The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (29 page)

‘Apricots, are they?’ He wondered if she was losing her mind. She’d been so tense when he’d last seen her, so strung out, that he wouldn’t have been so surprised.

‘Yes.’

‘Why would a burglar bring you apricots? You must have bought them before you went away and forgotten all about them.’ He kept his voice gentle. ‘You can tell by the smell that they’re very ripe. They could have been here a week.’

‘I didn’t buy them,’ she said. She was frowning and a little angry, but he thought that she was quite sane after all.

‘There’s no sign of a break-in.’ He took a seat on a scratched leather chair.

‘No, and I don’t get that, either. It’s like he’s some ghost who can walk through walls.’

‘More likely someone who’s got hold of a key,’ Ashworth said. ‘Did you have a spare? Have you ever given one to a friend?’ He was thinking that the fruit could be a message. From a lover, maybe. Or a drunken student thinking it would be funny to scare his teacher. This might have nothing to do with the Writers’ House investigation after all.

‘No, I’ve never given a key away. I’ve always lived here alone.’

‘But you’ll have a spare? Could you check it for me, please?’

‘My neighbour has one in case of emergencies. But Dennis has been here as long as I have. He wouldn’t play this kind of stunt.’

Dennis was a small, tidy man in his sixties. He’d worked as an engineer in the shipyards, moved into the garden flat below Nina when his wife had died. Nina filled in the background information as they went downstairs. They found him sweeping leaves in the yard at the front of his flat. Nina told him about the break-in and asked about the key.

‘It’s hanging up in the kitchen where it always is, pet.’ He seemed affronted, as if Nina had accused him of committing burglary. ‘See for yourself.’ He led them through an arched gate at the side of the house and in through the open kitchen door. Over the sink there was a row of hooks, each neatly labelled. The one marked
Nina
was empty.

‘Not a ghost then,’ Ashworth said. They were back in Nina’s flat and she’d made coffee and a sandwich. It was a poor sort of joke, but he wanted to make her more cheerful. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if she started to cry. ‘I’ll wait until the locksmith comes before I leave.’

‘But why go to all that bother?’ Now she was furious and he thought it was only the anger that was holding her together. ‘Wait until Dennis was in the back garden and slip into the flat and steal the key. And how would the intruder know he’d have my key in the first place?’

‘Did you tell anyone that Dennis kept the key? A friend?’

She shook her head.

‘A good guess then,’ Ashworth said. But he was thinking that they were dealing with someone intelligent. Or an experienced burglar. Someone had planned this carefully, reccied both flats in advance. And, like Nina, he was wondering why anyone would go to all the bother. ‘You’re sure nothing was taken?’

‘Absolutely certain.’ She looked up from her coffee. You do realize I was a target, like Tony Ferdinand and Miranda? If he hadn’t been scared off by the siren, he’d have killed me like the others.’

Ashworth didn’t answer. He sensed her growing paranoia and couldn’t think what to say that wouldn’t feed it. ‘Were there apricots in any of the stories written during the course?’ he asked at last.

‘I see what you mean.’ She gave him a quick nod of appreciation. ‘You think the intruder was copying a scene from a piece of fiction, in the same way that the murder on the terrace was stolen from my work. But no, I don’t remember anything like that. Of course I didn’t see everything the students wrote. Though when I first saw the apricots they reminded me of something I’d read, it was nothing recent.’

‘Where will I find that written material?’

‘Lenny sent me his novel as an email. I can show you that now, if you want. And I’ve already given you the few paragraphs that Miranda read at the party.’

Joe nodded. ‘No soft fruit there,’ he said. He was pleased to see her give a small smile. ‘And I’ll ask Lenny to let me have a copy of his book.’ He looked at her. ‘Is there anywhere you could stay for a while? A friend who might put you up?’

‘You think it’s not safe here? Even with new locks?’

Again he tried to keep his tone light. ‘I’d worry about you.’ Not really a joke, but she tried another smile.

He thought she’d dismiss the idea out of hand, but she considered. ‘I’ll ask Chrissie, my publisher. She has lots of room.’ She picked up her phone, but didn’t dial immediately. ‘I think someone was following me last night,’ she said. ‘How do I know they won’t follow me to North Farm?’

