by Ann Cleeves
It was such an odd thing to say that for a moment Nina couldn’t move. Then without a word she opened the door and went out into the cold. Crossing the yard, she wondered what Miranda could have meant. Were her words a confession? Had she hoped Nina would make a sympathetic response, so that she could unburden herself further? Or were they a threat?
Chapter Eighteen
Walking into the house from the yard, Nina almost bumped into a strange woman. She recognized her at once as a possible ally in the Writers’ House, at least as different from Miranda as it was possible to be. The newcomer could have belonged to Nina’s gym; she was smart, confident, and gave the impression that she’d be at home in the city. The woman looked at Nina, took in the style of the clothes and the quality of the haircut, and seemed to have the same response. The same recognition of a kindred spirit. She smiled.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nina said. ‘It’s freezing outside and I just wanted to get indoors. I should have looked where I was going.’
‘No problem.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘DC Holly Clarke.’
‘Ah,’ Nina said. ‘Part of Inspector Stanhope’s team.’
‘And you must be Nina Backworth.’
‘Oh dear.’ Nina pulled a face. ‘It’s a bit worrying that you recognized me so easily. How did they describe me? Uppity academic. Wears black. Red lipstick.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Holly said, ‘that the inspector notices lipstick.’
They both grinned.
‘Can I help you?’ Nina was suddenly anxious. Had they sent this pleasant young woman to arrest her? Had the results from the lab on her sleeping pills come back already?
Holly shook her head. ‘I’ve been taking more witness statements. Routine. You know how it is. The youngest member of the team . . .’
‘. . . and a woman! I know, it’s just the same in the university. Everyone thinks things have changed, but sexism lives on.’ Here, Nina was on safe and familiar territory. ‘You’ve got a female boss, though. I’d have hoped that might make things a bit different.’
‘It doesn’t always work like that, does it?’ Holly said. ‘A woman climbs to the top, then hauls the ladder up behind her. She doesn’t want the competition.’ She paused and gave a sly, conspiratorial smile. ‘Not that I’m saying Inspector Stanhope would operate in that way.’
‘Of course not!’ Nina said in mock horror. They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, then she added, ‘Are you finished for the day? On your way home?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve done all the interviews, but I wondered if I might stay here for a while. Stanhope’s a great one for picking up the atmosphere. She says that listening is the best skill a detective can have.’
‘So you hope to earn a few brownie points?’
‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘Something like that.’
‘Why don’t you stop for dinner?’ Nina thought the evening ahead would be less daunting with a sympathetic companion. She imagined the amusing whispered comments they might pass between them after the less-inspired readings. And it would be reassuring to have a friend on the inquiry team. Someone who might put Nina’s case to Inspector Stanhope. ‘There’s probably even a spare room here, if you can’t face a long drive at the end of it. We can ask Alex. He’ll be in the kitchen preparing the meal. He’s in charge of most of the domestic arrangements.’ Nina didn’t want to go back to the cottage to ask Miranda. ‘Unless there’s something you need to get back for?’
‘Nothing and nobody.’ Holly grinned. ‘And that way, at least I’ll be able to have a couple of glasses of wine!’
The last comment made Nina even more relaxed. Police officers didn’t drink on duty, did they? This would be just as Holly had said: unofficial overtime to allow her to understand the place and the residents better. Nina could have nothing to fear from her. She knocked on the kitchen door and spoke to Alex about Holly spending the night. He nodded as if there was no problem, even giving the impression that the whole thing had already been arranged as he handed over a key to an empty room. Nina could see that he was preoccupied with his cooking and that he wasn’t really listening.
‘Sorry about that,’ Nina said. ‘He’s a perfectionist. But the food here is very good.’ It was as if she were recommending a fancy new restaurant in Jesmond.
