The Glass Room

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Jonathan Barnes, our senior librarian, has been there for years. You might talk to him.’

  * * *

  St Ursula’s library was housed in a new building behind the college and hidden from the square. Barnes was a small, round man with a huge belly. He made coffee for Vera in his office and he, it seemed, had no qualms about passing on gossip.

  ‘Of course I remember Miranda. She was rather glamorous at that time. All shiny make-up and big hair. We knew she had ambitions as a writer. The day she found a publisher she brought in champagne. She thought it would change her life. Unfortunately the book sank without trace.’

  ‘Until Tony Ferdinand wrote an article about it.’ Vera sipped her coffee.

  ‘That’s right! He must have seen something in the work that none of the rest of us recognized. He always had a knack of picking up on the mood of the reading public. It wasn’t that he created best-sellers. More that he could tell which books readers would like, if they came to them. That’s a little different, don’t you think?’

  Vera didn’t answer. She had other things on her mind.

  ‘Were Ferdinand and Miranda lovers?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Really, I don’t think so. She had a baby by then, and no way was Tony going to be saddled with a child.’

  ‘Who was the baby’s father?’ Vera looked up at him. His face was round and, for an older man, it was remarkably smooth.

  ‘Miranda would never say. It was her one big secret. She always implied that it was someone grand in the publishing world, but I never believed that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, she would never have kept that to herself. I suspected the boy was the result of a rather sordid one-night stand and that was why she refused to speak of it.’

  It was clear that Barnes would have been prepared to talk to her for hours, but Vera had an appointment with a woman in HR to keep, and a boring trawl through college records in the hope of finding another connection between Miranda, Ferdinand and any of the other suspects in the case. She drank the rest of her coffee and left.

  * * *

  Later Vera met up with a lad who’d worked with her until he’d got ambition and moved to the Met. They ended up in a pub behind King’s Cross, so she wouldn’t have far to go to get her train at the end of the night. They were drinking brown ale because the man was homesick and she wanted to keep him sweet. At the end of the evening she was a lot more sober than he was. One more bottle and he’d be singing ‘The Blaydon Races’ and applying for a transfer back north.

  But the trip to London had provided her with the information she wanted. Hurtling through the night in the carriage with exhausted businessmen and a couple of pissed housewives who’d spent the day Christmas shopping for themselves, she thought she knew what had happened in the Writers’ House. Now, she just had to prove it.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Nina Backworth took the Friday of the Writers’ House party as a day off work. She was tempted to throw a sickie, but in the end she played it straight, went to her head of department and explained.

  ‘Take a day’s compassionate leave,’ he’d said. He was old and tired and counting the days to retirement. He didn’t have to play games with the management. ‘You were there when the woman died, it’s not unreasonable that you’d want to pay your respects at her memorial service.’

  Memorial service made Nina think of a cold church and gloomy hymns. Chrissie’s plans for the event were a million miles away from that. The farmhouse had been full of preparations for days. She’d had her mother and a couple of the other women from the WI making floral decorations, great glowing balls of dahlias and chrysanthemums, berries and coloured leaves – very similar, Nina thought, to the flowers that had been in the Writers’ House on the evening of Miranda’s death. The flower arrangements were already loaded in a van hired for the occasion. ‘Alex wants a celebration for his mother,’ Chrissie said. ‘We have to respect that, don’t we?’

  Now, sitting in the kitchen at North Farm, Chrissie was as high as a child looking forward to a birthday party. She couldn’t sit still. Nina found the excitement distasteful and wished the evening was over, wished she’d spoken up against it when she’d had the chance.

  The present conversation was about clothes. ‘What will you wear, Nina? Not black. Really, darling, I know it’s your statement style, but please don’t wear black tonight. It’s so funereal.’

  Nina thought funereal might be appropriate, but to her relief Chrissie broke off to answer her mobile phone and she was saved the need for an immediate answer. It was the producer of the local BBC news programme, confirming that he’d send out a reporter and a cameraman. As soon as the call was over, though, Chrissie persisted. ‘What about that red frock? The one you wore to the launch of the novel. It makes you look stunning.’

  ‘I can’t wear that dress. I had it on the night Miranda died.’

  ‘That makes it rather suitable then, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No!’ Nina thought Chrissie must be mad, wondered if she’d already been drinking. ‘No, really. We’re not trying to re-create that night, are we? You’re not hoping for another murder?’

  ‘Of course not, darling! This is a party. A celebration.’

  Nina thought it was time to move back to her flat in town. She wasn’t made for communal living. This house in the country, with its shared meals and lack of privacy, was already starting to lose its attraction. She longed to be on her own. The possibility of an intruder suddenly seemed less threatening.

  Chrissie had arranged for a big taxi to pick up the contributors to the anthology and to take them back at the end of the event. She would have liked them to stay over in the Writers’ House, but Alex had refused to countenance that. He’d insisted that the party should start early in the evening, and that everyone should be away from the place by ten. As if, Chrissie said later to Nina, reporting back on the conversation, he was a sort of male Cinderella and would turn into a pumpkin at the strike of the clock at midnight.

