by Ann Cleeves
‘Nothing. And they say they’d have remembered if Ferdinand had been in touch.’ She paused. ‘But according to the people I spoke to, it’s not unusual for authors who haven’t been published recently to use a pseudonym. Apparently editors are more willing to take a chance on a new writer than someone who’s been knocking around for a while.’
Vera thought that was much the same in most professions. Easier to pin your hopes on the bright young things than cynical has-beens. ‘So?’ she demanded again.
‘Nina Backworth collected Miranda’s script after the reading session and gave it to Joe,’ Holly said. ‘I faxed it to the list of contacts to see if anyone recognized it, in case it had been submitted under a different name.’
‘Well done!’ Occasionally her team needed encouragement as well as a boot up the backside. ‘Any joy?’
‘Not yet. But they promised to get back to me.’
‘Chivvy them if you haven’t heard by the end of today.’ It would be a boring and time-consuming task for some editorial assistant and Vera doubted if it would come top of anyone’s to-do list. ‘Anything else?’
‘I managed to track down a couple of Alex Barton’s teachers, as you asked. One from school and one from the catering course at Newcastle College.’
‘And?’
‘He was never in any bother, but they both described him as a strange lad. At school he was withdrawn. Not many friends. Not a high-flyer academically, though he always showed . . .’ she looked at her notes ‘. . . an interest and aptitude in English literature. It was at college that he seemed to come into his own. He was always the top of the group. A brilliant chef, apparently. Meticulous. Occasionally given to an outburst of temper if things didn’t go according to plan, but happy enough if he felt he was in control. His tutor was pleased when he went to work with his mother. He thought Alex might not stand the stress of a restaurant kitchen, where there’s always pressure of time and unexpected demands. “Not a great one for teamwork.” That was how the tutor described him.’
Vera nodded. She wondered how Alex would manage now he was on his own. She looked up at Holly. ‘These outbursts of temper, were they ever violent?’
‘The tutor never said.’
‘Get back to him and find out.’
‘I did wonder . . .’
‘Aye?’ Vera made sure her voice wasn’t too encouraging. She didn’t always like folk thinking for themselves.
‘We’ve always assumed that both murders were committed by people staying in the Writers’ House, but that’s not necessarily the case, is it? Jack Devanney managed to find his way into the place on the night of the dinner. Ferdinand was murdered in the middle of the afternoon when the doors weren’t locked. And Barton was outside when she was stabbed. I’m not saying that they weren’t killed by a resident, but that perhaps we shouldn’t make that assumption.’
‘Quite right, pet.’ Vera narrowed her eyes. ‘And we shouldn’t be afraid to teach our grandmothers to suck eggs, either.’
Holly flushed and Vera thought she’d been hard on the girl. She’d never liked being told how to do her job. Especially when the person doing the telling had a point. ‘No, really,’ she said, ‘it’s a good point, and one that Joe made earlier. Maybe we’ve focused too much on the residents.’ She looked around the room, spreading blame. ‘I suppose we’ve checked all the CCTV in the area.’
‘There’s not much.’ Joe shot a small triumphant glance in Holly’s direction, glad that he’d been there before her. ‘One petrol station on the road towards Seahouses. I’ve checked registration details. Nothing belonging to anyone related to the case.’
‘Charlie. What have you been up to?’
‘I was over in Carlisle yesterday evening. Doing a bit of research on Winterton. In my own time.’
Vera threw up her hands in mock horror. ‘He has a night in the pub and he wants a medal! I hope you didn’t drive back last night, Charlie. You know what I think of drunk driving.’
‘I stayed at my mate’s.’ Charlie was sulking. ‘On a bloody uncomfortable sofa.’
‘What did you come up with?’
‘Winterton’s ex-wife’s just got divorced for a second time and has taken up with a toy boy. A solicitor half her age. He practises criminal law, so the team all know him.’
‘Winterton’ll be a bit of a laughing stock among his former colleagues again then,’ Vera said. ‘He’s a respectable citizen, a bit of a God-botherer, and his former wife’s making a spectacle of herself. I bet they all love that.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I think they just feel sorry for the poor bastard.’
‘Did you come up with anything else during your wild night out with the sheep-shaggers?’ Vera knew it was irrational, but she’d never really thought much of Cumbria. Hillsides grazed to buggery by too many sheep, arty tea rooms and too many trippers. Give her the east side of the Pennines any day.
Charlie shook his head.
Vera was just about to give her ‘boost the morale of the troops’ speech, to send them out to do great things, when there was a knock at the door. It was a small constable with a Lancastrian accent so broad that Vera had to struggle to understand her.
‘Ma’am.’
‘What!’
The woman continued bravely, ‘There’s been a call, Ma’am. About Nina Backworth. The locals have been in, but it sounds as if it could be important.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Nina had expected to feel more at ease once she returned home. More comfortable. Here, she’d thought, it should be possible to distance herself from the nightmare of the Writers’ House. But as soon as she unlocked the door of her flat and picked up the post from the floor, she saw that a change of place would do nothing to calm her. If anything she was more restless and tense. The flat, which she’d bought with a legacy left to her by her grandparents, was usually a refuge from the petty irritations of university life. It was on the first floor of an end Victorian terrace. The rooms had high ceilings and looked out over a cemetery: a green space in the middle of the city. From first seeing it, she’d loved the view over trees and the old grey gravestones. She liked watching the elderly women laying flowers. Now the flat seemed rather lonely. She switched on the radio and the inane lunchtime phone-in that usually drove her to distraction at least provided some background conversation.
She’d stopped at the supermarket on her way home and emptied the bag into the fridge and the larder. Sitting with a sandwich and a glass of juice, she switched on her laptop to check her emails. There’d been no Wi-Fi at the Writers’ House. A deliberate decision, Miranda had said. She didn’t want her students distracted. There was nothing exciting to read: a load of spam and a couple of student assignments. Lenny Thomas had already sent his novel to her as an email attachment. The only message of any interest was from her editor Chrissie, suggesting that they should arrange a meeting to discuss marketing of the new book.
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 b
oth. 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 floo
ds 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.
Chapter Thirty
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.
