The Glass Room

by Ann Cleeves

  Her companion was Miranda. Nina recognized the thick jacket the woman had been wearing the afternoon before, the gleam of the dyed blonde hair piled high on her head. It seemed she hadn’t heard Nina’s approach; she was too preoccupied perhaps with her own thoughts. Nina almost crept away – after all, the last thing she’d wanted this morning was to speak to this woman – but the dressing of the scene, the candle, the glasses, the ashtray, kept her there.

  ‘Miranda.’

  There was no answer, and really by now she hadn’t expected that there would be.

  She walked round the table so that for the first time she could see the woman’s face. Her throat had been cut and was gaping and bloody. It looked almost like a large and smiling second mouth. The idea was immediate and shocking. Not just because of the horror of the image, grotesque and macabre, but because Nina had used the simile before. She’d described this scene. This was her story brought to life.

  * * *

  Later, over strong coffee – she couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again, so caffeine was the least of her worries – she tried to explain to Vera Stanhope. They were back in the chapel. Outside, professionals in blue paper suits, looking oddly androgynous, had covered the whole terrace in a white tent. The other participants of the course had been taken away in taxis to a nearby hotel. Statements would be taken, Vera said. Their belongings would be returned to them once they’d been searched. Then they’d probably be allowed to go home. Holly was in the room too, taking notes. There was no sign of the young male detective. Nina would have preferred him there. He was less intrusive than Holly. Throughout the interview she was aware of the young woman’s presence. Even when taking notes she demanded attention.

  ‘So how many people would have read your story?’ Vera asked.

  ‘Nobody. I was going to read part last night. That scene. The body on the terrace. Then Joanna’s Jack arrived and interrupted.’

  ‘Coincidence then.’

  Nina set her notebook on the table. ‘Read it,’ she said.

  Vera bent down and took a pair of latex gloves from her bag, then pulled the book towards her and began to read. Once she had problems deciphering the handwriting and asked Nina to give her the word. When she’d finished, she closed it carefully.

  ‘The way the furniture is arranged is exactly as I described it in the story,’ Nina said. ‘The candle, the colour of the holder, the position of the glasses, the cup and the ashtray. Surely more than a coincidence.’

  ‘No mention of a handkerchief. We found a handkerchief under the table.’

  Nina didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘Maybe it had been dropped there during the day.’ Vera seemed lost in thought. ‘Or maybe not.’

  ‘You think the killer could have left it?’

  ‘That’d be good, wouldn’t it? Check for DNA and case closed.’

  Vera gave a little laugh, and Nina saw she didn’t think it would be that simple.

  ‘The candle was there last night,’ Vera said. ‘Joanna and her bloke were sitting there, having a meaningful discussion with Giles Rickard.’ She paused.

  Nina thought at least the detective was taking her seriously. Otherwise she might think she was going mad.

  ‘But it was a different-coloured holder. And no ashtray,’ Vera went on. ‘And there were only wine glasses. No coffee cup. And the chairs were in different places. So it was deliberately set up later to resemble your writing. Some bugger’s playing games.’

  She leaned forward so that her face was only inches from Nina’s. ‘You do see how it looks? Your sleeping pills used to drug Professor Ferdinand. Now you’ve described in detail the manner of Miranda’s death, days before it happened. As if you’re some kind of fortune-teller. You’re implicated, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Why would I kill Miranda? I didn’t know her.’ Nina heard the hysteria in her voice and tried to breathe through it. ‘If someone went into my room to take the pills, they could have gone in to read my story too.’

  ‘You haven’t started locking your door?’ Vera said. ‘After the pills were taken?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nina tried to work out the timescale. ‘I’d started writing the story before you told me Tony Ferdinand had been drugged. Besides, I’ve been carrying the notebook around with me all week. Anyone could have picked it up and read it.’

  ‘Of course they could.’ Vera lay back in her chair. ‘I had already thought of that. I might be old, but I’m not daft.’