‘I checked the street before I came in,’ he said. ‘There was nobody there.’

He stood in the road and waved her off. Now the children in the posh school were spilling out of the gates at the end of the day. A couple of small boys were playing conkers, swinging the nuts hard on long shoelaces. A few parents waited in smart vehicles to collect their children, but none of the cars pulled off when Nina did. Joe drove fast, back to the police station.

Holly was on her own in the office, eyes fixed on the computer monitor. She looked up when she heard Ashworth come in. ‘Was Nina all right?’

He shrugged. ‘Shit scared, but putting on a brave face.’

‘What was it? A run-of-the-mill burglary.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Anything but that.’ He thought the place seemed very quiet. ‘Where’s the boss?’ He still couldn’t bring himself to call her Vera, found it difficult even when they were on their own in the pub or she was bending his ear at her house.

‘She spoke to Alex Barton on the phone and then disappeared up the coast. She didn’t tell me where exactly, or why. You know what she can be like. A drama queen. She said she’d see everyone for the briefing tomorrow.’

Joe always felt disloyal complaining about the inspector behind her back. ‘And Charlie?’

‘God knows.’ She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck.

He nodded towards the screen. ‘What are you up to?’

‘I’m trying to trace Miranda’s publisher. The books are out of print and they’re not on Amazon. Nobody recognized that piece she read at the Writers’ House. There’s no support for Vera’s theory that she’d been writing again.’

‘Except the piece that she read.’

‘Mmm,’ Holly said. ‘That could be years old.’

‘The boss has got one of the books in there.’ He nodded through to Vera’s office. ‘I saw a copy on her desk.
Cruel Women
, it was called. I thought it was appropriate.’

Holly was still grinning when he came back with the novel. ‘I think she pinched it from Miranda’s cottage. The publisher should be listed on the title page.’ He opened the book. ‘
Rutherford.
Not much use to you, if you’re trying to find out if Miranda has been trying to sell a new book. Giles Rickard told the boss that Rutherford Press got taken over by a multinational years ago.’ He turned to Holly to check that she was listening. She hated being told what to do. ‘Though I suppose some of the same staff might still be there. Worth a punt.’

He closed the book and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He wondered if this was another coincidence. Rutherford, who ran the company that published Miranda’s novels, had been Joanna Tobin’s father-in-law. He wondered too if Vera had known the name of the publisher all the time, and had been waiting to see how long it would take Holly to track it down.
Nah,
he thought.
Not even Vera would be that petty.

‘Where are you off to with that book?’ He should have realized Holly was so sharp she’d notice what he was up to.

‘I’m going to read it,’ he said. ‘See if there’s anything in it about apricots.’

Further north the weather changed suddenly; the sun disappeared and there was a mountain of cloud to the east. A brisk northerly breeze blew against the Land Rover and found its way through the gaps in the windows. Winter had come early. Vera hadn’t warned Giles Rickard that she was coming, but he didn’t seem surprised to see her when she knocked at his door. His holiday cottage was in Craster and looked out over the harbour. There was a narrow front garden, everything brown and salt-blown. The first splashes of rain.

‘My Dad used to come here every winter,’ she said, looking down at the exposed sand. ‘To get Mediterranean gull for the year. There’s one that turns up in the autumn, regular as clockwork.’

He didn’t respond.

‘You’re not a birdwatcher then? Aye, well, it’s not much of a hobby and I expect your writing has taken up most of your time. They’re bonny birds, mind, Med gulls. Get someone to point it out to you if you get a chance.’ She followed him into the house.

The cottage was small and unpretentious. The front door led straight into a living room with a wood-burning stove, a table under the window and a couple of armchairs. She looked round, making a show of it. ‘No computer?’

‘I don’t write any more, Inspector. I’ve retired.’

‘How does that work then? You just wake up one day and decide you’re not going to tell any more stories.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly how it happens.’

‘What do you do here all day?’ She was genuinely interested. She and Rickard had a lot in common. No family. Few friends, it seemed. She might learn something from him that would help her come to terms with her own retirement.

‘I read,’ he said. ‘I think. I remember.’

‘Aye, well, it’s your memory I’m interested in.’