They all gathered in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks. Even Lenny had made an effort and was dressed in a dark suit. Nina thought it had probably last been worn at a funeral. The trousers were painfully tight at the waist and his belly hung over his belt. The room too was dressed for the occasion. There were flowers, huge dahlias and chrysanthemums – the colours, Nina thought, of fire. Candles on the window ledges and the mantelpiece. Nobody mentioned Tony Ferdinand at all. It was as if he’d never been here, never given his ego-laden lectures, never sat in one-to-one tutorials making promises he was unlikely to keep, or assessing the possibility that he might persuade a student into his bed. Tonight the residents pretended that they were at a fashionable book launch; for most, after all, this was the nearest they’d get to the real thing. Nina, who had attended a couple in her time – her own and her friends’ – thought they’d be disappointed by the reality. Here, the wine was a great deal better.
She’d prepared carefully for the evening. There’d been a bath, her favourite oil, a cup of camomile tea within easy reach. Then make-up. Perfume. Long silver earrings. A red dress. Her students would be shocked to see her in colour. She was known for wearing black. A moment to read through the paragraphs she’d chosen for the presentation. Then shoes and a small evening bag. Halfway down the stairs she’d gone back to check that her room was locked. She was still troubled by the recurring image of an intruder. When she’d arrived in the drawing room most of the students had been there already, though she’d been the first of the tutors. She’d walked into the room to a little round of applause.
Holly was there, still in the clothes she’d been wearing in the afternoon of course, but they were smart enough for her not to look out of place. She’d added more make-up and was holding a glass of wine. She was talking to Joanna, who tonight was wearing black. Another statement perhaps. Soon after, Giles Rickard came in. He sported a little bow tie, this time in blue velvet. His movement seemed a bit easier than it had; perhaps he too was relieved at the prospect of leaving the place, of returning to the real world.
But I’m not sure that I am pleased to be leaving, Nina thought. And though she’d considered the place as a prison all week, now she had a moment’s anxiety about going. In some circumstances prison might be comforting. A place of safety.
Miranda was handing out drinks and canapés. She had on a long black skirt and white silk blouse – clothes that, Nina thought, reflected her ambiguous position in the house. The colours of a waitress’s uniform, but in a rather grander style. As Nina took a glass of white wine, Miranda gave a tight smile. ‘I’m so glad we had that little talk this afternoon.’
She moved on before Nina could answer, and the academic was pleased not to be expected to make a reply. What would she have said? In her memory the exchange had been acrimonious and disturbing.
Dinner was more elaborate than on the previous evenings. There were bottles of wine on the table. Alex had changed from his chef’s whites into a shirt and jacket, and after helping Miranda to serve the meal he sat beside her. Usually he ate alone in the kitchen. Again there were flowers and more candles, thick and cream, the sort you might see in a church. Nina sat next to Holly, but during dinner they spoke very little. The young detective’s attention seemed to be on the conversation going on all around her. It seemed she’d taken to heart Vera Stanhope’s advice about listening. But when the dishes were being cleared, Holly turned to Nina.
‘Go on then! Give me the gossip. Who’s sleeping with whom.’
Nina was shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think anything of that sort is going on.’
‘It’s different from any residential course I’ve ever been on then,’ Holly said easily. ‘A hothouse
atmosphere like this and away from the office, a couple too many glasses of Chardonnay and you can believe that you fancy almost anyone. The problem is sitting next to them at work the following week, and realizing what a prat you’ve made of yourself.’ She nodded across towards Alex. ‘He’s fit enough. If I weren’t a police officer, I could be tempted!’
Nina gave a little laugh, but found that she was shocked.
The main business of the evening started during coffee. It was clear that Miranda considered herself the star and the mistress of ceremonies. Any notion that she was there simply to serve them was quickly dispelled. They were still in the dining room, and she took her natural place once again at the head of the table.
‘This has been a disturbing and unusual week,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to thank the tutors and students for their concentration and their focus at such a difficult time. The quality of work produced has been outstanding and, instead of dwelling on the tragedy that occurred here, I think it right to celebrate this evening the fine writing that has been achieved.’
