The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (26 page)

‘Is she in trouble?’ Vera looked up at him, wide-eyed.

That threw him. ‘I understood, from the newspapers, that she’d been questioned about a murder. Tony Ferdinand’s murder.’

‘Questioned,’ Vera said, ‘but not charged. We’ve
questioned
everyone who was staying in the house. Even your old friend Giles Rickard.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Rutherford said. ‘Giles Rickard wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve known him since I was a child.’ He held his teacup, sipped and gave a small grimace to show that he was accustomed to better. Vera saw that his hands looked older than his face. Rutherford went on, ‘He was like a second father to me.’

‘But you think Joanna would be capable of murder?’ Vera asked. She looked at him, as if the answer was of considerable interest to her.

‘She tried to kill
me
!’ he said. A flash of almost childish anger.

‘But that surely was rather different. As far as I know, Professor Ferdinand hadn’t kept her prisoner or beaten her up.’ Vera kept her voice even. She wouldn’t get this chance again and she didn’t want to lose her temper in front of the man. Besides, she was enjoying herself. This was an interesting experience. She didn’t come across psychopaths very often. It occurred to her that there might be a greater proportion of psychopaths in Parliament than in prison.

He paused for a moment and gave another tight smile. ‘You do know, Inspector, that your words are slanderous.’

She leaned forward across the table, made her voice intimate, almost flirtatious. ‘Somehow, Mr Rutherford, I don’t think you’ll sue.’

They sat looking at each other. It was very warm. The hot water in the radiators gurgled. At the desk a phone rang.

‘We’ll stop playing games, shall we?’ Suddenly she’d lost patience with him. ‘Why are you here? What did you want from me?’

‘I wanted to warn you,’ he said, ‘not to be taken in by my ex-wife. She tells stories. Not just to the people around her, but to herself. Eventually I think she comes to believe them. Do you really think that I locked her in our apartment in Paris? That I hit her? It’s the stuff of melodrama.’ His words were scathing. ‘She’s plausible, vulnerable. And very clever. She has a knack of making people love her. Then she makes fools of them. Don’t let her make a fool of you, Inspector.’

He began to stand up as if he was about to leave, but she nodded for him to remain seated and he stayed where he was.

‘When did you last hear from Joanna, Mr Rutherford?’

He paused and she thought he was deciding whether or not to tell her the truth. Or perhaps he too was enjoying the drama, and the hesitation was to add to the suspense.

‘About a month ago.’

‘Would you tell me what she wanted from you?’

Now he did get to his feet. ‘Money, Inspector. That’s what she wanted. Joanna was blackmailing me. Of course I refused to pay. It does seem a coincidence that suddenly I find her picture all over the popular newspapers. Though I find it hard to believe that even she would commit murder to spite me.’ He turned suddenly and walked out. Vera sat where she was and watched him go.

As she drove north into the country, it occurred to Vera that she might have been wrong all along about Joanna. Perhaps Rutherford was no psychopath, just a man who suffered from stress and was being harassed by a flaky ex-wife. The idea was shocking: Vera wasn’t used to being wrong.
But why did you want the money, Joanna pet? Why stoop to blackmail?
Vera really couldn’t get her head round that one. The Joanna she knew boasted about the charity-shop clothes, the bartered veggies, the Freecycle fridge. Joanna despised money as common, vulgar, and thought an obsession with money displayed the worst possible taste. What had she called greed?
The meanest of vices.
So why was she so desperate for cash that she’d got back in touch with the man she hated?

Vera was so puzzled that she almost missed the lane to Chrissie Kerr’s place. Vera had tracked down Nina’s publisher the day before. Holly had spoken to her earlier in the investigation. After all, Chrissie had been in the Writers’ House the morning of Ferdinand’s death. Holly had reported back that the woman had no useful information, but Holly wasn’t brilliant at picking up unspoken messages. Besides, Vera had her own reasons now for wanting to speak to the publisher.

Chrissie Kerr still lived with her parents, it seemed, and had given Vera directions. Once it would have been a farmhouse as scruffy as Jack and Joanna’s, but the land had been sold off and the house and a barn conversion were all that was left. The house was rather grand now, solid and double-fronted, with long sash windows and a view out to the National Park. The barn had been turned into a stylish office, one wall made almost entirely of glass, the roof covered in solar panels. A sign, black on green:
North Farm Press.
Between the two buildings, where once there would have been a mucky farmyard, white lines marked parking places on a paved courtyard.

