The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (21 page)

Vera gave a little smile. In the end she always did get her own way. ‘I didn’t send him off to the hotel with all the others. It seemed a tad heartless. Besides, I thought we might get more out of him on home territory. He’s in the cottage with a minder.’

They walked into the yard, and into sunshine so bright that it made Vera’s eyes water.

‘You always call him a boy,’ Joe said suddenly. ‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty-three.’ Vera fished into her jacket pocket for a tissue and found half a roll of toilet paper. She tore off a handful and wiped her eyes. ‘Still a boy to me.’

Alex Barton was sitting in the kitchen of the cottage, with an overfed cat on his lap. Vera had knocked at the door, then walked straight in without waiting for an answer, but he didn’t seem surprised or startled to see them. A uniformed constable sat at the table and looked relieved when Vera waved for him to go.

‘I always hated this cat,’ Alex said. ‘It stinks. And when it was more active, it killed birds.’

‘I could never see the point of pets myself.’ Vera leaned against the Aga and felt the heat penetrate her jacket and warm her spine and her buttocks. ‘Your mother liked it, though?’

‘Spoilt it rotten,’ Alex said. ‘It’s ancient. When I was growing up I thought she loved it more than me.’

‘It’s a tricky relationship: single parent and only child. Too much guilt and duty swimming around.’ Vera knew Ashworth would think she was speaking from personal experience. So she was.

‘I should have got away,’ Alex said. ‘But I couldn’t see how she’d make a go of this place on her own. Not any longer. She needed me.’

Vera realized that he hadn’t yet referred to his mother other than by
her
or
she
. ‘You’ll have a chance now,’ Vera said. ‘To get away, I mean. This place must be worth a few bob, even if it’s got a mortgage. Sell it and you’re free to go wherever you like.’

He pushed the cat off his lap and looked at her with big, sad eyes. He was a pretty boy, she saw. There was something feminine about him, despite the dark hair on his arms. When she’d first seen him she’d described him to herself as a wolf. Now she wasn’t so sure. He didn’t seem sufficiently cruel. She’d expected a response to her words. Anger. A denial that he would choose to benefit from his mother’s death, an outburst that such an idea was the last thing on his mind. But he said nothing.

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ Again she was deliberately trying to provoke him to speech.

Alex shook his head.

‘Of course, why would you? A young lad like you wouldn’t want to be tied down. And plenty of chance for sex without commitment here. I’d guess most of the women would be here on their own. Away from home. From their husbands and kids. And it must be intense. Older than you, but there’s nothing wrong with experience. All this talk of emotions. They’d be looking for a fling.’

He looked at her as if she was mad and she saw she’d have to try a different way in. Simple questions, she thought. Facts. Maybe that would work.

‘How long have you lived here?’

Now he did answer. ‘Nearly fifteen years.’

‘So you arrived when you were a small boy?’

He nodded. ‘I went to the village school up the lane, then to the high school in Alnwick.’

‘What brought your mam to this place then?’

There was a pause and Vera thought again there would be no answer. It required judgement, opinion, and it seemed Alex still wasn’t ready for that. But in the end he spoke.

‘She grew up in Newcastle and always dreamed of living on the coast. One of her books was adapted for television that year. Tony had written an article the Christmas before and described her as one of the best writers of her generation. It made a huge difference to her career. Until then she’d still been working in London, in the university library. Suddenly we had money to spend. She saw the house as an investment for our future. And a pleasant place to bring up a child.’

It was, Vera thought, almost as if he were reciting a story he’d learned by heart. The words were Miranda’s, not his own.

‘So at first you just lived here?’ Vera said. ‘She hadn’t set up the Writers’ Centre.’

‘No.’ Alex sounded dreamy now, half-asleep. ‘Then it was our home. A proper home. I loved it. We’d been living in London, a tiny flat because my mother was just assistant librarian at St Ursula’s – and even when her first book was published, it made peanuts – and suddenly I had the garden to play in and the beach. All that freedom.’

‘When did your mother start the business?’ Vera wondered what it must have been like to have the place overrun with strangers. Surely Miranda must have felt as if her home had been invaded. Or had she relished it? The talk about writing and the gossip, the like-minded people sitting round the table for dinner. It must have been lonely for her here, with only her son for company.

