The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (18 page)

‘Go on then! Give me the gossip. Who’s sleeping with whom.’

Nina was shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything of that sort is going on.’

‘It’s different from any residential course I’ve ever been on then,’ Holly said easily. ‘A hothouse atmosphere like this and away from the office, a couple too many glasses of Chardonnay and you can believe that you fancy almost anyone. The problem is sitting next to them at work the following week, and realizing what a prat you’ve made of yourself.’ She nodded across towards Alex. ‘He’s fit enough. If I weren’t a police officer, I could be tempted!’

Nina gave a little laugh, but found that she was shocked.

The main business of the evening started during coffee. It was clear that Miranda considered herself the star and the mistress of ceremonies. Any notion that she was there simply to serve them was quickly dispelled. They were still in the dining room, and she took her natural place once again at the head of the table.

‘This has been a disturbing and unusual week,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to thank the tutors and students for their concentration and their focus at such a difficult time. The quality of work produced has been outstanding and, instead of dwelling on the tragedy that occurred here, I think it right to celebrate this evening the fine writing that has been achieved.’

There was no further reference to Tony Ferdinand. Again Nina remembered the pain the woman had expressed when she learned of his death, and she wondered at Miranda’s poise.

‘Tonight we each have the opportunity to share a short piece from work created this week.’ Miranda looked around the table. ‘Do we have a volunteer to begin?’

A number of hands shot into the air. Diffidence, it seemed, was not a problem within the group. The students probably thought interest would wane as the evening progressed and more wine was drunk.

‘Lenny,’ Miranda said, ‘would you like to start us off?’

Lenny got to his feet. He’d shaved since the afternoon and Nina had noticed that throughout the meal he’d only been drinking water. Despite sounding so defeatist at lunchtime, it seemed that he now intended to give this his best shot. As he picked up the sheet of paper from the table, Miranda saw that his hands were shaking.

‘Before I do my reading,’ he said, his accent so broad that Nina wondered if the southerners in the audience would understand him, ‘I’d just like to thank all the people who made this possible for me. The Bartons and the tutors, and the rest of the folk here who’ve given me so much support. It’s been like a dream come true.’

Then he launched into his reading. Nina had expected a piece from the beginning of his novel, an action scene, following two teenage lads racing a stolen car round Blyth housing estate. That was what he’d told her he’d read, when they were discussing it at lunchtime. It was well written, fast, and developed the characters immediately. Instead, he’d chosen something else, something he’d written at her insistence after their first tutorial.

‘This is great writing, Lenny,’ she’d said. ‘But the story’s all told at the same pace. It’s fast and furious from beginning to end. Occasionally the reader needs time to catch her breath and it’s good to change the mood a bit too. Try to write something tender for me. A love scene or a conversation between a parent and child.’

Now he stood, the paper shaking in his hand, like a sail hauled in too close to the wind, and started speaking. His voice was slow and almost without expression, but the tone of the piece was so unexpected, so sad, that he had them hooked from the first words.
She stood at the window watching her man walk out of her life.

He read for only a couple of minutes, then he stopped abruptly. Nina wasn’t sure if he’d intended to end the piece there or if he’d become so moved, by his own writing and by the occasion, that he was unable to continue. He sat down to applause and looked around him, confused, as if he’d just woken up.

‘Wow!’ Miranda got to her feet. ‘Well done, Lenny. I don’t envy the person who has to follow that.’ She looked around the table and Nina thought she would ask for another volunteer. She was deciding she might raise her hand herself and get the ordeal over with, when Miranda focused her attention on the ex-policeman, Mark Winterton. ‘Mark, would you like to try?’

He stood up. He seemed unflustered. Nina supposed he’d be used to giving evidence in court.