‘I really don’t think I can help you further, Inspector. I’ve told you everything I know.’ His voice was firm. ‘I bought this place so that I’d be undisturbed. In London there are always people who expect me to be pleased to talk to them: journalists, students. I’d thought that would end when I stopped writing, but it seems not to have been the case. This is where I escape from unwanted conversation.’

‘Indulge me,’ she said. ‘I’ve come a long way.’ She sat in one of the armchairs, wedged herself in, making it clear she was there for the long haul.

He looked at her and decided that further argument was futile. He opened the door of the stove and pushed in a log. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?’

‘Eh, pet, I thought you’d never ask. Whisky with a dash of water. Unless you’ve got a single malt, and then I’ll take it neat. Just a small one. I’ll be driving.’

He poured whisky for them both. No water. She saw that his hand was still and didn’t tremble. His movements seemed stronger than they had in the Writers’ House. Perhaps he felt happier on home territory. He pulled a small table between them and set the drinks on it, then took the other armchair. It came to Vera that anyone looking in from the outside would see them as a couple. Happily married for decades, sharing a drink before dinner in front of the stove. For a moment she imagined herself into the fiction. What would it have been like? To have this domestic ritual? This comfortable silence? Boring, she decided. It would be bloody boring.

‘I spoke to Alex Barton earlier,’ she said.

‘How is he?’ They could have been discussing a mutual friend. A neighbour perhaps. Nobody too close or dear to them.

‘I don’t know. He seems a strange young man to me. I’m not sure if that’s because his mother has just died or if he was always like that. I don’t like the thought of him in that place on his own. But he claims he’s fine. He’s an adult. I can’t force him to find some company, and I can’t see him being happy away from the house. Seems to me he only ever leaves it to go to the shops.’ She turned slightly in her chair so that she was looking at Rickard. Before pouring the drinks he’d switched on a wall light. Now he stared at the wood-burner and his face was in shadow.

‘Some of us function better on our own,’ he said.

‘You never fancied marriage?’

‘No.’ He paused and seemed entirely lost in thought. She might not have been there. Then he jerked back to the present and realized more was expected. ‘There was somebody I was very fond of at one time,’ he said. ‘It never worked out. Now I’m accustomed to being on my own.’ A gust of wind rattled the sash window. He got slowly to his feet and drew the curtains.

‘Alex told me you turned down their offer to tutor at the Writers’ House at first. You changed your mind at the last minute.’

‘An old man’s prerogative. But we’ve discussed this already, Inspector. I was intrigued when I saw that Joanna Tobin would be one of the students.’

‘So it had nothing to do with Paul Rutherford?’

He turned to face her. ‘What are you saying, Inspector? We’re both too old for games. What do you really want to know?’

‘Joanna tried a bit of blackmail,’ Vera said. ‘At least your friend Rutherford called it blackmail. She said she was making a claim on what she was owed. I’m still not sure what that was about. Did he ask you to have a word with her? Scare her off maybe.’

For a moment Rickard didn’t answer. He sat facing the stove, his chin on his chest.
Good God,
she thought.
Perhaps he’s dead. He’s had a stroke or a heart attack. What do I do now?
‘Mr Rickard?’

He turned slowly to face her. She thought his face was like a tortoise’s. Impassive and grey. He gave nothing away.

‘What are you suggesting? That I scared Joanna away by killing two strangers?’ His voice dry, laced with sarcasm.

‘I’m not suggesting anything! I’m asking if you went to the Writers’ House because Rutherford asked you to. I need to clear the decks here and work out what’s really important. There’s too much stuff getting in the way.’

He was staring into the stove again and she thought he might refuse to answer, but after a moment he started speaking.

‘Yes, I came to the Writers’ House because Paul asked me to. Joanna had contacted him at work and demanded money. He said she was crazy again. He was worried about what might come out, if she decided to go to the press with an election only months away.
You’re up in Northumberland anyway. It’ll only be for a few days. See what’s happening. What’s rattling her cage after all this time.
’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Vera said, ‘is why you agreed. You’ve retired. You hate meeting readers, all the marketing bollocks. Don’t you? You’ve just said that’s why you bought this place.’