The Glass Room

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘DS Ashworth. And you?’

  ‘Alex Barton. Director, cook and bottle-washer. Murder doesn’t seem to have dulled their appetites. They want more casserole.’ He took a set of oven gloves and lifted the pan onto the table, before shutting the lid of the Aga. His face was flushed and Ashworth thought he’d been drinking. ‘Can I help you?’

  Make sure there’s some of that stew left by the end of the evening. ‘Not at the moment. Just getting a feel for the lie of the land. That okay with you?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Sure. Make yourself at home.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to your guests when they’ve finished dinner. And to you, of course. Can you make sure nobody leaves?’

  ‘Of course. Why don’t you join us for coffee? In about half an hour.’

  He gave a sardonic little wave, before picking up the pan and disappearing again through the swing door. Ashworth was left with a tantalizing glimpse of the room beyond, candlelight throwing shadows on the faces of the diners.

  He left the kitchen and found himself back at the place where he’d first come into the house, the back door that led into the car park. Vera was there with Joanna. They were waiting for one of the local cops to bring a police car to the door. Joanna was now dressed in clothes that Vera had retrieved from her room – jeans and hand-knitted sweater – and seemed unusually quiet and passive. Vera helped her carefully into the vehicle and gave her shoulder a little pat. They watched the lights disappear up the lane.

  ‘What do you think?’ Joe said. ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘I don’t see that she had any motive. She claims Ferdinand was a lechy old goat. But she’ll have dealt with a few of those in her time, without resorting to stabbing them in the belly.’ But really, Vera thought, how well do I know her?

  Joe nodded in the direction of the dining room. ‘They say Joanna was unbalanced.’

  ‘Eh, pet, they all seem like a bunch of loonies to me, but I’m not accusing them of murder.’ She paused. ‘Billy Wainwright’s taking a look at the scene now. Let’s see what he comes up with before we come to a decision, eh? As it stands, I don’t see we have enough to charge her with anyway. The CPS would laugh at us.’

  ‘Billy will place her at the scene. She’s admitted to that. And her fingerprints will be all over the knife.’ Joe was wondering how he could tactfully tell Vera that she’d have to step back from this one. ‘Most cases, that would be enough.’

  She stopped in her tracks and threw him a vicious look. ‘Are you telling me how to do my job, Sergeant Ashworth? Think you could do it better, do you? Looking to move a couple of rungs up the ladder, at my expense?’

  ‘I think you should just be aware that you’re taking this personally. Your judgement could be clouded.’

  Then he found Vera’s face right in his. So close he could only see her eyes, bloodshot and furious. ‘I take every killing on my patch personally, Sergeant Ashworth. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be doing my job right.’

  Joe took a pace backwards and said nothing. He wasn’t paid enough to stand up to Vera Stanhope when she was in one of her strops. Let one of the suits in HQ sort her out.

  Instead, he nodded again towards the dining room. ‘They haven’t started the pudding yet. We’ve got time to check with Billy before we talk to them. We’ve been invited to have coffee with them there when they’ve finished eating.’

  ‘Have we now! How civilized.’

  When they arrived at the glass room, the crimescene manager Billy Wainwright was on the balcony with Keating, the pathologist. They’d rigged up powerful lights, so that Ferdinand was floodlit. His skin looked white and the blood looked black. It was hard to see the good-looking charmer Joanna had described. Vera called Billy out into the corridor.

  ‘How’s the wife, Billy?’ A standing joke. Well, more a routine greeting now, and perhaps not so much of a joke. Billy was a serial adulterer and seemed proud of the reputation. He ignored her. ‘What happened here, Billy?’ Vera went on. ‘Did he sit on the balcony and wait to be stabbed to death? Or was he moved afterwards? I mean, this all seems madness to me.’

  ‘Could he have been hiding out there?’ Billy asked. ‘You wouldn’t see him from just inside the door, despite all the glass.’

  ‘Who’d he be hiding from?’ It was Vera at her most sceptical. ‘He asked Joanna to meet him. He wasn’t a bairn playing hide-and-seek.’

