The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘It went to the printer’s today.’ Chrissie poured red wine into her glass and lifted it in mock celebration. ‘So what do you think? Friday week for the party?’

  ‘Where will you hold it?’ Nina thought it would be one of the usual places: the Sage, the cafe in the Baltic or the Lit & Phil.

  ‘The Writers’ House, of course. Chrissie looked at her as if she were mad. ‘Where else? I thought you’d understood that was my plan from the start.’

  Until now Nina had been swept along by her friend’s enthusiasm. She’d listened to Chrissie’s ideas about the important people in the literary establishment and the media who should be invited, how the evening should be run. But now she set down her glass. ‘You can’t! It’s a dreadful idea. Besides, the inspector would never allow it.’

  ‘She already has.’ Chrissie looked at Nina with amusement. ‘Of course I asked her permission first. It has to be at the Writers’ House. All this press coverage, we’ll fill the place as soon as I send out the invitations. I’ve even had interest from The Culture Show. They’re doing a special memorial programme on Tony Ferdinand.’ Then: ‘But we won’t have readings. There’s nothing more tedious than listening to new writers reading from their work. A couple of very short speeches will be quite enough. You’ll speak, won’t you, Nina? You’ll tell them how important the Writers’ House is to literature in the North-East?’

  And Nina said yes because she felt she had no alternative. How could she refuse Chrissie when she was sitting in this house, enjoying her parents’ hospitality; when Chrissie had been the person to save her from joining the ranks of the great unpublished?

  But later, sitting in her room, plotting out the chapter she intended to write the next day, her unease about the whole event grew. Two people had died. The killer had not been brought to justice. Chrissie’s excitement, her zest for business and for making sales seemed inappropriate. Besides, Nina thought she never wanted to set foot in the Writers’ House again.

  In the days that followed, as the date for the party approached, her anxiety about the event increased. She didn’t want to see the players in the drama. Lenny and Giles Rickard, Joanna and Jack, Mark Winterton and Alex Barton, they belonged elsewhere. Now they lived not in Cumbria or Red Row or Craster, but in her imagination. They provided the cruel fuel that fired her story. She hadn’t created characters exactly like the real people, but the sense of menace that she remembered from her time in the house, the odd friction – all that was feeding into her book.

  All writers are parasites, she thought.

  She was anxious that if she met the real people, the magic would die and the heart of her story would disappear.

  But that’s crazy. Are all writers mad too?

  The next day she had a free morning. She should be writing her students’ assessments, but the weather was beautiful, sunny and clear and she joined Chrissie as she took the family dog for a walk. This was a ritual and Chrissie’s only exercise. She would take the animal on a circular trip along footpaths that crossed former North Farm land. It was hardly a mile, but Chrissie would return red-cheeked and out of breath as if she had run it. In fact it seemed she did walk very quickly, resenting perhaps the time away from her desk, and now Nina struggled to keep up with her.

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to launch the book and the appeal so quickly?’ Nina said. Another attempt to stop the juggernaut that seemed to be rolling towards the inevitable party. ‘Shouldn’t we wait until the killer has been caught? It seems rather tasteless to go ahead now.’

  Chrissie stopped in her tracks, bent to release the dog from her lead and watched her gallop away.

  ‘Of course we must do it now!’ she said. ‘Absolutely.’ She turned to face Nina and her eyes shone with excitement – almost, Nina thought, with a kind of madness. ‘These days there’s no reason why all the major players within publishing should be based in London. I’d have to pay a fortune to get this quality and quantity of publicity. To get noticed. I heard this morning that The Bookseller has agreed to do an article about North Farm. They’re heading it “Regional publishing: the saviour of the industry?” It’s in your interest too, you know. You want to see your books in the high-street shops, don’t you? You want to give up work at the university to write full-time?’

  Nina had to agree that she did want both those things. As she marched in step with Chrissie along the edge of the newly ploughed field, it occurred to her that she was being manipulated by her editor in much the same way as Tony Ferdinand had tried to manipulate her in the seminar group all those years ago. The difference, she told herself, was that Chrissie had Nina’s best interests at heart.

