The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (14 page)

Walking back from the serving table, Nina saw that Joanna and Rickard sat without speaking, the space where she’d been sitting an invisible wall between them. She was disappointed; she’d hoped the old man might make some gesture of welcome, even if only to irritate the rest of the house. She set a plate of food in front of Joanna, but the woman hardly seemed to notice.

‘Why did you come back?’

Joanna looked up at her, and her voice was loud enough for the whole room to hear her answer. ‘The bursary was for the whole course. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘What did Vera Stanhope make of your decision to stay on the course?’

‘The police haven’t charged me,’ Joanna said. ‘I’m a free woman. It doesn’t have anything to do with bossy Vera.’

As if on cue, Vera Stanhope appeared at the dining-room door. Nina thought the whole meal had the air of a tense Whitehall farce. Everyone was overacting like mad and making dramatic entrances. Soon people would be diving out of windows and taking their clothes off.

Vera walked towards the table and nodded to Joanna. The room was still quiet, so they could all hear. But if they were expecting an angry confrontation, and to see Joanna being led away again, they were disappointed. ‘I thought I saw your Jack’s van driving away up the lane,’ the inspector said easily. ‘I hope he’s sorted out his MOT. We wouldn’t want him picked up by the plods on the A1.’

Joanna grinned, but didn’t answer. Giles Rickard was struggling to get to his feet. Vera moved towards him, and Nina assumed she was there to help him out of his seat, to take him into the chapel for their
chat
.

‘You stay where you are, Mr Rickard,’ Vera said. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone our little meeting. I need a few words with another of the guests first, and it’s a bit more urgent.’ She turned to Nina. ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with us, Ms Backworth. We’ve just got a few more questions.’

It was the last thing Nina had been expecting. She began to blush. She followed Vera out of the dining room, aware that everyone was staring at her. She felt like a girl pulled out in front of a school assembly for a misdemeanour she hadn’t realized she’d committed.

In the chapel the lamps were lit because the narrow windows let in so little daylight. The table and chairs were as they’d previously been, at the head of the nave, like a stageset in a theatre. The inspector lowered herself into one of the seats and gestured Nina to take another. Nina was aware of Joe Ashworth leaning against the bare wall as she walked in, but from where she sat he was outside her line of view.

‘Can I help you, Inspector?’ Nina knew she could come across as haughty. She thought that she and Joanna had a similar defence against the world: they became hard and brittle. Confrontational. ‘I’ve already given you a very full statement.’

‘So you did.’ Vera shut her eyes for a moment. It was as if she was rerunning the previous interview in her head. She opened them suddenly. ‘But other facts have since come to light.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Mr Ferdinand died from knife wounds. He was stabbed repeatedly. It seemed odd to us from the start that he put up so little resistance. He was a tall man. Middle-aged, perhaps, but physically fit and, if someone came at him with a knife, you’d have thought he’d put up a bit of a fight.’ Vera paused. Nina saw that she was expected to comment, but what could she say? She pictured an intruder in the glass room, the damp heat and the plants, the knife and the blood, but still she could feel little sympathy for Ferdinand. So she remained silent.

‘Ferdinand didn’t fight back because he was drugged,’ Vera went on. ‘He’d hardly have been aware of what was happening. Maybe he was killed on the balcony because that was where he lost consciousness. He’d have been given the pills earlier in the day. During lunch perhaps. Or maybe Ferdinand fell asleep in one of the chairs in the glass room and the killer yanked him out and half-carried him outside. Thoughtful enough not to make a mess on the smart tiled floor. We probably won’t know, unless the murderer tells us.’

‘This is very interesting, Inspector,’ Nina said, ‘but I don’t understand what it has to do with me.’ And the first part of the statement at least was true. She did find the means of Tony Ferdinand’s death interesting. Could she work something similar into her story? All writers are parasites, she thought again.

‘It has everything to do with you, Ms Backworth.’ The detective’s voice seemed unnaturally clear, jerking Nina away from her fiction. ‘You take sleeping pills.’

‘Yes, I suffer from insomnia. My GP prescribes them.’

