The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) (28 page)

On impulse Nina got out her phone and rang the woman. ‘I don’t suppose you’re free this afternoon. I’m back at the university tomorrow and it might be tricky then to get away.’

‘Ooh, yes, do come over. As soon as you like. I’ve got a pile of admin, but nothing that won’t wait.’

Nina could hear the woman’s excitement. It was nothing to do with the novel, Nina thought. It was murder. It brought out the voyeur in everyone.

She’d liked Chrissie as soon as she’d met her at the interview for the MA. There was nothing pretentious about her, despite the classy degree and the obvious intelligence. She had a passion for books that was basic and visceral. A hunger for reading. Not for writing, though. She completed her MA, but wasn’t tempted to do further research. ‘There are enough bad writers out there,’ she’d said to Nina when she’d pitched the idea of forming her own publishing house. ‘The world doesn’t need another one. I’d rather spend my time and my energy promoting the good ones. Like you.’

The formation of North Farm Press had started a partnership that had worked well for them both. Nina felt cherished, and that gave her the confidence to experiment in her work. Chrissie had begun to make a name for herself. And even a little money.

Chrissie came out of the office to greet Nina as soon as she came into the yard.

‘What a nightmare!’ she said. ‘You must have been terrified. I would have been: in that creepy house with a killer on the loose.’

But Nina thought that Chrissie wouldn’t have been terrified at all. She was the sort of Englishwoman who was scared of nothing. You could imagine her as an indomitable missionary making her way across Africa with only stout boots, a Bible and an umbrella to protect her.

And as if she was reading Nina’s thoughts Chrissie said, ‘I do feel a bit cheated, though. Driving away from the place just as the excitement was about to start . . .’

‘It’s hard to believe that it really happened,’ Nina said. ‘It seems now like a bit of theatre. Something from a Revenge Tragedy. Webster. All that blood.’

‘Brilliant timing, though!’ Chrissie couldn’t keep her exuberance in check. ‘With the new book out, I mean. I’ve sorted out a few interviews with the national press. And Radio Newcastle, of course.’ She must have realized she sounded callous and frowned. ‘That is all right? I don’t think Miranda would have minded. She could be pushy enough when she wanted.’

Nina, following Chrissie into the office, didn’t answer directly. She sat on the small red sofa that stood against one wall.

‘Did Miranda ever approach you about publishing
her.
The police asked me if she was still writing. It’s only just occurred to me that you might know that better than me.’

‘No,’ Chrissie said absent-mindedly. She was scrabbling through the papers on her desk looking for the list of interviews she’d arranged for Nina. ‘Shame, really. She’d be selling like hot cakes now.’

They talked for a while about publicity. ‘There’s a woman from
The Times
in Scotland. They won’t read it in London, I’m afraid, but it’ll be on their website for the world to read. Seems lovely, and she’s prepared to come down from Edinburgh. And how do you fancy a piece on
Woman’s Hour
?’

Nina thought that a month ago she’d have gone out to buy champagne to celebrate all this attention. Now it seemed as if she was profiting from two people’s deaths. ‘I suppose they all want to talk about the murders in the Writers’ House?’

‘Of course they do, darling!’ Sometimes Chrissie affected an arty voice just for show. ‘But can you blame them? You were talking about crime fiction, and suddenly two people die in dramatic and horrible circumstances. It’s too delicious for words.’ She was perched on her desk and leaned forward. ‘You will do it, won’t you, Nina? It’s not as if you actually liked either of them as individuals, is it? And really this could be the breakthrough you need. It’s just a pity we’re not promoting a crime novel.’

‘I started writing a crime short story,’ Nina said. ‘While I was there . . .’

‘Did you? Is it finished?’

‘It’s not ready to show. And it’s only a short piece.’

‘But still, one of the more intelligent women’s magazines might take it. In fact I know just the person to talk to.’ Chrissie was already flicking through her address book looking for a phone number. Nina thought she’d never seen her so excited.