‘I was twelve,’ Alex said. It was clear that he, at least, hadn’t relished the intrusion. ‘Mum’s books weren’t doing so well. She’d thought that the TV adaptation of
Cruel Women
would be the start of a great flowering of her career. It turned out to be the high point. We needed the money. Mum had always enjoyed mentoring younger writers, so she had the idea of running the residential courses.’

‘How did that work?’ Vera asked. She was genuinely interested. Hector had claimed lack of money as the reason for his night-time adventures, had made Vera feel guilty –
How can I get a proper job when I have you to look after?
He’d drawn her in that way. ‘You can’t have done the cooking then?’ she said. ‘You’d still be at school.’

‘I helped. But the students cooked for themselves then. There was a sort of rota. That was when I first got interested in food. I loved it: an activity that’s practical and satisfying at the same time.’

‘What happened to your dad?’ She hadn’t meant to be so abrupt, but the question had come to her suddenly.

He shook his head. ‘I never knew him.’

‘Dead? Divorced?’

‘Neither,’ Alex said. ‘My mother never married him. I never met him.’

‘But you knew who he was?’

‘She
told
me who he was.’ Alex bent down to stroke the cat that was rubbing against his legs. ‘I’m not sure I believed her.’

‘What did she tell you?’ Vera demanded. This was like wading through treacle. ‘Let’s hear the fiction – if that’s what it was.’

‘My father was an older man. A publisher. She’d met him at a book launch and fell for his intelligence and his wit. They had an affair. It was the most exciting and wonderful time of her life. He introduced her to theatre and opera, took her away for romantic weekends – Barcelona, Rome, Paris. He was charming and attentive, and she’d never known anyone like him.’

‘But he was married,’ Vera put in.

Alex nodded. ‘With a child whom he adored. When she discovered she was pregnant she finished the affair. She didn’t want my father to be forced to choose between the families.’

‘Did the man have a name?’ Vera failed to keep the scepticism from her voice.

‘I’m sure he did, Inspector.’ For the first time Alex showed a flash of humour. ‘If he existed at all. But my mother never told me.’

‘You didn’t try to find him?’

Alex shrugged. ‘I was worried what I might discover. Like my mother, I preferred the fantasy.’

‘I did wonder if Tony Ferdinand might be your dad,’ Vera said. She looked at Alex, hunched in the rocking chair.
He’s still just a child himself,
she thought
. A bright, screwed-up child.

‘So did I,’ Alex said bitterly. ‘Like I said, I preferred the fantasy.’

‘Did you ask your mother about him?’

‘No. I was scared she might tell me the truth. Tony was a manipulative man and I wanted nothing to do with him.’ He looked up at Vera. ‘He never liked me, you know. I wasn’t bright enough to catch his interest.’

They sat in silence. Joe Ashworth seemed to be looking out of the window. He managed to make himself still – almost invisible – during interviews, but Vera knew he was completely engaged with the conversation.

‘Are you sure you didn’t hear your mother come in last night?’ he said now, turning back to the room. Vera took the interruption as a sort of rebuke: Joe thought she should focus on the time of death. Important information that might move the investigation on. There would be time enough for all the relationship crap later. When Alex didn’t answer immediately, Ashworth continued, ‘You do see how it might be important? If your mother came in yesterday evening after the readings had finished and then went out again, or if she went to bed and went out early this morning, that would make us look differently at her death.’

But Vera knew Miranda hadn’t gone to bed. She was still wearing the garments she’d been in the night before. White silk shirt and long black skirt. Not the clothes for an early walk on a freezing October morning.

‘I didn’t hear her,’ Alex said. He looked up at Joe. ‘I didn’t want to hear her. I listened to music until I fell asleep.’

There was another moment of silence. Then outside a shout, so loud that it penetrated the thick walls of the cottage. ‘Has anyone seen the boss? They’ve found something!’

Joe slipped out of the door, but Vera stayed where she was. She pulled herself slowly to her feet. ‘Where did your mother keep her books then?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought they’d be in pride of place in the main house, but I couldn’t find any in the library.’