  One day not long afterwards, walking out of her office in the university, she met Joe Ashworth. She’d had a supervision session with a mature student, a middle-aged woman with fixed ideas who should never have been accepted onto the course. Nina was so cross and frustrated that she almost walked past the detective. He was in the corridor, staring at a student notice board. There were old posters about elections for NUS officials and new ones advertising end-of-term parties and performances. Soon the undergraduates would be leaving and the place would be quieter. He turned so that she saw his face, and she stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Are you here to see me?’ Then could have kicked herself. Why else would he be there? It made her sound ridiculous. ‘Is there news? Do you know who broke into my flat? Have you caught the killer?’

  ‘No,’ he said. She thought he looked older than she remembered. Certainly more tired. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

  ‘Sure!’ She was in no hurry to get back to North Farm. Chrissie had threatened to drag her to the supermarket to buy wine for the Writers’ House party if she got back in time. And Chrissie, with her restless energy and constant enthusiasm for the project, was irritating her more each day.

  Nina took him to a small coffee shop in a back street between the university and the hospital. It was dark, like walking into a Victorian parlour at dusk. The place was run by an elderly man. He baked great cakes and scones and the coffee was very good, but he had no sense of how to treat customers. Perhaps he had Asperger’s syndrome, or some other condition that made him awkward in social situations. ‘What do you want?’ he would ask very brusquely as soon as anyone walked in. He hated waiting to take an order. He loved to read, and it was as if the customer had wandered into his home and disturbed him in the middle of his book. But, once served, the customer would be left alone, unbothered.

  They sat by the window. Outside the street lights came on suddenly. Already the shops in the main street at the end of the alley had Christmas displays in the windows. Nina smelled the camomile tea as it was set before her, watched Ashworth drink his coffee as if he needed it to stay alive, then he spread butter on a warm cheese scone and took a bite. She wondered when he had last eaten.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Because Nina thought the man did want her help. He sat across the table from her looking tentative and anxious, the scone poised near his mouth.

  ‘This do at the Writers’ House . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How’s it going to work, like?’

  ‘It’ll be a party,’ she said. ‘Like a launch party, only for a group of authors instead of an individual. And the idea is to start a fund to keep Miranda’s vision of the Writers’ House alive.’ Across the street she saw a mother holding the hand of a little girl. The girl was skipping, almost dancing along the pavement. Nina imagined what it would feel like to be holding the hand and thought that probably she’d never really know.

  ‘Have you talked to Alex about the idea?’ Ashworth had swallowed the scone and had almost finished his coffee. He stared at her.

  ‘I haven’t. I’m sure Chrissie has; she talked about going to see him the other day. It’s her project.’ Still Nina couldn’t work out what the detective wanted from her. Had the fat woman sent him to get information? Was Alex having second thoughts about hosting the party? Nina wouldn’t
blame him if he was. Chrissie might dress it up as a memorial celebration, but it would be a party nevertheless. Had Alex complained to the police that he was being bounced into something he didn’t care for?

  Ashworth said nothing. He gazed out of the window and she saw that he was watching the mother and daughter too.

  ‘Is there any news on the investigation?’ she asked. The silence between them was becoming awkward. ‘I suppose I should think about moving back to my flat. I can’t hide out at North Farm for ever.’

  He turned towards her sharply. ‘Stay there for a little while longer. At least until after the event at the Writers’ House.’

  ‘Why until then?’ she demanded. ‘What difference would a book launch make?’

  ‘Probably nothing.’ He gave a strange little laugh. Nervousness? Or to cover the fact that he was lying to her? ‘We just hope that we’ll have a result by then.’

  ‘You’re close then?’ He looked at her as if he didn’t quite understand and she added, mimicking his words, ‘To getting a result?’

  He didn’t answer and instead came back with a question of his own. ‘Who will be there from the “Short Cuts” course?’