No shortage of money here.
Vera climbed out of the car and waited. Chrissie was expecting her and would have heard her coming. It was mid-afternoon, still a beautiful day, but already the sun was low. Vera hesitated, unsure whether to knock at the house or the office.

‘Inspector Stanhope!’

A young woman still in her twenties, but confident and loud. Big-busted and wide-hipped, dressed in a black frock that hid most of the bulges. Vera didn’t know much about clothes, but thought that sort of magic wouldn’t come cheap. She could do with something similar herself, but would probably shrink it the first time she washed it. Anyway she wouldn’t have the aplomb to carry it off.

‘Come into the house and have some tea.’ Chrissie’s foghorn voice carried from the door of the office. ‘I usually take a break at about this time. Mummy and Daddy are in town, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

By the time tea had been made and carried into a living room Vera knew all about Chrissie Kerr. About how Mummy had been an academic, a classicist, and Daddy a scientist, and they’d both given up posts in the university to move out to the country. ‘They both got a bloody good redundancy package, actually. They were at the top of their pay scales and the university couldn’t wait to get rid of them.’ Chrissie poured tea, but she didn’t stop talking. Vera looked around her. A pot of chrysanthemums stood on the windowsill. The carpet was red and there was an expensive-looking rug by the fire. On the walls original paintings: a couple of large oils. ‘They didn’t stop working of course. They’re still writing. And as my business has grown, they’re more involved in that.’

‘You’re a publisher?’ Finally Vera managed to get in a question. Obvious, but at least it stopped the flow of words.

‘Yeah! Crazy, isn’t it? When you think of publishers, you think of London. Huge offices. Men and women in sharp suits. But I do very well.’

‘And you publish Nina Backworth?’

‘She was one of the reasons why I set up the company. I did English as an undergraduate at Oxford and then came home to do an MA at Newcastle. Nina was one of the tutors. Her writing is brilliant! I mean, really outstanding. But she couldn’t find a publisher. So I thought:
How many more people like you are there out there? Wonderful writers overlooked by the big presses.
’ Mummy put the money in to set up the business, but I’ve nearly paid her back. I’ve already had an author on the Man Booker longlist. Imagine! And Nina’s reviews have been astonishing. But really, choosing the right books is just the beginning. In the end it’s all about marketing. If readers don’t know about the books, how can they read them? We need publicity. To get the word out. I’m working on it, but it’s a tough market.’

There was a silence, startling after the flow of words.

‘I’m investigating two murders,’ Vera said. ‘I don’t understand this world. That’s why I wanted to see you.’
At least that’s part of it.
‘You’re not a suspect or a witness. I thought you might help.’

‘I will if I can.’

Vera believed her. This cheerful, unflappable young woman would be a dream to work with. She thought of Holly, competitive and tense, and she sighed.

‘The first victim was Tony Ferdinand. You’ll have heard of him. Met him, of course, because you gave a lecture at the Writers’ House the morning he was killed. The second was Miranda Barton, the author who set up the place.’

‘I know,’ Chrissie said. ‘It’s been all over the papers and one can’t help reading. Like a dreadful soap opera involving people one knows. And one of your officers came here to take a statement after Ferdinand was killed.’

‘How well did you know Professor Ferdinand?’

‘Not at all. I only met him that once. My knowledge of him came from what I read in the papers and saw on the television,’ Chrissie said. ‘And from what Nina told me. But she was hardly an impartial observer.’

‘Why would anyone kill him?’

‘You don’t know how influential that man was,’ Chrissie said. ‘He wasn’t a publisher or an agent, but boy, did he have power! I sent a number of my titles to him, but never got a response, more’s the pity, and all the big London literary people will have been doing the same. If he liked an author’s work he could persuade an editor to take it, and his reviews made a real difference to sales.’ She saw that Vera looked bewildered. ‘Think the Simon Cowell of the publishing world.’

Vera thought about that. Lenny Thomas had seemed laid-back about his writing. He’d dreamed about being an author, but had never believed it would happen. Mark Winterton had clearly become aware of his own limitations. Neither would have been provoked to murder if Tony Ferdinand refused to help them. But what about Joanna? She’d been passionate about her writing. She’d wanted her story – her abuse at the hands of her respectable ex-husband – to be made public. Vera shook her head. ‘Nah, I can’t see it. Nobody wants to see their name on a book that badly.’

