The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

by Ann Cleeves

  Chrissie Kerr still lived with her parents, it seemed, and had given Vera directions. Once it would have been a farmhouse as scruffy as Jack and Joanna’s, but the land had been sold off and the house and a barn conversion were all that was left. The house was rather grand now, solid and double-fronted, with long sash windows and a view out to the National Park. The barn had been turned into a stylish office, one wall made almost entirely of glass, the roof covered in solar panels. A sign, black on green: North Farm Press. Between the two buildings, where once there would have been a mucky farmyard, white lines marked parking places on a paved courtyard.

  No shortage of money here. Vera climbed out of the car and waited. Chrissie was expecting her and would have heard her coming. It was mid-afternoon, still a beautiful day, but already the sun was low. Vera hesitated, unsure whether to knock at the house or the office.

  ‘Inspector Stanhope!’

  A young woman still in her twenties, but confident and loud. Big-busted and wide-hipped, dressed in a black frock that hid most of the bulges. Vera didn’t know much about clothes, but thought that sort of magic wouldn’t come cheap. She could do with something similar herself, but would probably shrink it the first time she washed it. Anyway she wouldn’t have the aplomb to carry it off.

  ‘Come into the house and have some tea.’ Chrissie’s foghorn voice carried from the door of the office. ‘I usually take a break at about this time. Mummy and Daddy are in town, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.’

  By the time tea had been made and carried into a living room Vera knew all about Chrissie Kerr. About how Mummy had been an academic, a classicist, and Daddy a scientist, and they’d both given up posts in the university to move out to the country. ‘They both got a bloody good redundancy package, actually. They were at the top of their pay scales and the university couldn’t wait to get rid of them.’ Chrissie poured tea, but she didn’t stop talking. Vera looked around her. A pot of chrysanthemums stood on the windowsill. The carpet was red and there was an expensive-looking rug by the fire. On the walls original paintings: a couple of large oils. ‘They didn’t stop working of course. They’re still writing. And as my business has grown, they’re more involved in that.’

  ‘You’re a publisher?’ Finally Vera managed to get in a question. Obvious, but at least it stopped the flow of words.

  ‘Yeah! Crazy, isn’t it? When you think of publishers, you think of London. Huge offices. Men and women in sharp suits. But I do very well.’

  ‘And you publish Nina Backworth?’

  ‘She was one of the reasons why I set up the company. I did English as an undergraduate at Oxford and then came home to do an MA at Newcastle. Nina was one of the tutors. Her writing is brilliant! I mean, really outstanding. But she couldn’t find a publisher. So I thought: How many more people like you are there out there? Wonderful writers overlooked by the big presses.’ Mummy put the money in to set up the business, but I’ve nearly paid her back. I’ve already had an author on the Man Booker longlist. Imagine! And Nina’s reviews have been astonishing. But really, choosing the right books is just the beginning. In the end it’s all about marketing. If readers don’t know about the books, how can they read them? We need publicity. To get the word out. I’m working on it, but it’s a tough market.’

  There was a silence, startling after the flow of words.

  ‘I’m investigating two murders,’ Vera said. ‘I don’t understand this world. That’s why I wanted to see you.’ At least that’s part of it. ‘You’re not a suspect or a witness. I thought you might help.’

  ‘I will if I can.’

  Vera believed her. This cheerful, unflappable young woman would be a dream to work with. She thought of Holly, competitive and tense, and she sighed.

  ‘The first victim was Tony Ferdinand. You’ll have heard of him. Met him, of course, because you gave a lecture at the Writers’ House the morning he was killed. The second was Miranda Barton, the author who set up the place.’

  ‘I know,’ Chrissie said. ‘It’s been all over the papers and one can’t help reading. Like a dreadful soap opera involving people one knows. And one of your officers came here to take a statement after Ferdinand was killed.’

  ‘How well did you know Professor Ferdinand?’

  ‘Not at all. I only met him that once. My knowledge of him came from what I read in the papers and saw on the television,’ Chrissie said. ‘And from what Nina told me. But she was hardly an impartial observer.’

