The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (7 page)

Ashworth saw that the assembled writers had underestimated Vera. They despised her for her ill-fitting clothes and badly cut hair. It showed in their posture as they slumped over the table or back in their chairs. They saw no danger in her, certainly not in the smile.

‘What’s happened to Joanna?’ It was a woman, with very short black hair and striking red lipstick. Joe found it hard to tell her age. Her face was angular and ageless. Mid-thirties, perhaps?

‘And who are you?’ Vera’s smile flickered for a moment, then returned. Ashworth almost expected her to add
dear
to the question. That was one of her tactics, to play the maiden aunt. Concerned, but a little simple. A tad patronizing.

‘Nina Backworth. I’m one of the tutors on the course. I’m an academic specializing in women’s writing and short fiction.’

‘A colleague of Professor Ferdinand’s then?’

‘No!’ The woman sounded horrified at the idea. ‘He supervised my work briefly when I was a postgraduate student, but now I’m based in Newcastle. I’m sure you know that Tony set up the creative-writing MA in St Ursula’s College, London. The course has achieved international fame. Any student accepted there has a head-start in finding a publisher.’

And what about you? Did you find a publisher after being taught by him?
But Vera kept that question to herself. ‘Any good, was she? Joanna Tobin? As a writer, I mean?’

‘I thought she showed great potential.’ Nina paused. ‘I don’t believe she would have attacked Tony Ferdinand without good cause. I hope you’ll treat her with some sensitivity.’

‘Are you saying Professor Ferdinand deserved to die, Ms Backworth?’

There was a sudden tension in the room, a spark of excitement or energy. The audience was more attentive. The woman regarded Vera warily. ‘Of course not. Nobody deserves to be killed like that. I want to alert you to the fact that there could have been an element of self-defence in what happened here today.’

Vera looked at her. ‘But you believe that Joanna Tobin killed the professor?’

‘Of course!’ Then, when there was no response from Vera, her voice became uncertain. ‘That’s what we were told. That’s what I assumed.’

Joe watched and found he was holding his breath. Sometimes, when she was angry, Vera let her mouth run ahead of her brain. And Joe knew that the assumption that Joanna was a murderer would make her very angry.
Don’t let her mention the knives,
he thought.
Don’t let her give away more than she needs.

Vera looked across at him and her face twitched into what might have been a wink. It was as if she’d known what he was thinking and was saying:
Give me credit for a bit of sense, lad!

‘Joanna Tobin is helping the police with our enquiries,’ she said blandly, challenging them to ask more questions. ‘She hasn’t been formally charged, and our investigation continues.’ She took a sip from the coffee cup in front of her, though by now, Joe thought, the drink would be cold. Vera had better timing than a stand-up comedian and knew the importance of a pause. ‘I understand that the writing course is planned to run for two more days. I see no reason why this arrangement should be changed. My colleagues and I will need to talk to you individually, and we’ll begin that process this evening. Our officers will remain here overnight to provide protection and to prevent any intrusion from the press.’ She paused again and swept her eyes around the room. ‘And to stop anyone from running away.’ She looked around the room once more. ‘I assume all the course members are still here.’

‘We had a visiting tutor this morning,’ Miranda Barton said. ‘Chrissie Kerr, who owns and runs North Farm, a small literary press based in the county.’

‘When did she leave?’

The question was directed to the whole room, but again Miranda answered. ‘After lunch. I saw her drive away. And Tony was still very much alive at that point, so I don’t think she’ll be much of a witness for you.’

‘Excuse me!’ This was Nina Backworth again, on her feet, scarcely able to contain herself. Joe thought she’d make a decent defence lawyer. ‘Are you saying that you intend to keep us as prisoners in this house while you carry out your investigation?’

‘Of course not, Ms Backworth.’ Vera gave a chuckle. ‘The comment just now was one of my little jokes. Certainly you’re free to leave, but please tell my officers if that’s your intention. You’re witnesses to a murder, after all.’

The drawing room had a huge inglenook fireplace and an ornate wrought-iron basket where logs burned. It seemed to Vera that all the heat went up the chimney and the fire was just for show. Typical of this place. All show and no substance. And just like these people, who were acting their hearts out in an attempt to persuade her that they were sophisticated, intelligent and entirely blameless in the matter of Tony Ferdinand’s death.

