The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (23 page)

If there was no computer in the room, where would Miranda have done her writing? There was an office in the main house. When there were no students present, that would be a reasonably quiet place to work. But Miranda had been a romantic. The swept-up hair and the long skirts, the velvet and the silk, the rich colours in her bedroom, all were calculated to give a certain image, to portray a style. Vera could picture the woman sitting with a notebook and fountain pen in the grand drawing room of the big house, looking out to the coast, concentrating on the words perhaps, but also pleased to present herself as a writer. The inspector opened drawers and began her search for a manuscript or paper.

Half an hour later she gave up. There was lots of frilly underwear. The sort you might expect in a Paris whorehouse in the 1950s. An octopus of tangled coloured tights. But no notepad or exercise book. And no handkerchiefs with red hearts embroidered in the corner.

When she returned to the kitchen Alex seemed startled. It was as if he’d forgotten she was in the house. Vera sat at the table and turned towards him. ‘Was your mother still writing? She read the beginning of a story the evening she died. Was it from a new piece of work?’

‘I’m sorry?’ He looked at her with those soft, little boy’s eyes.

‘It’s ten years since she had a book published. Had she given up writing? Retired, like? I saw her reading something at the kitchen table once. Would that have been her own work? Or had she given up?’ The time spent rifling through Miranda’s belongings had made Vera impatient. She wanted to shake Alex Barton and scream at him.

He seemed not to give her question any importance. He shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. She always thought of herself as a writer. She wouldn’t ever stop. But I don’t have any details of what she might have worked on recently. Really she didn’t discuss that sort of thing with me.’

Why did you stay?
Vera wondered.
You had nothing in common with your mother, so why didn’t you move out?
But she’d stayed with Hector. Perhaps things were never quite that easy.

The house was quiet. Nina Backworth had been allowed back into her own room. Vera had sent a female officer to sit discreetly on the landing with a view of the door. She didn’t think Nina would make a run for it – she was too intelligent for that – but Vera wasn’t taking any chances. Alex Barton was still in the cottage, with a bored plod and the cat that he hated as his only companions. Holly and Charlie were in the Coquet Hotel taking statements from the other residents. Vera knew that soon she’d have to put in an appearance there too, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the Writers’ House yet.

After walking out of the cottage she’d gone to the beach to see where the knife had been found. She pictured the scene following Miranda’s murder. The early hours of the morning. A thick frost, and cold that would take your breath away. There’d been a half-moon, but as Vera had discovered on the afternoon of Ferdinand’s death, visibility in the garden would be poor. She’d ask the search team if any of the residents had a torch in their room. Had the killer removed the waterproof jacket on the terrace, or worn it down to the beach? If he – or she – had taken it off at the terrace, there should be a blood-stained bag: he’d need to carry it and the knife in something. Where was the bag? If he’d left the jacket on, they should find traces of blood along the footpath.

Now, though, she was more interested in the contents of the jacket pocket. And food. And coffee. She and Joe sat in the Writers’ House kitchen.

‘Make us a few slices of toast, pet. You can’t expect a woman to work on an empty stomach.’

The bread was fresh, the slices thick and the marmalade was home-made. Joe couldn’t work out how to operate the fancy coffee machine, so they had instant, but Vera thought she hadn’t been this happy for ages. Joe still seemed subdued, but he’d been moody for a couple of days. If he were a woman, you’d say it was his time of the month.

‘So what’s this all about?’ She set the newspaper cutting in its plastic sheet on the table between them. ‘Have we identified the magazine yet?’

‘Billy’s scanned it and sent it off to HQ. They’re tracking it down there.’

‘We’ll not hold our breaths then.’

‘I can’t take it seriously.’ Joe said. ‘It’s like somebody’s been watching too many crap cop shows on television. Or reading too many of those books where there’s a body on every other page, but the police still can’t track down the killer.’