  ‘Mr Keating thinks Ferdinand was killed where he was found,’ Billy said. ‘But he won’t commit himself until the post-mortem.’

  ‘Is there anything either of you will commit yourselves to?’

  ‘Aye. That knife they retrieved from the woman you’ve sent off to Kimmerston for questioning…’

  ‘What about it? Don’t stand there grinning and playing games with me, Billy Wainwright. Just spit it out.’

  ‘It wasn’t the murder weapon. Nothing like. We’re looking for something about the same length and width, but the murder weapon had a serrated blade.’

  Chapter Seven

  Vera threw a triumphant grin to Joe and turned on her heels. As he hurried after the shadow thrown by the red light, she turned and called back to him, ‘You’d best organize a search of the residents’ rooms. God knows where we’re going to get the manpower for that this evening. Our mistake. We shouldn’t have taken it for granted that Joanna Tobin was the murderer.’

  She spoke about our mistake, but it seemed to Joe that she was blaming him for the assumption that Joanna had been Tony Ferdinand’s killer. She swept on and down the grand staircase so quickly that Joe almost had to run to catch up with her. Vera could move very quickly when she wanted to, even though she was so unfit.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. ‘There’s no rush. They won’t have started coffee yet.’

  ‘We’re looking for knives, Joey-boy. Or rather we’re looking for a place where knives might once have been. The absence of knives. Both the one that Joanna Tobin was wandering around the corridor with, and that’s now safely on its way to the lab. And the other one, that killed Tony Ferdinand. Where do you think we’re going?’ She arrived at the kitchen before he had the chance to answer.

  The room was much as it had been when Joe had looked in earlier, though the trays of desserts had disappeared. Alex Barton was pouring coffee from a filter machine into pots.

  I should have checked about the knife when I was here before. Joe was feeling foolish, knew this was a mistake Vera would never have made. But I thought Joanna was the killer. I thought there was no urgency.

  ‘If you want to go into the dining room,’ Barton said, ‘I’ll bring the coffee through in a minute.’

  ‘It smells fabulous, pet,’ Vera said. ‘But I’m not here for the coffee. Show me where you keep your knives.’

  Alex set the jug back on the filter machine and stood for a moment looking at her. Joe couldn’t make out what the man was thinking, or even if he recognized the implications of the request. Alex pointed to a chef’s block on the bench. ‘My mother gave it to me when I graduated from college. They’re the best you can get.’ Again the voice was flat, and Ashworth found it impossible to tell whether he was proud of the gift or resented it.

  Vera walked over to the bench. ‘There seem to be a few missing.’

  ‘Of course some are missing.’ Now Barton did sound impatient. ‘I’ve been cooking with them.’ He nodded towards the draining board, to a pile of dirty pots and cutlery.

  ‘I know you’re busy,’ Vera said. ‘But can you check that they’re all there. It shouldn’t take more than a moment.’

  ‘You think Joanna stole a knife from here to kill Tony?’

  ‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Mr Barton. Not until I understand the facts.’ Vera gave a thin little smile. ‘Are guests allowed into the kitchen?’

  ‘We don’t encourage it,’ Alex said. ‘Hygiene regulations. But the room’s never locked.’ He seemed about to ask another question of his own, but thought better of it and nodded. ‘Just let me tak
e this coffee through before it gets cold, then I’ll check for you.’

  When he returned he pulled three knives from the draining board, wiped each with a white cloth and slotted it into a hole in the wooden block. ‘There’s one missing,’ he said.

  Vera had stood, watching. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. They’re the tools of my trade. I work with them every day.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I hope I’ll get it back. It’d cost a lot to replace.’

  It seemed to Joe that Alex wasn’t troubled so much about the cost of the knife as about the fact that one of the set was missing. ‘Can you describe it?’ Joe leaned forward.

  ‘Like this, only with a finer blade.’ Barton took out a wedge-shaped knife.

  ‘Not serrated?’

  ‘No! Not serrated. The only serrated knife here is the bread knife, and that’s over there.’ Barton nodded towards a breadboard in the corner. A black-handled knife lay across it, taunting them.