‘She didn’t want the students noticing that it’s years since she’s been published,’ Alex said. ‘They’re upstairs in her bedroom.’

‘I’ll see myself up there, shall I?’ Vera said.

He seemed not to hear her and sat where he was.

Joe Ashworth stood outside the cottage door and took a deep breath. Inside the house there’d been a sweet and unpleasant smell. Chemical. Air freshener or some kind of cleaner? Maybe trying to hide the smell of incontinent cat, maybe something more sinister. The CSIs would move on to the cottage when they’d finished on the terrace.

The yard was busy. A couple of men in overalls and navy uniform jackets were deep in conversation, and a CSI, peeling off her crime-scene suit close to the van, hopping as she pulled it over her foot, shouted to a colleague, ‘Where are the toilets? I am
so
desperate for a piss.’ Beyond the end of the track Joe saw the aerial of a radio van. So the press were there already. The journos, who’d been camping out there since Ferdinand’s death, had dwindled away the day before, and now they were back. He was glad someone had had the sense to keep them well away from the house. And Charlie was there, leaning against the bonnet of his car, drinking tea from a mug with the Writers’ House logo on it. The whole place was still lit with the sunshine that bounced off the car windscreens and the frozen puddles and turned faces the colour of butter.

Joe called over to Charlie, ‘Someone was shouting for the boss. She’s busy. What have they got?’

Charlie pushed himself upright. ‘The murder weapon,’ he said. ‘They think.’

‘Where?’

‘Down on the beach. I’ll show you. Apparently they were lucky to find it.’

Charlie bent to put his mug on the doorstep and walked round the house until they were looking out to the sea. On the terrace, work continued in the white tent. The nylon fabric, with the sun behind it, displayed the figures inside as slowly moving shadows.

Walking through the garden, Joe remembered what Alex Barton had said about moving here from London, about how much he’d loved the place when it was still just a family home. This would be a paradise for a child. Trees to climb and dens to build, rock-pools to poke around in, and on the odd good day when it was warm enough there’d be the sea for swimming. And a child would know every inch of it. If anyone could find a hiding place close to the house, it would be Alex Barton.

Charlie had started on the steep path down to the beach. He slipped once, ripping a tear in the leg of the crime suit, and swore, and by the time they’d reached the shingle he was breathing heavily and sweating despite the cold. He leaned forward, rubbing the stitch in his side.

‘You’re out of condition, man.’ But Joe was feeling the effort too. Too many greasy breakfasts and not enough exercise. There were times, kicking a ball round with the kids, when he felt age creeping up on him.

Three figures stood at the base of the cliff. From this distance and in this light it was impossible to tell if they were men or women. A small flock of wading birds ran along the tide line and took off, calling, as Joe and Charlie approached, black commas against the white sky. The figures near the cliff became clearer, more than silhouettes. Two men and one woman. One was the crime-scene manager Billy Wainwright, who would have been at the house already, working on the terrace. Two others Joe didn’t recognize. Members of the search team.

They’d heard Joe and Charlie approach over the shingle, and Billy waved at them. Closer still and they saw he was grinning.

‘What have you got?’ Joe asked the question. Charlie was wheezing.

Billy moved to one side. Still Joe saw nothing unusual. There’d been a small rock-slide, a pile of boulders at the foot of the cliff. Water leached from the ground, a spring or a hidden stream, and ran across the sand to the sea. Joe imagined his bairns playing here, building dams, castles and moats.

‘The rock-fall’s not recent, is it?’ He was starting to lose patience. Billy was a great one for playing games. Practical jokes. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Here!’ And in the shadow of the rock-slide there was a rusting outflow pipe, more than half a yard in diameter. ‘Once it would have carried the waste water from the house. They use mains drainage now, I guess.’ He shone a torch into the pipe, at an angle so that Ashworth could see inside. In the distance, an arm’s length from the cliff face, there was a glint of metal and something soft and dark.’

‘What is it? The knife?’

‘Definitely the knife. But something else. Clothing? I’ve done all I could
in situ
. I was just going to pull it out.’

He spread a plastic sheet over the shingle beneath the outflow pipe and reached inside. First out was the knife. A black handle with a serrated blade.