‘A joke then, instead of a real message?’ She emptied the mug of coffee and wondered if she could get him to make some more. She didn’t like playing the demanding boss.

‘Not so much a joke. More like an attempt to distract us? To make the whole thing more complicated than it really is. Surely the most likely scenario is that Miranda Barton was killed because she saw the first murder. Or guessed the identity of the killer. Arranging the body on the terrace, the magazine cutting – that’s just an attempt to make us chase other links between the victims. Triggered by Nina Backworth’s short story.’

‘Aye,’ Vera said. Half her mind was still on a need for more coffee. ‘I dare say you’re right.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘How did the killer persuade Miranda Barton to go to the terrace last night? It must have been late. Joanna, Jack and Rickard were still there when I went home. And it was bloody freezing, even earlier. She must have had a good reason to agree to the meeting.’

‘Maybe she made the arrangement,’ Joe said.

‘We’re back to blackmail then?’ Vera leaned back in her chair. ‘Miranda knew or guessed the identity of the killer and made the appointment herself? It makes sense. She wouldn’t invite the killer to the cottage. Alex was in there and might have overheard their conversation.’ She peered at the magazine cutting, sliding it away from her along the table until the words came into some sort of focus. It had very small print, and she thought again she should get to an optician’s and sort herself out some specs. It wasn’t that she was vain. If you had a body the size and shape of a barrage balloon there was no sense in vanity. But until recently her eyesight had been perfect. Hector hadn’t needed glasses until he was in his late sixties. She imagined him jeering at her.
Feeling your age, Vee?

‘Read it out to me will you, pet,’ she said to Joe. No excuses and no explanation. Challenging him to ask why she couldn’t read it for herself.

He shot her a look, but said nothing. He’d always known when to keep his mouth shut. It was one of the things she liked about him.

‘So Miranda maintained her contact with the college,’ Vera said. ‘I suppose in a sense this piece links both victims. By that time Ferdinand would have set up his writing course there.’ She could see the photo okay: Miranda posing in front of a pile of books.

‘Ferdinand isn’t named,’ Joe said. Vera could tell he thought she was allowing herself to be distracted again. He didn’t understand that she took pleasure in complication.

She glared at him. ‘Go on then.’ She put on her cross voice as if he’d been the one to interrupt the flow. ‘Let’s hear the rest.’

Joe looked up. ‘Then there are some details about her latest novel, date of publication and that sort of thing. It’s a very short piece.’

‘What’s the title of the novel she’s plugging?’ Vera thought it wouldn’t be
Cruel Women.
The script would have been written and the film shot and edited months before transmission.

‘
Older Men.
’ Joe looked up at her. ‘Do you think that’s relevant?’

‘No, probably not.’ Vera thought there were too many small details to consider. Too many possibilities. ‘That was the last book to come out. She had copies of all her novels in her bedroom, and I checked the dates. There was the TV film that year, an interview in a national magazine. You’d think she’d want to make the most of her success. So why did she stop publishing?’

‘Maybe the last book wasn’t very good,’ Joe said.

‘Aye, maybe.’ But Vera suspected the book business didn’t work like that. She wasn’t sure the quality of the work had so much to do with sales figures. ‘Let’s track down a contact at her publisher’s. We might find somebody who remembers her.’ She paused and looked again at the paper. ‘I think there was more to the article than this. Look, the edge has been neatly cut. Originally wouldn’t there have been two columns?’

Joe was sceptical. ‘How can you tell?’

‘The placing of the headline. It’s not symmetrical. And the headline itself.
One Cruel Woman?
There’s nothing in the piece that answers the question.’ Vera spoke almost to herself. ‘Did the killer want us to realize the article had been cut in half? Or has he underestimated us?’

‘This isn’t a game.’ Joe was losing patience. ‘It’s not one of their stories.’

‘Oh, it is,’ Vera said. ‘That’s just what it is.’

They sat for a moment staring at each other. The room was filled with the cold morning sunlight. Vera half-expected Joe to demand an explanation, but he just looked at her as if she were mad.