  Nina found herself smiling in agreement. Whatever she was, Vera Stanhope wasn’t daft. ‘I had a strange conversation with Miranda yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Aye. You were seen going into her cottage.’

  Nina shot a look at Vera. ‘So that makes me even more of a suspect?’ She wondered who’d seen her with Miranda, again had the feeling that everyone here was being watched.

  ‘Might have done, if you hadn’t told me about it,’ Vera said. ‘What was going on there then? I didn’t have you down as best mates.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nina said. Now she thought about it, the encounter with Miranda in the late afternoon seemed surreal. It was hard to believe that the woman on the garden terrace had offered her tea, fed the fat tabby cat. All the small domestic interactions that would never happen again. She looked up suddenly at Vera. ‘How’s Alex?’

  Vera shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. But tell me about your chat with Miranda Barton.’

  ‘I was walking on the beach and she was waiting for me. In the garden, where the path flattens out between the shrubs. She startled me. It seemed very out of character. Thinking about it, you hardly ever saw Miranda outside. I wonder why she bought a place right out in the wilds. She seemed more of a city person.’ Nina realized she was rambling, and paused.

  ‘What did she want from you?’ Vera seemed not to mind the diversion, but prompted Nina back on course.

  ‘To talk about the murder. And about Joanna. Did I believe Joanna was innocent? I think it had only just struck her that the murderer might still be free. It was almost as if she hoped Joanna had killed Tony.’ Nina closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the warm kitchen, her lethargy. Perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. Had the possibility of Joanna’s innocence sparked some emotion in Miranda? Had she seemed almost excited?

  ‘There were lots of people here who hoped that,’ Vera said briskly. ‘How did Miranda seem? Scared?’

  Nina struggled to come to an answer. ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t work out why she wanted me there. Was she scared? Maybe. But also wired up. Prepared to put up a fight, I’d say.’

  ‘What sort of fight?’

  Nina shook her head helplessly. ‘Nothing was spoken of clearly. It was as if she expected me to know what she was talking about. But in the end I was just confused.’

  ‘Do you think she knew who the killer was?’ Vera leaned forward again, waiting for the response, and Nina could see how important this was to her.

  ‘Not for certain,’ Nina said. ‘But I think she might have guessed.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Joe Ashworth arrived just as Vera finished talking to Nina Backworth. He pushed open the heavy door and peered inside.

  ‘Come in!’ Vera said. It disturbed her how glad she was to see her sergeant; she realized that she’d come to depend on his presence at these interviews. It wasn’t the same with Holly. Vera couldn’t relax with her to the same extent. Not the girl’s fault, and probably not fair. ‘Holly, take Ms Backworth up to her room and help her to pack.’

  ‘I can manage on my own.’ Nina’s hands were fiddling with a tissue. She looked at the moving fingers as if they didn’t belong to her.

  ‘I know you can, pet. But the murderer would have scattered lots of blood around when they made that wound. Spatter, we call it. You can see it on the terrace floor. We’ll need to look at your clothes and take some of them away. It’s not personal: it’s not just you that we’ve helped to pack.’ Vera stood
up and gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

  They waited until both women had left the room. ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ Joe said.

  ‘I know.’ Vera saw he was expecting a bollocking for arriving late, but she was thinking about Miranda Barton. If the novelist had had suspicions about the murderer’s identity, why hadn’t she shared them with the police? Because her thoughts were still too vague? Or because she’d seen the opportunity for making money? Vera wouldn’t have put it past Miranda to try a spot of blackmail. This was a big place to keep up and maybe, with money tighter all round, folk weren’t willing to pay a fortune to sit round talking about books. Maybe it had occurred to prospective visitors that they could stay at home and write and it would cost them nothing. ‘Come and look at the scene,’ she said. ‘Then I want to show you something.’

  The sun was up now and the garden flooded with cold light. It was still slippery underfoot and their breath came in clouds. ‘My bloody car wouldn’t start,’ Joe said. ‘And then there was an accident on the A1 caused by the ice.’