  ‘Everyone who’s contributed to the anthology: Giles Rickard donated a special story; Mark Winterton has written a true crime piece; Lenny Thomas, Joanna Tobin, me. And Chrissie will be there of course, even though she hasn’t written anything for the book. Is it important?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  But it seemed to Nina that it was the most important thing in the world to him at the moment.

  ‘Why did you come to the university to find me?’ The words seemed to be propelled by a blast of energy inside her mouth. They emerged sharp and staccato, like gunshots.

  He seemed shocked by her bluntness. ‘I wanted to check you were all right.’

  ‘Did the inspector send you?’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘I suggested it.’

  ‘But she knows you’re here?’ Nina thought he was here to gain information after all. Why couldn’t Vera Stanhope do her own dirty business? She was in touch with Chrissie. She stood up. It seemed to her that the exchange was going nowhere. ‘I should be getting back to North Farm. I promised Chrissie I’d go shopping with her. Stuff for the memorial party.’

  He got up and they stood for a moment side by side. The elderly cafe owner continued to read his book – oblivious, it seemed, to any tension, though Nina could feel it. Physically, like static electricity.

  Ashworth put a hand on her arm. ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘Yeah?’ And he hurried off and was swallowed up by the Christmas shoppers. She stood for a moment, still unsure of the purpose of his visit. Had it all been about those last few words? Had he come into town just to warn her?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Joe Ashworth hurried through the busy streets and thought he should never have come into town. What had he hoped to achieve? He stopped for a moment outside Fenwick’s department store, drawn by the crowds staring at the window. It was a Newcastle institution, Fenwick’s Christmas window. He and Sal always brought the bairns in to see it and the trip marked the start of the festive season. This year it had a space theme: mechanical astronauts bouncing on the moon, whirling stars and a rocket that took off in one window and landed in another. Real sparks from the engine. Santa Claus and his reindeers all wearing space helmets. The kids would love it.

  But he was only distracted for a moment and pushed on, past the grandmothers with wide-eyed toddlers strapped into buggies, the street pedlars, the working people who’d sloped off early to avoid the rush. Usually he liked being in town, but now he felt hemmed in. He’d spent too long with Vera and her need for the hills.

  He’d paid the visit to Nina Backworth because Vera had asked him to: ‘Just call in on your fancy friend in the university.’ Her voice amused. ‘Find out what she’s up to. Or what her publisher’s up to. It’s one way of making things happen, this party on the coast. Like a chemical reaction. Shake the bottle and wait for the fizz.’ Then she’d paused. ‘I need to know that all the elements will be there. All the suspects. I don’t want to contact the Kerr woman again. She already thinks I’m taking too much of an interest. But your Nina will know.’

  She’s not my Nina, he’d wanted to say, but he knew that would only provoke another caustic comment.

  Instead he’d fought back the only way he knew, by turning Vera’s own words against her. ‘I thought we were going to sort this one with traditional detective work. Knocking on doors, talking to witnesses.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ She’d looked at him, frowning. ‘That’s getting us nowhere quickly, and you know me. Patience was never one of my virtues.’

  So he’d phoned the university and found out that Ms Backworth had tutorials all day. And had driven in immediately, knowing he might bottle it if he gave himself time to think. He’d replayed his last encounter with Nina in his head since the group from the Writers’ House had broken up. Lust that felt like adultery. How his colleagues would mock him if they knew! They took one-night stands and affairs in their stride, and he hadn’t even touched the woman.

  He reached the multi-storey car park and tried to decide how he felt about Nina Backworth now. There’d been the sudden thrill of attraction when she’d come out of her office in the university. So upright. Her body held straight by the tailored jacket, the narrow skirt, the black leather boots. And then what? Only an anxiety that he was making a fool of himself. She’d sat in the cafe, cool as ice, and he’d burbled questions that seemed to come from nowhere.

  His phone rang as he reached his car. Vera, of course. Still impatient. Still not trusting him to carry out the simplest of instructions.