‘I think Miranda was still writing,’ she said.

She made the announcement as if it were a revelation and was disappointed by Joe’s reaction: ‘Is it important?’

‘If Ferdinand was in the process of helping find a publisher for her, it would explain the grief at his death. Not personal at all. Professional.’

Now Joe did look up. ‘Backworth said that they were all going to read pieces last night over dinner. Even Miranda Barton. Although Jack broke up the party, most of them carried on in the lounge. Nina might know if Miranda read, and if she explained the background to her story.’

‘So she might.’ Vera gave him a long, lazy smile. ‘Why don’t you nip upstairs and ask her, pet? Take your time. You’ve got a way with the women. We need all the details she can give.’ She nodded towards the cutting on the table. ‘Take that with you. Our Nina might know where it came from. She was being taught by Ferdinand after Miranda became rich and famous, after all. She might just remember if there was more to it than we’ve got here. I’ll wait for you.’

When Joe Ashworth had left the room, Vera switched on the kettle again. She made more coffee and found a tin with a few home-made biscuits still inside. It’d be a shame for them to be wasted. Her phone rang. Holly.

‘I’ve just had a call from the incident room. A member of the public wants to talk to you.’

‘Oh, aye.’ People who fancied they had vital information always wanted to speak to the senior investigating officer. They didn’t trust the person at the end of the phone to pass it on. Not without reason. If Vera read every scrap of gossip, she’d get nothing else done. ‘So what’s so urgent that they contacted you?’

‘It came from a politician. An MEP.’

‘Let me guess,’ Vera said. ‘Paul Rutherford.’
Joanna’s ex
-
husband.

Joe Ashworth knocked on Nina Backworth’s door and waited to be invited in. She’d been lying on top of the bed and was scrambling upright when he opened the door. He felt as embarrassed as if he’d walked in on her in the shower. He knew she would hate to have her private space invaded.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Were you trying to get some sleep?’

‘Trying,’ she said. ‘Not very successfully.’ She swung her legs onto the floor. ‘I can make you some tea or coffee, if you’d like. Miranda always made sure the rooms were well stocked.’

‘Better at running this place than she was a writer, you reckon?’

‘Would it be very bitchy if I said she was?’ Nina had gone into the bathroom to fill the kettle and looked round the door to get his answer.

‘You’ve already told us you didn’t think much of her books.’

She plugged in the kettle and switched it on, giving herself time to form a reply. ‘That was while she was still alive. I thought they were pretentious and overwritten. Like poor copies of other people writing literary fiction at the time. But it seems much worse to be rude about her when she’s dead. And perhaps I got her wrong.’

‘I need you to be honest with me,’ Joe said. ‘That’s the most important thing now.’ He sat on the desk chair and watched Nina play with the small cartons of milk and the teabags on strings. Her fingers were very long and white.

‘I haven’t lied to you at all,’ she said. ‘Why would I do that?’

He left the question unanswered. She poured boiling water into a mug and looked at it. ‘How strong do you like it? Do you want to fish it out for yourself?’

‘Last night,’ he said. ‘After Jack Devanney kicked off in the dining room, you went with the others to the lounge to listen to them read their stories.’

‘To the drawing room.’ She corrected him absent-mindedly. A teacher correcting a bairn’s grammar. ‘Yes, I didn’t think I could get out of it.’

‘Did they all read from their own work?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Inspector Stanhope has already asked me that. I couldn’t face it, after the scene over dinner. It just seemed like a sham. Whoever set up the scene on the terrace must have looked at my notes without my realizing.’

Joe saw she was blaming herself for Miranda’s death; somehow she felt she had made it happen by imagining the crime scene and writing it down. Like a bizarre kind of magic.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.

‘It feels as if it is. I was writing for entertainment. A bit of fun. I didn’t expect my story to be brought to life.’ She fished in her pocket for a tissue.