  ‘Nightmare!’ Vera said automatically, but she wasn’t really listening.

  They put on scene suits and stood just outside the tent. Vera pulled open the flap door so that they could see inside. At the same moment one of the CSIs took a photo of Miranda’s body. It came to Vera that, in life, the woman would have loved this attention – the photographs, the audience. Perhaps that was why she had established the Writers’ House. Not for the money, but because she needed the admiration and envy of the young writers who had yet to be published. She needed to feel that she was still part of the publishing world, in the same way as ageing television actresses made guest appearances to open supermarkets or award prizes to schoolchildren.

  ‘What do you think?’ Vera stood aside so that Ashworth had a clear view.

  ‘Multiple knife wounds,’ Ashworth said. ‘The same cause of death as Tony Ferdinand. Same style too. Unnecessary violence.’

  ‘But not quite the same,’ Vera said. ‘That gash across the throat. It’s post-mortem, according to Paul Keating. Ferdinand was stabbed repeatedly, but there was nothing as showy as that here.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘It certainly is. Come back inside and I’ll read you a story.’

  She was about to leave, then stopped and called to one of the CSIs, ‘What have you done with the hankie that was on the floor?’

  ‘Already bagged ready for testing. I thought you’d want it fast-tracked for DNA.’

  ‘Let’s have a look before it goes off.’

  The young CSI held it out for them. ‘Distinctive,’ he said. ‘Plain white, but it’s got some embroidery in the corner. Looks home-made. Something a child might have done for a Mother’s Day present? Or Valentine’s? It looks like a little red heart.’

  * * *

  Back in the chapel, Vera showed Joe Nina’s notebook. ‘She’s written that since she was here. Look at the detail. Everything’s the same in the description of the scene: the candle, the number of glasses, the way they’re arranged on the table. Nothing about the handkerchief, though, which could suggest it was dropped by accident.’

  ‘If the killer used the story as a model, this murder wasn’t planned that far in advance,’ Joe said.

  ‘Well, Miranda Barton might have been chosen as the intended victim, but the execution of the plan couldn’t have been decided until the killer had seen the story.’

  Vera thought execution was a good word. That was how this seemed to her. There was a ritual to the killings. But then these people were experts in crime fiction. Perhaps that was the intention: to provide layers of meaning that were only for distraction. In Vera’s experience, the motive for most murders was simple. It came down in the end to money or sex.

  ‘Keating thinks the same knife was used as to kill Ferdinand,’ she said. It was time to get real, to concentrate on concrete facts. ‘Where the hell had it been hidden? The search team did a pretty thorough job of the house and garden. And where is it now? Barton must have been killed sometime after I saw Joanna, Rickard and Jack out here on the terrace last night. We might get something a little more precise from Paul Keating on time of death, but I won’t hold my breath. So the killer could have had all night to get rid of the weapon.’

  ‘Would the son be able to help with time of death?’ Joe had been listening intently. She loved that about him. The way he hung on her every word.

  Vera shook her head. ‘I had a quick chat with him earlier. He says he took himself off to bed after that ruckus kicked off with Jack. “The whole thing was just embarrassing,” he said. “I knew what it would be like. The whole lot of them, slagging off the chap for daring to interrupt the stupid dinner. Actually, I thought Joanna’s partner spoke a lot of sense.’”

  ‘That’s a strange attitude to take when he makes a living from the writers.’ Joe paused. ‘And when his mam’s just been killed.’

  ‘Aye, well, I have the impression he’s a strange sort of chap.’ Vera still had a picture of the young man, as he’d been when she’d first arrived that morning. She’d found him in the kitchen, still in his whites, lifting a tray of croissants from the oven. It was as if he couldn’t take in the fact that his mother had died. Or as if he didn’t care. He still felt the need to feed his visitors.

  ‘He didn’t hear his mother come in last night?’ Joe interrupted her daydream.

  ‘He says not.’