‘I’m not going to read,’ he said. His face was thin and the small, square spectacles he wore gave him the appearance of a rather pedantic teacher. His words too were clipped and precise. ‘One of the great benefits of the course has been the development of an ability to assess one’s own work. And I’ve realized that my work really isn’t very good at all!’ There was a sympathetic murmur from the other end of the table. ‘I’m not going to put you lot through any of my stuff. But, like Lenny, I want to thank all the staff and students for their support. This was something I had to try. I gave it a go, and it didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll have to find another outlet for my creativity. But in the meantime I look forward to seeing some of your books on the shelves and to telling my friends:
I knew them before they were famous.
’

He smiled at them all and took his seat. Nina thought this was all going much better than she’d expected. It might not end up as the turgid, smug event that she’d dreaded. She turned to watch Miranda take centre stage once more.
She wears too much make-up: all that powder is very ageing. I wonder who she’ll pick on next.
Miranda’s gaze moved around the table.
Really, the woman’s like a stage medium, looking for an easy target.

‘Joanna,’ Miranda said. ‘I know you’ve not had an easy week, but would you feel up to reading, dear?’

At once the patronizing tone made Nina want to jump to her feet and come to Joanna’s defence. It occurred to her that Miranda disliked the woman more, now that it seemed she was innocent of Ferdinand’s murder, than when it was assumed she was the killer. Joanna, though, seemed capable of looking after herself. She stood slowly, reached out to fill her glass with red wine and took a sip. Then she surveyed her audience.

She looked striking in the candlelight. The long corn-coloured hair was pulled back from her face and the simple black dress made Nina think of a young widow, a woman certainly in mourning.

‘I came to the group with a story,’ Joanna said. ‘Something very personal. But I was too close to it and the language was all wrong. Too elaborate. It took the help of the tutors, especially Nina, for me to realize that I needed to keep it simple. To keep it real.’ She started reading without further introduction. It was the description of a young woman being beaten up by a man. The words were carefully chosen, clear and without emotion. The piece was written from the woman’s point of view, but there was no self-pity. She described finding herself on the floor, feeling the cold tile against her cheek, seeing a piece of bread dropped from the morning’s breakfast.

Joanna paused to catch her breath, and in the distance they heard the sound of a door banging. Nina sensed Holly tense beside her. Everyone in the house was present in the room. Perhaps a window had been left open and the wind had blown the door to. But that night there was no wind. Joanna continued to read. Then the dining-room door was thrown open, so hard that the handle knocked against the wall.

Joanna stopped in the middle of a sentence and turned to look at the man who stood just inside the room. He was wiry and middle-aged, his greying hair tied back in a ponytail. When Joanna spoke, it was in the weary tone of a mother who’s had a tiresome day with a fractious child, at once affectionate and irritated.

‘Jack, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?’

That was when the man lost his temper and started shouting.

Vera sat in her house in the hills waiting to hear from Holly. There was still some light outside – it hadn’t been worth going back to the station after the interview with Helen Thomas and she’d come straight home. She’d let Joe get off early too, expecting gratitude, because he always claimed that he liked to spend time with his bairns before bedtime, but he’d been in an odd mood all day and he’d slunk away without a word. It was freezing – this year, it seemed, winter had come early – and she’d got a good fire going. She was warming her feet in front of it, drinking a mug of tea when her phone rang.

‘Holly. How did it go with Winterton?’

When Vera had suggested that the younger officer should spend the afternoon at the Writers’ House, talking to the ex-detective, Holly had looked like a greyhound let off the leash. Almost quivering with enthusiasm.

‘Okay.’ Reception wasn’t brilliant in the house, and Holly sounded as if she were at the end of a long tunnel.

‘So why do you think he decided to do the writers’ course? Anything to do with the daughter’s death, do you think?’

‘Not directly. I had the impression that he just wanted some time away from home. Retirement didn’t suit him as much as he’d expected. He misses the routine of the job. And feeling useful. He did an English-literature evening class and that gave him the writing bug.’

‘Aye, well, I can see it might take some folk that way.’ Vera hated thinking about retirement. She dreaded it more than she feared illness or sudden death. ‘But why the writing thing?’

‘Everyone told him he wrote a good report,’ Holly said. ‘And he was reading thrillers where they got all the police procedures wrong, and he thought he could do better. I don’t think there’s any more to it than that. His daughter was at university in Manchester, so there was no contact with Ferdinand or the North-East.’