‘A couple of the other students were very impressive,’ she said, hoping to create a distraction. She wasn’t sure she wanted Chrissie selling her story to a magazine. The writing was good, but surely it was too close to reality to turn into entertainment. Certainly she didn’t want to hear the publisher make the pitch. ‘You might want to look at their work before they’re approached by one of the larger publishers.’

That stopped Chrissie in her tracks. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘One’s called Joanna Tobin. She and her partner run a smallholding in the wilds. Hers is a sort of woman-in-jeopardy story. The other is a guy called Lenny Thomas. He used to work on the open-cast until his back gave up. He spent six months in prison, so he knows what he’s talking about.’

And that was when Chrissie came up with her idea for a collection of the work from the course, but somehow making it sound as if the brainwave had been Nina’s. ‘Of course! I see just how it would work. A sampler to show the sort of writing you were doing.’ And a few seconds later she dropped the bombshell that she’d been thinking of finding a way to keep the Writers’ House going.

‘Inspector Stanhope will never wear it,’ Nina said.

‘I’ll ask her, of course.’ Chrissie looked at her watch. ‘In fact I’ll ask her very soon. She’ll be here in a quarter of an hour. She phoned up and made an appointment. Though I’m not sure how she thinks I can help her. I wasn’t even there.’

Nina thought the last thing she needed was to bump into Inspector Stanhope again so soon. If it had been the sergeant, she might have hung around. She still hadn’t thanked him for allowing her to leave the Writers’ House that morning, and she would have been glad to see him. She said goodbye to Chrissie and drove away.

That night she persuaded a friend to go out for dinner with her. He worked at the university and harboured, Nina knew, hopes that one day they might be more than friends. She found him sweet, but ineffectual, and despised herself for using him when she was desperate for a companion. They had a pleasant Italian meal together, in a small restaurant not far from her flat. He was sympathetic about her ordeal and allowed her to talk about it all evening. They shared a bottle of wine.

Afterwards he offered to walk her home, but he’d taken her hand over the table and told her to phone him at any time, that he was always there for her, so she knew there would be an awkwardness on her doorstep when he fumbled to kiss her. She even thought she might feel so lonely that she’d invite him inside and sleep with him. That would lead to horrible complications. So she squeezed his hands and thanked him and said she’d be fine. It was only half a mile, after all.

‘You do understand, don’t you, Ian, why I need to be alone tonight?’

He nodded gravely and said that of course he did. Though that was ludicrous, because if he’d been anyone else, being alone would have been the last thing she’d have wanted.

She left him outside the restaurant and walked off briskly, suspecting that he’d be watching her at least until she reached the corner. It was freezing again and her breath came in white clouds. She put her hands in her coat pockets. It was only eight o’clock, but the cold seemed to have kept people indoors. Away from the main street the roads were empty. All the curtains were closed. She thought she heard footsteps behind her. Ian perhaps, risking her displeasure by playing the gentleman after all. But when she looked, nobody was there.

She walked so quickly then, almost running for the last hundred yards, that when she got inside she felt suddenly very warm. The heating had come on while she was out. She locked her door, glad that she lived on the first floor. There was no danger of an intruder climbing in through the window.

I never used to think like that. I never used to worry. Is that what violent death does to the people left behind? It makes us victims too, of our own anxiety.

She ran a bath and lay there, running over her meeting with Chrissie. How robust she seemed! If she’d been at the Writers’ House over the past week, would she be imagining footsteps in the dark? Nina thought probably not. She wondered if Chrissie would take on Joanna and Lenny as North Farm writers and what she, Nina, would make of it if that happened. In one sense they’d become her competition. She thought suddenly that she never wanted to see either of them again. Lenny had already sent her his whole novel as an email attachment:
I know it’s a cheek, but would you mind having a look and telling me what you think?
She hadn’t opened the attachment or sent a reply. She wished them both well as writers, but she didn’t want anything to remind her of the past week.

When she went to bed she switched on the radio beside it. It took her a long time to fall asleep and she listened to the BBC World Service talking about floods in Pakistan, a riot in the streets in Rio, an earthquake in Mexico. Other tragedies that made the ones close to home less enormous. But still important to her because she’d met the people involved. She’d known their names. And she’d disliked them.