  Nina had decided she would take her own car. She felt the need of an escape route. She allowed the van driven by Chrissie’s father, with Chrissie sitting beside him, to drive ahead of her, and was relieved when it disappeared from view and she felt at last that she was alone. She drove slowly, putting off the moment when she’d arrive and be drawn into discussions about canapés and the arrangement of chairs, when she’d have to fix a smile onto her lips and greet the other guests.

  She drove down the bank to the house in the last of the sunshine. The house itself was already in shadow and for a moment she was tempted to turn the car round and drive away. Since finding the body on the terrace, the picture of Miranda’s head – her throat slit across – had slipped into Nina’s mind on occasions when she was least expecting it. Now the image returned and, terrified, she brought the car to a stop in the middle of the road. Only the caterers’ van coming down the lane behind her, lights flashing and horn blaring, made her drive on. There was, after all, no turning back. Chrissie hurried out of the house to greet them. She was wearing a gold dress, knee-length, with a tight-fitting bodice and a wide skirt. Over it an apron, so that she looked like a perfect housewife from a 1950s film.

  Nina forced herself to focus on the detail. She polished glasses and opened bottles, set copies of the anthology on tables in the entrance hall and drawing room, watched as Chrissie positioned the flowers to best effect. Chrissie was talking a lot, but the words washed over Nina and only occasionally did the woman demand a response. Alex Barton was there too, but distant, as if he’d handed the house and its contents over to Chrissie for the night, as if he was perfectly happy to be an observer. Once Nina looked over and caught his eye. He gave her a look that was at once conspiratorial and dismissive, as if to say, ‘You and I both know how unimportant all this is.’

  Soon it was almost dark and Nina felt able to draw the curtains across the drawing-room windows that looked out on the terrace. She’d be
en itching to do that since they’d arrived. Outside a stray piece of police crime-scene tape, one end trapped beneath the wrought-iron table, blew and twisted in the breeze, like a blue and white kite tail. She shivered slightly, pulled together the velvet drapes and told herself that the terrace could hold no fear for her now.

  She’d expected a police presence. Vera Stanhope, big and unmovable, and Joe Ashworth, and perhaps the sharp young woman who’d pretended to befriend her the night Miranda was killed. But there was no sign of them. Perhaps Chrissie had made it clear that they wouldn’t be welcome. The guests began to arrive, hurrying across the cold space from the car park to the house, holding their coats around them, everyone a little tense and brittle, excited to be in this place that had headed up the news for the last couple of weeks.

  Many of the guests were acquaintances. Academics and poets, arts administrators and arts funders. Nina had met them on similar occasions, talked books and politics and publishers, usually standing, usually with a glass of white wine in her hand. Today, though, she was holding orange juice. All that kept her going was the knowledge that her little car was waiting outside and that she could escape whenever things became too heavy.

  Today the talk was of Miranda, of the importance of keeping the Writers’ House alive as a base for literary talent and encouragement. But Nina knew that few of them would have made the trek north from Newcastle if the place hadn’t been made notorious by the murders. These calm men and women with their references to high fiction and classical theatre were inquisitive, as voyeuristic as readers of tabloid newspapers. Nina remembered Jack Devanney’s outburst at their final dinner here and could understand what had led to his outrage. She felt like shouting too and creating a scene. You don’t care about Miranda Barton. You don’t even care about keeping this place going, though you have a vested interest, of course. You’ll come along as tutors and advisors, promote your own work and earn fees for the privilege. You just want to see where two murders took place. But she didn’t have Jack’s courage. So she stood with her back to the wall, watching and smiling.

  Chrissie was beginning to panic because the big taxi with the writers hadn’t yet arrived. Mark Winterton was there; he’d driven from Cumbria and looked rather dashing, Nina thought, in a dark suit. He smiled at her across the room and was making his way to join her when the others burst in, with tales of a driver who’d completely lost his way, all of them laughing: the companionship of people who’d shared a minor drama. Chrissie was pouring wine for them and taking their coats, and suddenly the room seemed warmer and the atmosphere more natural. Perhaps, after all, the evening would go well.

  Lenny was there with a woman. Girlfriend? Not a wife, surely, because he’d told her he was divorced. She seemed very small in comparison to him and Lenny was proud. Of her and himself. He took the woman to the table where the books were laid out, picked up a copy as if it were something precious and delicate, and opened it to the title page to show her. She smiled and took his hand.

  All these stories, Nina thought, played out in front of me.

  Joanna and Jack were in fine form, both flirting with the other guests, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, hugging. They were performing, Nina thought. They’d prepared their script ahead of time and decided that all this physical contact was necessary to the role. But there was a watchfulness too, despite the good humour. Occasionally Joanna, taller than most of the men in the room, would look around her. Like an animal sniffing for danger. A meerkat in the desert.