Vera found that her tea was almost cold. She’d have to make some more. ‘Did Winterton have anything useful to say about the other residents? Anything we might have missed?’

There was a pause at the other end of the phone.

‘Come on, Holly, you did ask, didn’t you? You did stroke his ego, like, and let him think we needed his help and experience?’

‘I did my best!’

‘But it didn’t work?’ Vera tried to be reasonable. Maybe it was
her
fault. She should have taken on Winterton herself.

‘He said he’d left that life behind him. It was tempting to meddle, but he knew how he’d feel if he was working an investigation and some retired officer tried to tell him how to run a case.’

There was a moment of silence. Vera thought she heard the sound of an engine outside. It was probably Jack working in the barn, though it’d be bloody cold in there now that the light was starting to go.

‘Nothing more you could have done then,’ Vera said. No point blaming Holly this time. She didn’t want to knock the spirit out of her so early in the evening. Vera wanted her on top of her game for the rest of the night. ‘At least you gave it a go.’ She paused again, couldn’t help giving it one last try. ‘What was your feeling when you were talking to Winterton? Did he have his suspicions, do you think? That old detective’s instinct? He’s been living with them all for nearly a week. You’d think he’d have a notion which of them could be a killer.’

‘If he likes one of them for the murder, he’s not letting on.’

There was a moment’s silence. Vera was just about to speak when Holly went on.

‘I’ve arranged to stay on here, just as we agreed.’ Her voice was suddenly clear and bright as if she were in the same room. ‘I’ll go to the dinner when they all read out their work, and I’ll stay the night. There’s a spare room. This is the last chance we’ve got to see them all together. They’re on their way home tomorrow.’

‘Lock your door when you go to bed.’ Vera kept her tone light and amused. ‘I don’t want to lose a promising young officer.’ She switched off her phone before Holly could answer. She’d only be fishing for more compliments.

Vera put on the kettle again. No alcohol tonight. She wanted to keep her brain sharp. As Holly had said, tomorrow all her suspects and witnesses would be on their way home. Out of her patch, many of them. Beyond her control. This was a time for reflection. She wished she had Joe Ashworth here. He wasn’t much one for original thinking, but he let her know if her ideas were daft. For a wild moment she was tempted to give him a ring, to demand that he come over. Then she saw how unreasonable that would be. Let him have one night with his family. She didn’t know when he’d get the next one. She reached out and switched on the television.

On the screen her victim had come back to life. An arts programme was running an obituary for Tony Ferdinand and showing clips of his broadcasts. He was sitting, relaxed, in a chair, talking about a writer of whom Vera had never heard. It must have been summer because sunlight was streaming in through a window. He was wearing a white collarless shirt and loose linen trousers, and his face was brown. It was impossible not to look at him. Vera found she wasn’t taking in the words, but her attention was fixed on his body, tight and fit for his age, and on his grey eyes. Someone in the investigation had described Ferdinand as charismatic and for the first time she understood what they’d meant. Then suddenly the piece was over. She switched the television off.

She wished she’d met Tony Ferdinand. She found it hard relying on the descriptions of the other witnesses. Most of them had disliked him, and that was unusual after a murder. Usually there were contradictions. This almost unanimous hostility made her suspicious. Had the suspects discussed their attitude to the man before giving their statements? It seemed unlikely. She’d been on the scene almost as soon as the body had been found. Unless there’d been some sort of collaboration surrounding his death, an agreement about alibis and timing. That would be a nightmare. It would widen the circle of possible suspects. But even among a covey of writers, people who created impossible situations for a living, this seemed fanciful.

So what had the man been like? A predator, it seemed, sexually and in his academic life. At least according to Nina and Joanna. What had made him that way?

She pulled a file from her bag: notes Holly had made following her phone calls to Ferdinand’s staff. The notes contained the home phone number of one of them who’d worked with him on the creative-writing MA.
Sally Wheldon,
Holly had written. Then:
Poet.
It was seven o’clock. Was this a good time to catch a poet at home? Vera had never met one before. She fetched the phone and returned to her chair by the fire. Hector’s chair. Looking out, she saw that there was already frost on the windscreen of the Land Rover, a hazy moon.