  ‘Yes?’ He stood, leaning against a concrete pillar, looking down at the city.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘how did it go?’

  ‘They’ll all be there. Rickard, Winterton, Thomas, Joanna Tobin, Chrissie Kerr.’

  ‘And your friend Nina?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, though it was impossible to consider Nina a suspect. She’d been a victim. That’s why she was camping out in a strange house, why she couldn’t return to her own home.

  ‘I’m going to the Writers’ House tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to Alex. And get a feel for the place again. If you fancy coming.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘Why?’ Joe could tell from her voice that she had plans for him. He didn’t say that it felt like evening to him, not afternoon, and that his shift was nearly over.

  ‘I want you to call in on Lenny Thomas,’ she said. ‘He’s got no alibi for the dead cat or the break-in at Nina Backworth’s place, and Holly said he seemed shifty when she talked to him. But you know Holly: she hasn’t got the gentlest of interviewing techniques. She makes me feel shifty. I’d like a second opinion.’

  Ashworth felt himself smiling. Above him a plane was approaching Newcastle airport to the west, dual landing lights flashing as regular as a lighthouse beam. He knew Vera was as fickle as any lover, but he liked it when he was in favour. Couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Sure,’ he said again.

  The flats in Red Row were quiet and most of the curtains were drawn. Climbing the stairs, he heard the occasional murmur of the television behind closed doors. A new headline on the national news to replace the Writers’ House murders. There was still heavy press interest, though it was mostly local now. On one of the doors someone had hung a Christmas wreath. Joe thought it’d be dead and brown by the beginning of December, but coming closer he saw that the holly leaves were plastic. A sudden squawk of a baby reminded him of his wife and the kids at home. Then silence again.

  Lenny answered as soon as Joe knocked. He was in the narrow corridor in the flat, wearing a coat.

  ‘On your way out?’ Joe said.

  ‘Nah, I’ve just got in.’ He stood for a moment, then his eyes slid away from Joe’s face. Even Joe thought he
looked shifty. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A couple of questions. You know how it is.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Lenny frowned, and Joe wondered what was bothering him. What was giving him the guilty conscience? Maybe he’d found another woman and, despite the divorce from Helen, he considered that a betrayal. Helen had said he was romantic, a dreamer. Like me? Joe thought, and then: For God’s sake, man, you’ve got sex on the brain.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Joe moved further into the flat and shut the door behind him. Still Lenny showed no sign of moving or taking off his coat.

  ‘Aye, all right.’ Lenny seemed to have lost his puppy-like energy and enthusiasm. ‘It’s cold in there, though. I’ve only just turned the heating on.’

  ‘I could murder a cup of tea. That’ll soon warm us through.’

  The living room was cold. Lenny switched on the light and pulled the curtains shut. The place was tidy enough, but there was dust on the mantelpiece and biscuit crumbs on the carpet. Lenny saw Joe looking at the muck on the floor. ‘Sorry.’ For a moment he was himself again, apologetic and eager to please. ‘I haven’t done the hoovering this week.’ Still wearing his coat, he went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  Joe remained standing. He considered what it must be like to live alone; he’d gone straight from his mam and dad’s place to setting up home with Sal. Under the window there was a table, spread with a few sheets of printed paper and a glossy image of a house surrounded by bare trees. The angle was unfamiliar and it took the arty writing of the title – Short Cuts from the Writers’ House – to make him recognize it. He turned and saw Lenny watching him from the kitchen door.

  ‘That’s the page proofs,’ he said. ‘You get them from the publisher and check for mistakes. The picture will be on the cover.’

  ‘You’ll be at the launch party then?’

  ‘I will.’ Lenny hesitated. The kettle boiled and clicked off, but he took no notice. ‘I wondered if I’d ask Helen. My ex. She never thought I’d make it, and here I am with my name on a book. But would she think I was showing off – putting her down, like. I told you so. You were wrong all along. I wouldn’t want it to be like that.’