  For a while Nina thought that Giles Rickard had decided to stay away. What reason would he have to be there? He didn’t need the publicity. He had fame and money enough, and during his stay at the Writers’ House he hadn’t formed a real attachment to any of the residents – those now dead or those still living. She didn’t see him as a sentimental man who would feel that he should be there to support the rest. Yet here he was. He’d arrived in the taxi too, but perhaps he’d been to the cloakroom and avoided the mass arrival of the rest. Chrissie, flushed with the success of the evening so far, went up to greet him. She’d discarded the apron and looked beautiful. Nina was reminded of a fictional character and struggled to remember which one, and then it came to her: Samantha, the eponymous cruel woman in Miranda’s novel. Nina had found her old copy at home and was in the process of reading it. Her tribute to the writer, who had died. She still thought it a bad book, but the visual description of the central character had stuck with her.

  Now Chrissie was calling the event to order. She clapped her hands and the conversation died away. Why was I so nervous about tonight? Nina thought suddenly. She could have come in the taxi with the others, drunk wine, relaxed and laughed and shared memories of the dead. Nothing terrible will happen here.

  Chrissie’s speech was short and well judged: a perfect soundbite for the local television news. She praised Miranda’s qualities as an author and as a mentor for new writers. ‘We’re selling this book in her memory, and to help maintain and continue the work that she started here.’

  Chrissie had asked Nina to say a few words about Tony Ferdinand.

  ‘We can’t ignore him altogether, darling, and he was once your tutor, even if you didn’t last the course.’

  Nina couldn’t bring herself to praise Ferdinand even after his death, but spoke briefly instead about the quality of the writers who had grown out of St Ursula’s, the prizes they had won, the breadth of the talent. There was applause at the end of her speech. Gratitude that she’d kept it short, so the guests could return to the wine, rather than appreciation of its quality.

  And soon afterwards things started to wind down. Books were sold. The reporters left. It was a long drive back to Newcastle and the weather was closing in. The caterers began collecting glasses. In the drawing room only the main players in the drama remained: the group who’d been present through the tragedy, and Lenny’s ex-wife Helen. Alex reverted to type and brought out a tray with jugs of coffee. The party had finished earlier than they’d expected and there was half an hour before the taxi would arrive. They sat rather awkwardly, unsure what to say to each other.

  Mark Winterton made the first move. He said he had a long drive back to Cumbria, and he was sure they’d excuse him. Then there was a sudden flurry of activity. Jack and Joanna said they’d help in the kitchen, Lenny asked Alex if he might show his exwife something of the house. Nina thought that now she could decently go too and stood up to say goodbye. Chrissie, though, had other ideas.

  ‘Alex says we can store the books in the chapel for now. Could you give me a hand to take them over?’ Then classically, after issuing the request, Chrissie was distracted elsewhere and Nina was left to put the books into boxes, onto a trolley and out into the yard. The cold made her wheezy and turned her breath into a white fog. The chapel was unlocked, but dark. There was enough light from the big house to pull the trolley inside, but there she felt for a switch. Before she could find it, the door behind her swung shut and everything was black. She thought she heard a key turning in the lock and felt the first bubbles of panic. But perhaps her mind was playing tricks. Just a few yards away the house was full of people. Chrissie knew she was here. She let go of the trolley and moved along the wall, still trying to find the switch. Then came the footsteps, slow and deliberate. They were behind her, cutting off her route to the door. And a sudden bright light, as a torch shone directly into her face, so that she could see nothing. And, faint but distinctive, the smell of overripe apricots.

  ‘Chrissie? Is that you?’

  Because who else could it be? Who else knew she’d be in the chapel? Nina told herself she was being ridiculous, that she was overreacting. Her imagination was creating the plot of an overblown horror novel, all weird noises and unexpected smells. This was her friend and publisher, coming to help her with the books at last. Or playing some tasteless prank.

  ‘Chrissie, shine the torch the other way, will you? You’re blinding me.’ She stumbled on.

  But the footsteps got ev
en closer and still Nina couldn’t see.

  The footsteps stopped and the light went out. After the brightness, the dark was thick and deep. Nina listened. Nothing. Outside the caterers must still be loading their van and laughing and shouting, but the walls of the chapel were too thick for her to hear. If she screamed, nobody would hear her, either. And she had the sense that whoever was standing beside her on the stone floor wanted her to scream. So she kept silent. A small act of defiance. A stab at courage.

  The footsteps moved on, past her towards the table that took the place of an altar. She didn’t move. Not courage this time, but the understanding that it would be useless. The turned key hadn’t been a creation of her wild imagination after all. There was a click that in the silence sounded as loud as a gunshot. Then music, recognizable from the first bars. A favourite of her mother’s, sung to Nina as a lullaby: ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. This time panic made Nina want to laugh. She felt a giggle rise inside her. If a student had presented a situation as melodramatic as this, for her consideration, she’d have covered the writing with red ink: Tension should be created sparingly and with subtlety.

  The music stopped. There was another sound, of a match being struck. A flash of light so small and fleeting that all she could see was the hand holding the match and the wick of the candle towards which it was carried. Then a steadier beam as the candle was lit. This provided a narrow circle of illumination. A white cloth on the table. A glass bowl of apricots. A long, sharp knife. The impulse to laughter faded away.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ She always had a tendency to be haughty when she was scared. ‘How can you hope to get away with this?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what one can get away with.’ The killer’s voice was matter-of-fact. Mad. ‘And really, you know, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about being caught. Not once you’re dead.’