  ‘Why would anyone kill him?’

  ‘You don’t know how influential that man was,’ Chrissie said. ‘He wasn’t a publisher or an agent, but boy, did he have power! I sent a number of my titles to him, but never got a response, more’s the pity, and all the big London literary people will have been doing the same. If he liked an author’s work he could persuade an editor to take it, and his reviews made a real difference to sales.’ She saw that Vera looked bewildered. ‘Think the Simon Cowell of the publishing world.’

  Vera thought about that. Lenny Thomas had seemed laid-back about his writing. He’d dreamed about being an author, but had never believed it would happen. Mark Winterton had clearly become aware of his own limitations. Neither would have been provoked to murder if Tony Ferdinand refused to help them. But what about Joanna? She’d been passionate about her writing. She’d wanted her story – her abuse at the hands of her respectable ex-husband – to be made public. Vera shook her head. ‘Nah, I can’t see it. Nobody wants to see their name on a book that badly.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it!’ Chrissie grinned. ‘That’s why the Writers’ House did such great business. All those wannabes convinced they’d become the next bestsellers.’

  ‘Did it do great business?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chrissie said. ‘It had a terrific reputation. A couple of young writers found publishers during their time there. I picked up one myself.’

  ‘You were a tutor there?’

  ‘Yes, last spring. And of course this year I was a visiting lecturer. I was speaking the morning Tony Ferdinand died.’

  ‘What did you make of Miranda Barton?’ Vera found herself holding her breath as she waited for the woman to answer. She valued Chrissie’s opinion and decided the woman might have thoughts to move the investigation on.

  ‘I thought Miranda was rather overrated as a writer. She must have caught the public mood to sell so well – Tony’s recommendation alone wouldn’t have made her a big-hitter. But she dated very quickly. As a person, I found her seriously weird. I felt sorry for the son. He’s a good cook and he could make his own life in a flash restaurant anywhere. I tried to persuade him, but he said his mother needed him around. Perhaps that was just an excuse and he didn’t have the confidence to set out on his own.’

  Vera stood up. She was disappointed. She’d hoped for more from this meeting. It seemed she’d come away with nothing new at all. Chrissie walked with her out of the house, past the umbrella stand in the hall, the boots and the Barbour jackets.

  ‘I was wondering . . .’ For the first time the young woman seemed diffident.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I don’t think the Writers’ House should fold. As a concept, I mean. As an idea. I thought I’d start a foundation to keep it going. Buy Alex out, if he doesn’t want to be a part of it.’

  ‘Don’t ask me, pet. Like I said, it’s not my world.’

  ‘Nina showed me the writing that came out of “Short Cuts”. Some of it is very good. I wondered about putting together a pamphlet, a sort of sampler to show what the Writers’ House has achieved. Actually it was Nina’s idea. She was here earlier; you must just have missed her in the lane. North Farm Press would sell it as a fund-raiser. All profits to the project. What do you think? I wouldn’t want to prejudice the investigation in any way.’

  They were already in the yard. Vera stopped in her tracks and squinted into the sun. ‘When were you planning to launch it?’

  Chrissie seemed embarrassed. ‘As soon as possible.’
>
  Vera nodded her understanding. ‘To make the most of the publicity surrounding the murders?’

  ‘Do you think that’s really crass?’

  ‘Probably,’ Vera said. ‘But I’ve come to realize writing’s not a noble calling. Like you said, it’s all about marketing, isn’t it? I’ll not stop in your way.’ As she climbed into Hector’s Land Rover she was smiling. She wound down the window. She’d had one last thought. ‘Why don’t you throw a party, to set it on its way?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When she got home Vera phoned Joe Ashworth.

  ‘What was he like then?’ Joe asked. ‘The monster MEP.’