‘And your pills have the same chemical composition as the drug found in Ferdinand’s body, according to the toxicology report that we received from the pathologist this morning. He’d have taken them earlier in the day. As I say, they could have been added to his lunch or his coffee. You’ll know yourself that they don’t work immediately. You told me that you were sitting close to Professor Ferdinand that lunchtime.’

There was a silence. Nina felt the mindless panic that had struck her when she’d woken that morning, the sense that her world had been invaded and that there was nothing she could do to control it. Then things started to come to life again. Her brain slipped back into gear.

Her first impulse was to fight back, to protest about her personal belongings being searched, invoke her human rights, threaten an action for breach of privacy. She realized in time that such a response would be counter-productive. She had to present herself as a reasonable, intelligent woman. ‘I didn’t kill Tony Ferdinand,’ she said calmly. ‘I didn’t poison him and I didn’t stab him.’

Vera flashed her a smile. ‘Aye, well, pet, no doubt you would say that. Even if you were the killer. Have you noticed if any of your pills have gone missing?’

Nina pictured the brown plastic bottle, kept in her washbag. She hadn’t taken any tablets the night before. Her doctor had told her they’d be ineffective if she used them too often.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I mean, no, I haven’t noticed.’

‘Had you told anyone here that you had them in your possession?’

Nina thought back. Had she mentioned her insomnia on the first evening of the course? Everyone had seemed so tense and ill at ease, talking too much as they clasped their glasses of wine, trying to make an impression, and she’d admitted that she too felt anxious in this new place and in this gathering of strangers. ‘Most people knew I had problems sleeping,’ she said. ‘I didn’t talk about taking stuff for it.’

‘But someone might have put two and two together?’

‘I suppose so.’ But Nina was sceptical. This all sounded too elaborate to her. Murder wasn’t a parlour game, the moves planned out in advance. Surely it was usually a brutal outburst of anger, sudden and unforeseen? Not in her story, of course. The action there was as elegant as a Regency dance. But in real life.

‘I’m trying to help you out here!’ Vera said. ‘If your pills weren’t stolen, you become the murderer. You do see that?’

Nina didn’t answer.

Vera suddenly seemed to lose patience. ‘Take Sergeant Ashworth to your room and show him your tablets,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to take them away, of course. Do you keep your room locked?’

‘Only from the inside at night,’ Nina said. ‘Not during the day.’

‘Ever had the feeling that someone’s been in there, rifling through your things?’

‘No,’ Nina said. ‘Never.’

It seemed to be the answer Vera was expecting. ‘Get along!’ she said. ‘I have other people to see.’

Ashworth didn’t know what to make of Nina Backworth. She was the sort of woman who would usually terrify him. But following her up the main stairs away from the lobby he found himself aware of her body, a sudden and powerful attraction that left him breathless. At her bedroom door she turned and gave an unexpected grin:

‘I thought police officers were supposed to be fit.’

He felt confused, unsure what to make of the observation – had she noticed the effect she was having on him? His words came out as brusque, almost rude.

‘The pills, Ms Backworth, if you don’t mind.’

Her room was on the same floor as those of all the other tutors. While she went into the bathroom, he stood by the window and looked out at the sea, trying to regain his composure. At an angle below him was the terrace, with its wrought-iron furniture. The garden, rather overgrown and unkempt, sloped steeply to a path that led down to the beach.

He looked back into the room. It had a faint smell of citrus. Her perfume. He’d noticed it as he’d come up the stairs. Everything was ordered. She’d made her own bed, and her pyjamas – white silk – were folded on the pillow. On the desk were a notebook and a fountain pen, neatly aligned. He hadn’t realized that anyone wrote with a real pen and ink any more. He was thinking how classy she was, well outside his sphere, when she returned from the bathroom carrying a red toilet bag.

‘The pills are inside,’ she said. ‘I didn’t touch the bottle. I thought I might smudge fingerprints. Something like that.’

Her prints would already be on the bottle, of course, but he should have thought of that, should focus now entirely on the task in hand. This was ridiculous. He was behaving like a teenager. Though when he’d been a teenager he’d already had his future mapped out. He’d met his wife when he was still at school.
Sixteen years old and I was already middle-aged.

He took a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket and, using it as a glove, he slipped the bottle inside. Then he held it to the light and tilted it so that he could count the tablets.