She and Joe moved around them, taking contact details and plotting a timeline for their activities, from the coffee served after lunch to the time when Ferdinand had last been seen alive. She doubted Keating would give her a more accurate time of death than the victim’s leaving the meal and the discovery of his body. Some of the Writers’ House residents could be ruled out of the murder immediately. They were in the company of others for all but a few minutes during that period. She wondered what Joe made of these loud, showy people, who reminded her of exotic birds, all brightly coloured plumage and irritating squawk, caged in a luxurious aviary. When he’d first started working for her he’d been anxious in the presence of the articulate middle classes. He was more confident now. She’d given that to him, at least.

Upstairs, a team was searching bedrooms. Not Ferdinand’s. She’d do that herself, once the CSIs had been in. God knows how Joe had pulled in the officers so quickly. With the promise of overtime, which she’d have to pay for from her budget? None of the residents had objected to the search, but then Vera didn’t expect the knife or any bloody clothing to be found. Hours had been wasted, while they’d assumed Joanna to be the murderer. Anything incriminating would surely have been disposed of. There was an acre of garden, thick undergrowth, dense shrubs. But now it was dark and the search there would have to wait for the morning.

When the timeline was complete she looked at the clock. Gone eleven. Not the time to begin individual interviews; Nina Backworth would be on her feet again, talking about police harassment. Vera needed to get in touch with Holly and Charlie and she supposed she should get some sleep herself. She stood up and stretched and caught Joe’s eye.

‘Thanks for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all we need for tonight. No doubt I’ll see you at some point tomorrow.’

Outside, the hearse had arrived to take Ferdinand to the mortuary. The cold air hit her and made her feel suddenly awake and alive. At this point she felt she could go on all night, and for most of the next day.

‘Do we know when Keating plans to do the postmortem?’

‘Not until the morning. Around ten.’ Joe Ashworth
did
look tired. Nearly half her age, but he couldn’t match her for energy.
Don’t be smug, Vera pet. That’s all down to genetics. Hector was still climbing trees at seventy, stealing birds’ eggs.

‘Team briefing at eight-thirty then,’ she said. ‘We’ll come back here after the post-mortem. Lull the bastards into a sense of security by giving them the morning off.’ She grinned at him. ‘Get yourself home, man. It’s your birthday. Your lass will be waiting for you, all frilly knickers and fishnet stockings. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Back inside, the house seemed quiet. In Ferdinand’s room she found Billy Wainwright; she pulled on the paper suit and boots that he threw to her, and joined him.

‘No signs of violence or disturbance in here,’ he said. ‘I was just off home.’

‘Hang on for a few minutes, will you, Billy, while I just have a quick look at the man’s things.’

He shrugged to show that he wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t about to make a fuss. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, despite the sign on the door saying smoking wasn’t allowed. That, and some sort of fancy aftershave. The clothes in the wardrobe felt expensive to her – the shirts were heavy cotton and the jerseys cashmere. She looked at the labels and recognized some of the designer names. She hadn’t thought university lecturers were so well paid.

On the desk under the window there was a black ring binder and a diary. Again she turned to Wainwright. ‘Have you finished with these? Can I take them with me?’

He nodded, and it seemed to Vera suddenly that the man was exhausted, too tired even to speak. Perhaps the effort of lying to his wife, of keeping up with his bonny young lovers, was finally catching up with him.

She got Wainwright to drive her up the lane to her Land Rover. The internal light had never worked, but there was a torch in the glove compartment for emergencies, and she punched numbers into her phone. There was no reply from Charlie, which was only to be expected. He could be an idle bastard, Charlie, though for some jobs – the meticulous searching through a suspect’s background, for example – there was nobody to match him. Most likely now he’d be in his bed. Or a lock-in at his local pub, his phone switched off.

Holly did answer, and Vera could have predicted that too. Holly was young and fiercely ambitious. A good detective, but not as good as she thought she was. Sometimes Vera took it upon herself to remind her DC of that fact.

‘How did the chat with Joanna go?’ No need to introduce herself. Holly would know who it was at this time of night.