There was no further reference to Tony Ferdinand. Again Nina remembered the pain the woman had expressed when she learned of his death, and she wondered at Miranda’s poise.
‘Tonight we each have the opportunity to share a short piece from work created this week.’ Miranda looked around the table. ‘Do we have a volunteer to begin?’
A number of hands shot into the air. Diffidence, it seemed, was not a problem within the group. The students probably thought interest would wane as the evening progressed and more wine was drunk.
‘Lenny,’ Miranda said, ‘would you like to start us off?’
Lenny got to his feet. He’d shaved since the afternoon and Nina had noticed that throughout the meal he’d only been drinking water. Despite sounding so defeatist at lunchtime, it seemed that he now intended to give this his best shot. As he picked up the sheet of paper from the table, Miranda saw that his hands were shaking.
‘Before I do my reading,’ he said, his accent so broad that Nina wondered if the southerners in the audience would understand him, ‘I’d just like to thank all the people who made this possible for me. The Bartons and the tutors, and the rest of the folk here who’ve given me so much support. It’s been like a dream come true.’
Then he launched into his reading. Nina had expected a piece from the beginning of his novel, an action scene, following two teenage lads racing a stolen car round Blyth housing estate. That was what he’d told her he’d read, when they were discussing it at lunchtime. It was well written, fast, and developed the characters immediately. Instead, he’d chosen something else, something he’d written at her insistence after their first tutorial.
‘This is great writing, Lenny,’ she’d said. ‘But the story’s all told at the same pace. It’s fast and furious from beginning to end. Occasionally the reader needs time to catch her breath and it’s good to change the mood a bit too. Try to write something tender for me. A love scene or a conversation between a parent and child.’
Now he stood, the paper shaking in his hand, like a sail hauled in too close to the wind, and started speaking. His voice was slow and almost without expression, but the tone of the piece was so unexpected, so sad, that he had them hooked from the first words. She stood at the window watching her man walk out of her life.
He read for only a couple of minutes, then he stopped abruptly. Nina wasn’t sure if he’d intended to end the piece there or if he’d become so moved, by his own writing and by the occasion, that he was unable to continue. He sat down to applause and looked around him, confused, as if he’d just woken up.
‘Wow!’ Miranda got to her feet. ‘Well done, Lenny. I don’t envy the person who has to follow that.’ She looked around the table and Nina thought she would ask for another volunteer. She was deciding she might raise her hand herself and get the ordeal over with, when Miranda focused her attention on the ex-policeman, Mark Winterton. ‘Mark, would you like to try?’
He stood up. He seemed unflustered. Nina supposed he’d be used to giving evidence in court.
‘I’m not going to read,’ he said. His face was thin and the small, square spectacles he wore gave him the appearance of a rather pedantic teacher. His words too were clipped and precise. ‘One of the great benefits of the course has been the development of an ability to assess one’s own work. And I’ve realized that my work really isn’t very good at all!’ There was a sympathetic murmur from the other end of the table. ‘I’m not going to put you lot through any of my stuff. But, like Lenny, I want to thank all the staff and students for their support. This was something I had to try. I gave it a go, and it didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll have to find another outlet for my creativity. But in the meantime I look forward to seeing some of your books on the shelves and to telling my friends: I knew them before they were famous.’
He smiled at them all and took his seat. Nina thought this was all going much better than she’d expected. It might not end up as the turgid, smug event that she’d dreaded. She turned to watch Miranda take centre stage once more. She wears too much make-up: all that powder is very ageing. I wonder who she’ll pick on next. Miranda’s gaze moved around the table. Really, the woman’s like a stage medium, looking for an easy target.
‘Joanna,’ Miranda said. ‘I know you’ve not had an easy week, but would you feel up to reading, dear?’