  ‘Ah, Joe, you know I don’t believe in monsters.’ Though if anyone might make me change my mind, it’d be him. ‘And I kept my cool. You’d have been proud of me.’ She ran her finger along the window ledge. It made a track in the dust. The house was muckier than it had been in Hector’s day, and that was saying something. She knew Joe wanted the full story, but she wasn’t sure what she herself made of Rutherford yet. She needed to think it out. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m still in the office,’ he said. ‘I drove Lenny Thomas back to Red Row after taking the statements in the Coquet Hotel.’

  ‘And?’ Vera thought Joe was a soft-hearted sod, but she liked him the better for it.

  ‘Nothing. He seems like a nice guy. Genuine. The interviews didn’t take us much further forward, though Winterton was interesting on Miranda Barton. Wondered if she’d lost a child. Maybe a daughter. No evidence, but something she let slip.’

  ‘That’s something we can check.’ Vera had no patience for speculation. Unless she was the one doing the speculating.

  ‘And that’s why I’m still here, when the wife’s desperate to get us home. No record that she ever gave birth to a daughter. Her only child is Alexander. Winterton must have got it wrong.’

  ‘I need to talk to Joanna,’ Vera said. She’d had enough of Joe’s flights of fancy. ‘And I can’t do that on my own.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it would wait till morning . . .’

  ‘Aye, why not?’ She could tell that her immediate agreement had surprised him and she found herself grinning. She wasn’t going to let on that she was rather dreading the interview with Joanna, that she wasn’t yet sure what she was going to say. Let him believe that she had his family’s welfare at heart. ‘Work/life balance. Wasn’t there a memo from the Chief about that a few months ago? More to do with saving the overtime budget than marriages, I thought, but you know me, pet. I always take these missives from on high to heart.’

  She grinned again, enjoying the shocked silence at the other end of the line, and replaced the receiver.

  She was still eating breakfast when she heard Joe’s car outside. Another clear, frosty day. A bit of mist over the lough in the valley, but that would soon burn away. She got up to let him in and saw that Jack’s van wasn’t in the yard. It was market day in Alnwick, so he’d have left early. She hoped Joanna hadn’t gone with him.

  She pushed the teapot in Joe’s direction and got up to fetch him a mug.

  ‘You’ll have had breakfast.’ Not a question. His wife looked after him, however early the start.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of toast, if there’s one going.’

  ‘Tough, there’s no bread.’ Not quite true, but she couldn’t be arsed to make it. Now Joe was here, she wanted to get on.

  ‘Rutherford claimed Joanna was blackmailing him,’ she said.

  He set his mug down slowly. ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s a bugger, but I did.’

  ‘Does that change anything?’ Joe’s attention was caught by the view from the window and he seemed preoccupied. He lived in a modern semi on a quiet executive estate. Vera knew he regarded the open countryside with awe and something like suspicion. ‘I can’t see what it’s got to do with our investigation,’ he said. ‘All the witnesses will have stuff going on in their private lives.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Vera said. ‘But they won’t all be turning the stuff into stories and putting it out for the public to read.’ Then she wondered if that was true. By all accounts, the piece Lenny Thomas had read on the evening of Miranda’s death had been personal too. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, getting to her feet, feeling again the strain in her knees, ‘why don’t we go and ask her?’

  They found Joanna hanging out washing.

  ‘That’ll be frozen stiff in half an hour,’ Vera said by way of a greeting.

  Joanna only laughed and said she was fed up with having it all over the kitchen. ‘I like to get the air into it.’

  ‘Do you fancy a bit of a walk?’

  Joanna looked at Joe. ‘What’s this, Vee? Do you need a bodyguard these days? Are you frightened I’ll slash your throat too?’

  ‘Eh, pet, you know how it is. I can’t talk to you on my own.’