  ‘Has it been here all afternoon?’ Vera asked.

  ‘Yes! I used it at lunchtime and made myself a sandwich this afternoon.’

  ‘You and your mother were here, drinking tea,’ Vera said. ‘Just before she found Professor Ferdinand’s body.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Barton looked at her as if she were a witch.

  Vera smiled at him mysteriously. ‘I’m a great believer in traditional detective work,’ she said. ‘It always pays dividends. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

  But Joe wasn’t listening. He was thinking that the knife with which Joanna had been found had most likely come from the Writers’ House kitchen. Not the murder weapon, though. That was still missing.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Barton,’ Vera said. ‘Perhaps now we could talk to your guests.’

  * * *

  She stood for a moment outside the door of the dining room and composed herself. Watching her, Joe thought she was like an actress preparing to play a major role. She shut her eyes briefly, then walked inside. He followed. Always in her shadow, he thought. But maybe that’s the way I like it.

  Vera walked the length of the table, just as Miranda Barton had done earlier. Joe closed the door and stood with his back to it. On these occasions Vera preferred him to be unobtrusive. You’re my eyes and my ears, Joe. I’m a simple soul; I can’t talk and observe at the same time. So he watched the reaction of the people sitting at the table. There were twelve of them plus Miranda Barton, fewer than he’d thought when he’d seen them parade into the room after the dinner gong had been struck. Did people with big personalities and big egos take up more space? Because there was nobody here who was ordinary. The voices were louder than Joe would have expected and the gestures slightly more dramatic. Even Lenny, the working-class guy from Ashington, seemed to be playing a caricature of himself.

  The desserts had been eaten, the glass bowls pushed to one side and napkins rolled into balls on the table. Alex had returned from the kitchen with a second pot of coffee. He set it down for the diners to help themselves. Vera waited at the head of the table until everyone was served. Biding her time. Eventually the conversation faded and she had their full attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to have disturbed your dinner like this.’

  No reaction. The audience didn’t notice the sarcasm. Perhaps dinner was as important to them as the fact that there was a man upstairs with his throat cut. Even Miranda Barton, who had created the disturbance when she saw the body, had managed to eat all her pudding and now reached out to take a chocolate from the plate that was circulating with the coffee.

  Vera continued, ‘I’m sure you appreciate that our investigation will cause some disruption to your programme. Obviously we’ll need to take statements from you all, and we’d like to begin that this evening, while your memories are fresh.’ She looked around her and gave the fixed, icy smile that terrified her team more than her anger. ‘Are there any questions at this point?’

  Ashworth saw that the assembled writers had underestimated Vera. They despised her for her illfitting clothes and badly cut hair. It showed in their posture as they slumped over the table or back in their chairs. They saw no danger in her, certainly not in the smile.

  ‘What’s happened to Joanna?’ It was a woman, with very short black hair and striking red lipstick. Joe found it hard to tell her age. Her face was angular and ageless. Mid-thirties, perhaps?

  ‘And who are you?’ Vera’s smile flickered for a moment, then returned. Ashworth almost expected her to add dear to the question. That was one of her tactics, to play the maiden aunt. Concerned, but a little simple. A tad patronizing.

  ‘Nina Backworth. I’m one of the tutors on the course. I’m an academic specializing in women’s writing and short fiction.’

  ‘A colleague of Professor Ferdinand’s then?’

  ‘No!’ The woman sounded horrified at the idea. ‘He supervised my work briefly when I was a postgraduate student, but now I’m based in Newcastle. I’m sure you know that Tony set up the creative-writing MA in St Ursula’s College, London. The course has achieved international fame. Any student accepted there has a head-start in finding a publisher.’

  And what about you? Did you find a publisher after being taught by him? But Vera kept that question to herself. ‘Any good, was she? Joanna Tobin? As a writer, I mean?’

  ‘I thought she showed great potential.’ Nina paused. ‘I don’t believe she would have attacked Tony Ferdinand without good cause. I hope you’ll treat her with some sensitivity.’