She woke suddenly and still the radio was murmuring in her ear. She knew it was the middle of the night, reached out and switched it off. Silence. Then footsteps in the living room next door.
I’m imagining it.
She remembered waking suddenly in the Writer’s House and the images of blood and death that had terrified her then.
That was nothing, and so is this. I’m being ridiculous. It was all a bad dream.

It had always been impossible to move quietly about her flat. The floorboards creaked. The front door jammed and had to be slammed shut. It occurred to her now that the banging front door must have woken her.
If I lie still, they’ll take what they want and go away.
But the footsteps moved out of the living room and towards her bedroom. She found herself screaming. Then, mingling with her screams, came the sound of a siren, a police car or an ambulance racing down the street outside. The footsteps pounded down the stairs, the front door slammed shut and there was silence again.

Nina climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Had a neighbour seen the break-in and called the police? She ran into the living room and looked out of the window. But the street was quiet. The arrival of the emergency vehicle had been coincidental. Luck. And there was no sign of the intruder. Further down the street there was the sound of an engine starting.

She tried to breathe more calmly. Perhaps, after all, the incident had been a nightmare, the result of the violence she’d experienced second-hand. She’d make herself some camomile tea and try to sleep. She switched on the light to make sure that there was no sign of a break-in. The room was tidy. It seemed that nothing had been moved or taken. But on the middle of the table sat a crystal bowl full of ripe apricots.

Vera sent Joe Ashworth to deal with the incident at Nina Backworth’s flat. The rest of them had been excited by the news of the break-in. The investigation had achieved so little that they were glad of anything that might move it on.

‘Too much of a coincidence surely, Ma’am, if it isn’t related to the Writers’ House case.’ Holly, bright-eyed, was ready to leave immediately.

But Vera seemed preoccupied with some project of her own. Joe thought she’d had an idea during the team briefing, had made some connection or seen something they’d missed. Occasionally she had these sudden flashes of inspiration; usually they came to nothing, but sometimes they were important and developed the case in an interesting way. Now she flapped her hands to send him on his way.

‘Use your judgement. You’ll know if it’s just a coincidence – some yob trying his luck – or if it’s related to our investigation. Probably nothing. The CSIs have already been in. Holly, you start chivvying the publishers. I need to know what Miranda was up to. That’s our priority at the moment.’

Joe went, secretly pleased to have an excuse to see Nina again, but offended too that Vera hadn’t decided to confide in him. Usually she was happy enough to share her daft ideas. When he arrived in Newcastle he sat for a moment outside the house where Nina lived. By now it was lunchtime and girls from a private school at the end of the road were walking along the pavement, giggling and scuffing the fallen leaves with their feet. He waited until they’d passed, then he got out of the car and rang the bell.

He thought Nina must be dressed for work. She seemed to him very smart.

‘This is such a nuisance.’ Her voice was peevish. ‘I’ve already had to cancel my class at the university, and I’m supposed to be doing a radio interview this afternoon.’

‘It won’t take long.’

Suddenly she put her head in her hands. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault and it was good of you to come. I’m scared. Absolutely bloody terrified. Waking up in the middle of the night to find someone in the flat. I thought I was going to die like the others.’

‘Of course you’re scared.’

She led him into a large living room with a deep bay window. All the furniture was old. One wall was covered in books. There was a table under the window, where long blue velvet curtains reached almost to the floor. And on the floor a grey carpet.

‘It looks very tidy,’ he said. ‘You’ve not moved anything?’

‘Don’t you believe me?’ She turned on him and he saw how close she was to hysteria.

‘Of course I believe you. Has anything been taken?’

She shook her head. ‘Not that I can tell.’

He thought she would know if anything was missing. This was an ordered place. She was an organized woman.

‘They did bring something, though.’ She pointed to a glass bowl, containing small fruit. They were so perfect that if it hadn’t been for the smell, he’d have thought they weren’t real, that they were wood or china, painted. ‘They were there, left by the intruder. He
meant
to leave them. That’s why he came in here first. He was on his way to the bedroom when the siren frightened him off.’