  They walked down the track a way, then along the edge of a newly ploughed field. The soil was hard, but Vera could see that Joe was worried about the state of his shoes. She was glad to be outside: this case had made her feel claustrophobic from the start. It was being shut in the Writers’ House for days on end. Like being remanded in custody. A hawthorn hedge marked the field edge and there were redwings and fieldfares feeding on the berries. She followed Joanna and Ashworth in single file until they came to a gate and a wide track through woodland. Then Vera joined Joanna and started her questions.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d been in touch with your ex-husband recently.’ The tone was conversational, but she saw that Joanna had picked up the steel beneath it. ‘In fact you told me you were frightened Rickard might tell him where you were.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Paul,’ she said. ‘Of course I should have realized you might.’ She slowed her pace and turned to Vera. ‘We all get taken in by you.’

  ‘I didn’t make the contact,’ Vera said. ‘That was your ex-husband. I think he came all the way to Newcastle especially to tell me what you’d been up to.’ The ground under the trees was dry and there was a smell of pine. ‘Cocky bastard, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is he? It’s so long since I’ve seen him that I really can’t remember any more. Perhaps he’s just a creature of my imagination.’ Joanna scuffed her feet through the pine needles. The sun formed a series of spotlights, catching her face as she walked through the trees.

  ‘Oh no, trust me, he’s real enough,’ Vera said. She was aware of Joe, walking a few paces behind them, making himself unobtrusive as only he could. ‘But those stories you told me. About him hitting you. Locking you up. Were they real? I’m not quite sure any more.’

  ‘You know what, Vee?’ The words were angry and Vera saw that the woman was close to tears. ‘Neither am I. Perhaps I’m a liar and a fantasist. Perhaps you can’t believe a word I say. All those pills they make me take, it’s hardly any wonder I don’t know what happened all those years ago.’

  They came to an area of clear fell, a pile of tree trunks waiting to be hauled away. Vera sat on one and patted the log beside her for Joanna to join her.

  ‘Why did you need the money?’ Vera asked, her voice gentle, almost maternal. ‘I can get my head round all the rest, but not that. Not the blackmail.’

  Joanna shook her head, a gesture to indicate that there was no point trying to explain: Vera wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Is it gambling? Drugs?’

  ‘No! What do you think we are? Jack and I have the most tedious existence possible. I’ve become a housewife like my mother. Except I don’t have the staff to do the boring stuff. And I love it. Really, I love it.’

  ‘So why did you need the money?’ This time the question was firmer.

  Joanna shook her head again. ‘It was a mistake, talking to Paul. Crazy. I did it that time when I stopped taking my meds and I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wasn’t lying about Giles Rickard – I didn’t speak to him, because I was scared Paul might find me. I made sure Paul wouldn’t be able to trac
e me from my phone call. It didn’t seem like blackmail to me. It was more like asking for what I was owed. When we divorced he gave me nothing. But I shouldn’t have got in touch with him again. I should have realized it would lead to trouble.’

  She pushed herself off from the tree trunk and began to run off, back towards the farm, her long plait bouncing behind her. She was too fit for Vera to follow, and Joe stayed were he was too. They saw her flickering figure through the trees, the movement seeming jerky because of their interrupted vision, like an old silent movie playing out before them.

  Vera had set back the morning briefing to accommodate her meeting with Joanna, but now she wondered what had been gained by it. Had she achieved anything at all? Suspicion of the woman ate away at her like a worm in her gut and made her feel sick. Had Joanna deceived Jack? Was she a manipulative liar, untrustworthy? Had she made a fool of Vera, as Paul Rutherford had suggested? That would be unforgivable. Deep down, though, Vera still thought of Joanna as a good woman.

  Vera tried to set these questions aside as she came before the team. They’d be tired and anxious because so little had been accomplished. This was the point in an investigation when desperation led to mistakes and jumping to conclusions.

  ‘Well then.’ She beamed at them. An encouraging teacher, showing her students that she knew they wouldn’t let her down. ‘What have you got for me? Holly?’

  ‘I’ve done as you suggested and phoned round the major literary agents and publishers to find out if they’d been approached recently by Miranda Barton. Or by Tony Ferdinand on her behalf.’ Holly had a sheet of paper in front of her. Vera could see a list of names, a neat tick by each one. Organized and efficient, that was Holly.

  ‘And?’