‘Don’t you believe it!’ Chrissie grinned. ‘That’s why the Writers’ House did such great business. All those wannabes convinced they’d become the next bestsellers.’

‘Did it do great business?’

‘Yeah,’ Chrissie said. ‘It had a terrific reputation. A couple of young writers found publishers during their time there. I picked up one myself.’

‘You were a tutor there?’

‘Yes, last spring. And of course this year I was a visiting lecturer. I was speaking the morning Tony Ferdinand died.’

‘What did you make of Miranda Barton?’ Vera found herself holding her breath as she waited for the woman to answer. She valued Chrissie’s opinion and decided the woman might have thoughts to move the investigation on.

‘I thought Miranda was rather overrated as a writer. She must have caught the public mood to sell so well – Tony’s recommendation alone wouldn’t have made her a big-hitter. But she dated very quickly. As a person, I found her seriously weird. I felt sorry for the son. He’s a good cook and he could make his own life in a flash restaurant anywhere. I tried to persuade him, but he said his mother needed him around. Perhaps that was just an excuse and he didn’t have the confidence to set out on his own.’

Vera stood up. She was disappointed. She’d hoped for more from this meeting. It seemed she’d come away with nothing new at all. Chrissie walked with her out of the house, past the umbrella stand in the hall, the boots and the Barbour jackets.

‘I was wondering . . .’ For the first time the young woman seemed diffident.

‘Yes!’

‘I don’t think the Writers’ House should fold. As a concept, I mean. As an idea. I thought I’d start a foundation to keep it going. Buy Alex out, if he doesn’t want to be a part of it.’

‘Don’t ask me, pet. Like I said, it’s not my world.’

‘Nina showed me the writing that came out of “Short Cuts”. Some of it is very good. I wondered about putting together a pamphlet, a sort of sampler to show what the Writers’ House has achieved. Actually it was Nina’s idea. She was here earlier; you must just have missed her in the lane. North Farm Press would sell it as a fund-raiser. All profits to the project. What do you think? I wouldn’t want to prejudice the investigation in any way.’

They were already in the yard. Vera stopped in her tracks and squinted into the sun. ‘When were you planning to launch it?’

Chrissie seemed embarrassed. ‘As soon as possible.’

Vera nodded her understanding. ‘To make the most of the publicity surrounding the murders?’

‘Do you think that’s really crass?’

‘Probably,’ Vera said. ‘But I’ve come to realize writing’s not a noble calling. Like you said, it’s all about marketing, isn’t it? I’ll not stop in your way.’ As she climbed into Hector’s Land Rover she was smiling. She wound down the window. She’d had one last thought. ‘Why don’t you throw a party, to set it on its way?’

When she got home Vera phoned Joe Ashworth.

‘What was he like then?’ Joe asked. ‘The monster MEP.’

‘Ah, Joe, you know I don’t believe in monsters.’
Though if anyone might make me change my mind, it’d be him.
‘And I kept my cool. You’d have been proud of me.’ She ran her finger along the window ledge. It made a track in the dust. The house was muckier than it had been in Hector’s day, and that was saying something. She knew Joe wanted the full story, but she wasn’t sure what she herself made of Rutherford yet. She needed to think it out. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m still in the office,’ he said. ‘I drove Lenny Thomas back to Red Row after taking the statements in the Coquet Hotel.’

‘And?’ Vera thought Joe was a soft-hearted sod, but she liked him the better for it.

‘Nothing. He seems like a nice guy. Genuine. The interviews didn’t take us much further forward, though Winterton was interesting on Miranda Barton. Wondered if she’d lost a child. Maybe a daughter. No evidence, but something she let slip.’

‘That’s something we can check.’ Vera had no patience for speculation. Unless she was the one doing the speculating.

‘And that’s why I’m still here, when the wife’s desperate to get us home. No record that she ever gave birth to a daughter. Her only child is Alexander. Winterton must have got it wrong.’

‘I need to talk to Joanna,’ Vera said. She’d had enough of Joe’s flights of fancy. ‘And I can’t do that on my own.’