  ‘You’d think,’ Joe said, and she thought he could be a persistent bugger, ‘after all the fuss, he’d want to talk to her about it. Jack’s scene in the dining room, I mean. He’d want to know how it all ended.’

  ‘Well, I’m not the person to ask about that, am I? We need to chat to the boy.’

  ‘Where did Jack stay last night? Did he go back to the farm?’

  ‘No.’ Vera spoke slowly. ‘Joanna didn’t want him driving back, the state he was in. They bunked up together in Joanna’s room. This morning I shipped them both off to the hotel with the other residents. Why? What are you thinking? That Jack was the murderer? Unlikely surely. He wasn’t in the place when Ferdinand was killed.’

  ‘We don’t know that, do we?’ Joe looked up at her and Vera saw he had some sort of theory. And that he thought it’d take a hard sell to convince her. ‘When I was driving on the afternoon Ferdinand was murdered, something – or someone – ran across the track in front of my car.’

  ‘You think it could have been Jack?’

  He looked at her. He hadn’t expected her to take him seriously. ‘I don’t know, but we’ve always assumed the killer was someone staying in the house. No reason that has to be the case.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We’ll check any CCTV between here and the farm for Jack’s van. Though I don’t know what his motive might have been.’

  ‘Probably a stupid idea,’ Joe said. Now she’d agreed to look into it, he was happy to let the notion go. ‘Why don’t we go and have a chat with Alex Barton? Where is he?’

  Vera gave a little smile. In the end she always did get her own way. ‘I didn’t send him off to the hotel with all the others. It seemed a tad heartless. Besides, I thought we might get more out of him on home territory. He’s in the cottage with a minder.’

  They walked into the yard, and into sunshine so bright that it made Vera’s eyes water.

  ‘You always call him a boy,’ Joe said suddenly. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’ Vera fished into her jacket pocket for a tissue and found half a roll of toilet paper. She tore off a handful and wiped her eyes. ‘Still a boy to me.’

  Alex Barton was sitting in the kitchen of the cottage, with an overfed cat on his lap. Vera had knocked at the door, then walked straight in without waiting for an answer, but he didn’t seem surprised or startled to see them. A uniformed constable sat at the table and looked relieved when Vera waved for him to go.

  ‘I always hated this cat,’ Alex said. ‘It stinks. And when it was more active, it kil
led birds.’

  ‘I could never see the point of pets myself.’ Vera leaned against the Aga and felt the heat penetrate her jacket and warm her spine and her buttocks. ‘Your mother liked it, though?’

  ‘Spoilt it rotten,’ Alex said. ‘It’s ancient. When I was growing up I thought she loved it more than me.’

  ‘It’s a tricky relationship: single parent and only child. Too much guilt and duty swimming around.’ Vera knew Ashworth would think she was speaking from personal experience. So she was.

  ‘I should have got away,’ Alex said. ‘But I couldn’t see how she’d make a go of this place on her own. Not any longer. She needed me.’

  Vera realized that he hadn’t yet referred to his mother other than by her or she. ‘You’ll have a chance now,’ Vera said. ‘To get away, I mean. This place must be worth a few bob, even if it’s got a mortgage. Sell it and you’re free to go wherever you like.’

  He pushed the cat off his lap and looked at her with big, sad eyes. He was a pretty boy, she saw. There was something feminine about him, despite the dark hair on his arms. When she’d first seen him she’d described him to herself as a wolf. Now she wasn’t so sure. He didn’t seem sufficiently cruel. She’d expected a response to her words. Anger. A denial that he would choose to benefit from his mother’s death, an outburst that such an idea was the last thing on his mind. But he said nothing.

  ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ Again she was deliberately trying to provoke him to speech.

  Alex shook his head.

  ‘Of course, why would you? A young lad like you wouldn’t want to be tied down. And plenty of chance for sex without commitment here. I’d guess most of the women would be here on their own. Away from home. From their husbands and kids. And it must be intense. Older than you, but there’s nothing wrong with experience. All this talk of emotions. They’d be looking for a fling.’