At once the patronizing tone made Nina want to jump to her feet and come to Joanna’s defence. It occurred to her that Miranda disliked the woman more, now that it seemed she was innocent of Ferdinand’s murder, than when it was assumed she was the killer. Joanna, though, seemed capable of looking after herself. She stood slowly, reached out to fill her glass with red wine and took a sip. Then she surveyed her audience.
She looked striking in the candlelight. The long corn-coloured hair was pulled back from her face and the simple black dress made Nina think of a young widow, a woman certainly in mourning.
‘I came to the group with a story,’ Joanna said. ‘Something very personal. But I was too close to it and the language was all wrong. Too elaborate. It took the help of the tutors, especially Nina, for me to realize that I needed to keep it simple. To keep it real.’ She started reading without further introduction. It was the description of a young woman being beaten up by a man. The words were carefully chosen, clear and without emotion. The piece was written from the woman’s point of view, but there was no self-pity. She described finding herself on the floor, feeling the cold tile against her cheek, seeing a piece of bread dropped from the morning’s breakfast.
Joanna paused to catch her breath, and in the distance they heard the sound of a door banging. Nina sensed Holly tense beside her. Everyone in the house was present in the room. Perhaps a window had been left open and the wind had blown the door to. But that night there was no wind. Joanna continued to read. Then the dining-room door was thrown open, so hard that the handle knocked against the wall.
Joanna stopped in the middle of a sentence and turned to look at the man who stood just inside the room. He was wiry and middle-aged, his greying hair tied back in a ponytail. When Joanna spoke, it was in the weary tone of a mother who’s had a tiresome day with a fractious child, at once affectionate and irritated.
‘Jack, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?’
That was when the man lost his temper and started shouting.
Chapter Nineteen
Vera sat in her house in the hills waiting to hear from Holly. There was still some light outside – it hadn’t been worth going back to the station after the interview with Helen Thomas and she’d come straight home. She’d let Joe get off early too, expecting gratitude, because he always claimed that he liked to spend time with his bairns before bedtime, but he’d been in an odd mood all day and he’d slunk away without a word. It was freezing – this year, it seemed, winter had come early – and she’d got a good fire going. She was warming her feet in front of it, drinking a mug of tea when her
phone rang.
‘Holly. How did it go with Winterton?’
When Vera had suggested that the younger officer should spend the afternoon at the Writers’ House, talking to the ex-detective, Holly had looked like a greyhound let off the leash. Almost quivering with enthusiasm.
‘Okay.’ Reception wasn’t brilliant in the house, and Holly sounded as if she were at the end of a long tunnel.
‘So why do you think he decided to do the writers’ course? Anything to do with the daughter’s death, do you think?’
‘Not directly. I had the impression that he just wanted some time away from home. Retirement didn’t suit him as much as he’d expected. He misses the routine of the job. And feeling useful. He did an English-literature evening class and that gave him the writing bug.’
‘Aye, well, I can see it might take some folk that way.’ Vera hated thinking about retirement. She dreaded it more than she feared illness or sudden death. ‘But why the writing thing?’
‘Everyone told him he wrote a good report,’ Holly said. ‘And he was reading thrillers where they got all the police procedures wrong, and he thought he could do better. I don’t think there’s any more to it than that. His daughter was at university in Manchester, so there was no contact with Ferdinand or the North-East.’
Vera found that her tea was almost cold. She’d have to make some more. ‘Did Winterton have anything useful to say about the other residents? Anything we might have missed?’
There was a pause at the other end of the phone.
‘Come on, Holly, you did ask, didn’t you? You did stroke his ego, like, and let him think we needed his help and experience?’
‘I did my best!’
‘But it didn’t work?’ Vera tried to be reasonable. Maybe it was her fault. She should have taken on Winterton herself.
‘He said he’d left that life behind him. It was tempting to meddle, but he knew how he’d feel if he was working an investigation and some retired officer tried to tell him how to run a case.’
