to Vera consulting him about anything that she’d flattered him by appearing to ask for his advice. Certainly he had no idea that he was being manipulated.

‘So the prime suspect is a neighbour of yours?’ He leaned forward across the table. He’d once had red hair and, although it was grey now, his eyebrows were still the colour of powdered cinnamon and there were freckles the same colour all over his forehead. Vera had never noticed that before. She thought that spending time with all these writers was turning her brain, making her look at things in a different way.

‘It certainly seemed like that at first, though we don’t have enough to charge her.’ Vera explained about the knife Joanna had been carrying not matching the wounds on Ferdinand’s body.

‘Complicated then.’

‘I wondered if you’d like to take over as senior officer in charge of the inquiry,’ Vera said. ‘In view of what might be considered a conflict of interest.’ Mason was a competent administrator, but hadn’t taken a personal interest in a major crime investigation for years. Word in the canteen had it that he’d lost his nerve.

‘No need for that,’ Mason said quickly. ‘A rural police area like this, we’re always going to bump up against the odd acquaintance.’ He paused. ‘I take it that’s all you are, acquaintances?’

‘I don’t really move in arty circles,’ Vera said, encouraging him to smile at the thought. ‘Like I said, Joanna Tobin and Jack Devanney are just neighbours.’

And that was all it had taken for Mason to confirm her place in the investigation. At the end of the interview he stood up and shook her hand. ‘Thanks for keeping me informed,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

Back in the Writers’ House, Vera thought they’d need it. It seemed that many of the people there with the opportunity to commit the murder had disliked Tony Ferdinand, but she had no sense yet of why anyone should choose this particular time and place to do it. She arrived just as Winterton’s lecture had started. She could have told them her own stories about balls-ups at crime scenes, and had been tempted to put in her two penn’orth, but had seen that would hardly be professional. When the talk was over and the residents were preparing for dinner she took Ashworth across the yard and into the chapel.

‘What did you make of Winterton, then?’

‘He had opportunity,’ Joe said. ‘I don’t see how he could have motive. He’s never moved in literary circles. He only retired from the job twelve months ago.’

‘What’s he doing here then? Police pension is better than it was, but you’d not think he’d have the spare cash for this sort of jaunt. Have you seen the fees? Or did he get one of those bursaries?’ Vera wondered briefly what she’d do when she retired. She saw herself in Hector’s house, too fat and unfit to get out, watching daytime telly and drinking beer for breakfast. Then the hippy-dippy neighbours would be her only link to the outside world. Maybe after all she had more of a vested interest in Joanna’s innocence than anyone realized.

‘No, he applied for a bursary, but he didn’t get one. I get the impression his writing’s not up to much.’

‘So maybe he had a reason for killing Tony Ferdinand and he came here specially to do it. He used the course as a cover.’

‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘And that’s a piggy I can see floating past the window.’

Vera smiled. She liked it when Joe stood up to her, as long as he didn’t do it too often. ‘He’d have the knowledge about how an investigation works. He’d understand enough to pull the stunt with the knives.’

‘But he wouldn’t have got it wrong, would he?’ Joe said. ‘He’d have made sure the right knife was in Joanna’s possession.’

‘So he would.’ Vera was feeling hungry now, but she didn’t want to eat her dinner in front of a party of suspects. Let Mark Winterton play the performing cop for them.

‘I was thinking Winterton might be useful,’ Joe said. ‘An insider. They’ll say things to him that they wouldn’t say to us.’

‘He’s a suspect,’ Vera said sharply. ‘A witness, at the very least. Sometimes you have to keep your distance.’ She saw it was on the tip of Joe’s tongue to make some comment about her own lack of objectivity
.
Instead he looked at his watch.

‘I should get home. If I don’t see the kids before they go to bed tonight, they’ll forget what I look like.’

‘I was going to talk to Joanna Tobin,’ she said. ‘Now that she’s had a while to think about things and we know what questions we want to ask. I can’t do that on my own. But no problem, of course. Your family has to come first, Joe, I understand that. I’ll ask Holly if she can come along. She could do with the practice. I might get her to take the lead. What do you think?’ Vera smiled sweetly. Joe Ashworth would know exactly what she was playing at. There was no love lost between Holly and Joe, and he wouldn’t want the bright young lass to take credit for any information gained in the interview. Vera lifted up the canvas shopping bag that did as a briefcase, a sign that she needed a decision.

‘The wife’ll kill me.’

‘Like I said, pet, no pressure. Holly could use the experience. You get an early night.’ But she knew now that she had him hooked.

‘I’ll do it.’