‘Okay. Joanna Tobin stuck to the story she gave you. All very calm and collected. You’d have thought she’d been through a police interview a dozen times. She’d had a message from Tony Ferdinand asking to meet her, and she went to the glass room at the top of the house. She didn’t go out onto the balcony, and just assumed that he’d changed his mind about the meeting. She saw the knife on the floor and decided to take it back to the kitchen.’

‘If she’s the killer,’ Vera said, ‘what did she do with the murder weapon?’

‘Could she have chucked it over the balcony?’

‘She could have done.’ Vera allowed herself to sound a bit impressed. ‘But Billy Wainwright has already been down with his torch to check. Nothing. Anything else from the interview?’

‘Not much. Joanna says she didn’t like Ferdinand, but she had no reason to kill him.’

‘Nobody liked him much,’ Vera said slowly. ‘At least, that’s the impression they give.’ She paused. ‘Do you think Joanna was set up?’

‘You mean the murderer sent the message, not Ferdinand?’ Holly was openly sceptical. Vera thought she hadn’t yet learned the importance of suitable manners when she spoke to her superiors. The lass could do with a bit more respect. ‘In that case, why leave a knife that wasn’t the murder weapon lying around? He must have realized we wouldn’t be misled for long into thinking Joanna was the killer.’

‘Unless he’s an ignorant bugger.’ Vera was playing devil’s advocate. Really, she didn’t know what she thought about all this. Except that someone was playing games.

‘Come off it!’ Holly said. Only adding ‘Ma’am’ at the last minute. That lack of respect again. ‘They were all on a crime-writing workshop. They’d understand the basics of forensics, if they write that sort of stuff.’

This time Vera had to concede defeat. ‘Aye. Maybe.’ In the house in the valley below it seemed that the writers were going to bed. The lights on the ground floor were being switched off. ‘Did you get Joanna home all right?’

‘Yes, I dropped her off myself. It wasn’t too far out of my way.’

‘Was Jack at home?’ Vera imagined his relief as he opened the door and saw Joanna standing there. She hoped he’d contained himself and not made too much fuss. Joanna wouldn’t like tears and hugs.

‘Someone opened the door. I assumed it was him. I didn’t hang around.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning then. Eight-thirty for a briefing. I’ve left a message on Charlie’s phone.’

Vera clicked off her phone and sat for a moment in silence. She opened the window to clear her head and thought she could hear the waves on the rocks at the end of the valley. She started the engine, drove down to the house to turn round, then headed home. She felt an unexpected surge of relief when she’d negotiated the lanes and reached the road that would take her inland. It was as if she’d escaped from a prison.

At home the farm was in darkness. She got out of the Land Rover in the yard, almost expecting to find Jack lurking in the barn with his questions or his gratitude, but she unlocked her house without interruption. On her kitchen table were three big bottles of their home-brew and half a dozen mucky eggs in a bowl. A card in Joanna’s writing.
Thanks.
Vera wondered if Joe Ashworth would consider that bribery and corruption. Then she thought she’d better get back her bloody key. The last thing she wanted was the hippies wandering in and out of her house whenever they felt like it.

In bed she looked at Ferdinand’s diary. It had been fingerprinted and tested, but the only contact traces came from the dead man. It contained no insights into his mind, just a list of appointments. In the week before his journey to Northumberland he’d recorded an episode of
The Culture Show
for television and appeared live on
Front Row
on Radio 4. Vera occasionally listened to that when she was having her supper and wondered if she’d heard him – he’d be one of those self-satisfied prats who criticized any poor bugger who had the nerve to put his thoughts on paper. As far as she knew, Ferdinand had never been published himself. Since arriving at the Writers’ House he’d marked in the schedule of his responsibilities:
tutorial 1, tutorial 2.
No names. And for today:
5 p.m. lecture. Nuts and bolts of the business.
Also a single initial and a question mark:
J?
So he had expected to meet up with Joanna. The extra scraps of information were merely tantalizing.

Vera left home early the next morning and still there was no sign of Jack or Joanna. Holly was in the incident room before her, printing off the information she’d found on the Writers’ House on the Internet. The equivalent, Vera thought, of an over-eager pupil sharpening the teacher’s pencil. Then:
My God, that shows my age. When did they last have pencils in classrooms?
The others wandered in afterwards, Charlie last as usual. Holly handed out the notes.