‘There are four left,’ he said. ‘Is that what you would have expected?’

‘No.’ He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her face was white and set. The red lipstick like a splash of fresh blood on her face. ‘My GP gave me a prescription for a month’s supply. I’d used about ten.’

He did the arithmetic in his head and checked it before he spoke. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of this woman. ‘So there are sixteen missing?’

‘I can’t be precise, but certainly about that. At least a dozen.’ She slumped, so that she was sitting on the bed, leaning forward. The straight spine and upright posture were so characteristic of Nina Backworth that it seemed another, more vulnerable woman was there. A stranger. ‘Someone came into my room,’ she said. ‘They went through my things.’

He wanted to sit on the bed beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s a horrible feeling.’ The words seemed inadequate to him.

‘So you believe me? You know I didn’t poison Tony Ferdinand?’ Something of the old spark returned. ‘You know I wouldn’t be so foolish as to use my own sleeping pills!’

Ashworth took a moment to answer. ‘My job’s not about belief,’ he said. ‘It’s about fact. Evidence.’

She looked up at him. ‘Then do your job,’ she said. ‘Find your evidence. Prove that I didn’t kill Ferdinand.’

Downstairs Vera was waiting for him. ‘Charlie’s coming over to pick up the pills,’ she said. ‘He’s bringing some stuff he’s dug up about Ferdinand and Lenny Thomas.’

Ashworth nodded. He knew it was ridiculous, but Nina’s words had given him a new energy, a new determination. ‘We’ve got time to fit in an interview with Rickard, then. And Charlie won’t mind waiting if he can get his hands on coffee and a home-made biscuit.’

Vera looked at him. ‘Did your lass put something in your tea this morning?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You seem like a new man.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to lead on the interview with Rickard? I mean, I know there might be some history with Joanna, so maybe you’re better doing it.’

But Ashworth shook his head. Rickard was a writer, intimidating, and anyway at the moment he wasn’t sure he’d be able to concentrate. ‘Nah, you do it. I’ll sit in.’ And from the beginning of the interview he could tell he’d made a wise decision. Vera was at her sharpest, her most outrageous and clever.

From the moment Rickard came into the chapel, leaning on a stick and struggling to push open the heavy door, Ashworth couldn’t get past the fact that this was an old man. Old men weren’t murderers. It wasn’t just that it seemed physically impossible: Rickard couldn’t have stabbed Ferdinand, and certainly couldn’t have lifted him from the wicker chair in the glass room and out onto the balcony. It was more than that. In Ashworth’s mind, old people weren’t wicked. Vera seemed not to share this inhibition, and Ashworth wondered if that had something to do with her relationship with her father.
Horrible Hector
, she called him, or
my beastly father
, though she’d spent most of her life looking after him.

Now Vera was leaning forward across the desk towards Rickard.

‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is why you’re here at all. You’re a famous writer. Even I’ve heard of you. Seen your books in WH Smith at Central Station in town. So why give up your precious time to spend a week on the Northumberland coast?’ She smiled and stretched back in her chair, waiting for the old man to speak.

Rickard hadn’t expected the question. Ashworth thought he’d anticipated a gentle and routine interview, that he’d be treated with deference because of his age and his celebrity.

‘Perhaps, Inspector, I feel the need to give something back to the writing community. Success is such a matter of luck, and mine certainly has little to do with the quality of my work.’ He gave a little smile, apparently pleased with his answer.

‘Don’t give me that crap.’ Her voice was icy. ‘Did you know Joanna Tobin would be here, before you agreed to be a tutor?’

There was another silence. Through the window Ashworth saw that the sun had come out. From here, the blue sky gave the initial appearance of a summer’s day, but even with this restricted view he saw that the light was different. Colder. And the shadows would be longer. There must be a coffee break; students had spilled out into the courtyard. He couldn’t see them from where he was sitting, but Rickard had left the chapel door open and he could hear the voices outside and smell the cigarette smoke.

‘Miranda showed me the work of the students who had received bursaries,’ Rickard said. ‘An attempt to persuade me to sign up. She should have realized that authors hate seeing good writing by newcomers. It only proves to them how pitiful their own attempts are.’