  ‘Are you saying Professor Ferdinand deserved to die, Ms Backworth?’

  There was a sudden tension in the room, a spark of excitement or energy. The audience was more attentive. The woman regarded Vera warily. ‘Of course not. Nobody deserves to be killed like that. I want to alert you to the fact that there could have been an element of self-defence in what happened here today.’

  Vera looked at her. ‘But you believe that Joanna Tobin killed the professor?’

  ‘Of course!’ Then, when there was no response from Vera, her voice became uncertain. ‘That’s what we were told. That’s what I assumed.’

  Joe watched and found he was holding his breath. Sometimes, when she was angry, Vera let her mouth run ahead of her brain. And Joe knew that the assumption that Joanna was a murderer would make her very angry. Don’t let her mention the knives, he thought. Don’t let her give away more than she needs.

  Vera looked across at him and her face twitched into what might have been a wink. It was as if she’d known what he was thinking and was saying: Give me credit for a bit of sense, lad!

  ‘Joanna Tobin is helping the police with our enquiries,’ she said blandly, challenging them to ask more questions. ‘She hasn’t been formally charged, and our investigation continues.’ She took a sip from the coffee cup in front of her, though by now, Joe thought, the drink would be cold. Vera had better timing than a stand-up comedian and knew the importance of a pause. ‘I understand that the writing course is planned to run for two more days. I see no reason why this arrangement should be changed. My colleagues and I will need to talk to you individually, and we’ll begin that process this evening. Our officers will remain here overnight to provide protection and to prevent any intrusion from the press.’ She paused again and swept her eyes around the room. ‘And to stop anyone from running away.’ She looked around the room once more. ‘I assume all the course members are still here.’

  ‘We had a visiting tutor this morning,’ Miranda Barton said. ‘Chrissie Kerr, who owns and runs North Farm, a small literary press based in the county.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  The question was directed to the whole room, but again Miranda answered. ‘After lunch. I saw her drive away. And Tony was still very much alive at that point, so I don’t think she’ll be much of a witness for you.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ This was Nina Backworth again, on her feet, scarcely able to contain herself. Joe thought she’d make a decent defence
lawyer. ‘Are you saying that you intend to keep us as prisoners in this house while you carry out your investigation?’

  ‘Of course not, Ms Backworth.’ Vera gave a chuckle. ‘The comment just now was one of my little jokes. Certainly you’re free to leave, but please tell my officers if that’s your intention. You’re witnesses to a murder, after all.’

  Chapter Eight

  The drawing room had a huge inglenook fireplace and an ornate wrought-iron basket where logs burned. It seemed to Vera that all the heat went up the chimney and the fire was just for show. Typical of this place. All show and no substance. And just like these people, who were acting their hearts out in an attempt to persuade her that they were sophisticated, intelligent and entirely blameless in the matter of Tony Ferdinand’s death.

  She and Joe moved around them, taking contact details and plotting a timeline for their activities, from the coffee served after lunch to the time when Ferdinand had last been seen alive. She doubted Keating would give her a more accurate time of death than the victim’s leaving the meal and the discovery of his body. Some of the Writers’ House residents could be ruled out of the murder immediately. They were in the company of others for all but a few minutes during that period. She wondered what Joe made of these loud, showy people, who reminded her of exotic birds, all brightly coloured plumage and irritating squawk, caged in a luxurious aviary. When he’d first started working for her he’d been anxious in the presence of the articulate middle classes. He was more confident now. She’d given that to him, at least.

  Upstairs, a team was searching bedrooms. Not Ferdinand’s. She’d do that herself, once the CSIs had been in. God knows how Joe had pulled in the officers so quickly. With the promise of overtime, which she’d have to pay for from her budget? None of the residents had objected to the search, but then Vera didn’t expect the knife or any bloody clothing to be found. Hours had been wasted, while they’d assumed Joanna to be the murderer. Anything incriminating would surely have been disposed of. There was an acre of garden, thick undergrowth, dense shrubs. But now it was dark and the search there would have to wait for the morning.