by Ann Cleeves
He nodded. ‘And I left the knife. To buy me some time, but also as a sign of his guilt. Like in Macbeth.’
‘Oh, pet,’ she said. ‘The world couldn’t read your signs and messages. I struggled and I’m almost as daft as you are.’
He looked at her, but again she saw that he would only hear what he wanted to.
‘You played music,’ Vera said. ‘“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Was Ferdinand supposed to hear it? To remember and realize what he’d done?’
‘It was her song,’ Winterton said. ‘It was for her.’
‘You wrote the note for Joanna and hoped that she would pick up the knife.’ Let’s move this on, Vera thought. Get it over with. The futility of his actions made her want to weep. And if she didn’t get her breakfast soon she’d faint. ‘Tell me about the handkerchief on the terrace after you killed Miranda,’ she said briskly. ‘Another play?’
‘Othello.’
Vera smiled as if she’d known all along; she thought Google was a wonderful thing. ‘Desdemona’s hankie,’ she said. ‘White cloth embroidered with strawberries. And we thought it was a heart. Embroidery’s not one of your talents, pet.’
The solicitor cleared his throat. They all looked at him. It would be his first utterance. ‘I don’t quite understand the significance of the apricots,’ he said.
Vera gave him a superior smile. ‘They feature in a play too,’ she said. ‘The Duchess of Malfi. A Revenge Tragedy. And the dead robin’s from The White Devil.’
Winterton lay back in his chair and closed his eyes, reciting:
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren.
Since o’er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flow’rs do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
He sat upright. ‘That’s Cornelia mourning her dead child.’
The room was very quiet. Nobody knew what to say. Vera broke the silence. ‘You certainly gave Miranda a fright. Killing Ferdinand in a scene from her most successful book. Very weird.’
‘When I heard her screaming,’ Winterton said, ‘it was the happiest I’d been since Lucy died.’
‘While everyone believed that Joanna killed Tony Ferdinand, Miranda could persuade herself that the scene was a coincidence,’ Vera went on. ‘It was only after Joanna was released from custody that she began to reconsider.’
‘She was a stupid, greedy woman,’ Winterton said.
‘She tried to blackmail you.’
‘She had grand ideas. For the Writers’ House and her own work.’ Winterton looked disdainful. ‘She needed money. She thought it was only Ferdinand I blamed for my daughter’s death.’
‘And this time you used the scene from Nina Backworth’s short story.’ Vera thought that by then his lust for revenge had taken over. Though he’d held it together in public – slipping ideas to Joe about Miranda Barton having lost a daughter, sending them in quite the wrong direction.
Winterton looked up. ‘It seemed fitting,’ he said. He gave a little smile. ‘They care so much about their fiction, after all. For Lucy it was a matter of life and death.’
Vera said nothing. She looked at Joe to see if he had any further questions. He shook his head. On the other side of the table Winterton was sitting upright and still. Now he didn’t care at all what might happen to him.
Vera thought it was time for breakfast. Maybe if she bought him a decent fry-up, Joe would forgive her.
Chapter Forty
Joe Ashworth caught up with Nina at her flat in Jesmond. He’d expected her to be with Chrissie Kerr at North Farm, thinking she’d want company after her ordeal with Winterton. But she was alone. She’d been sitting by the window looking out over the cemetery. Her arm was bandaged and she wore a red cardigan over her shoulder like a shawl. In the street outside, schoolgirls were making their way into the playground.
‘Perhaps you don’t want to be disturbed,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing that won’t wait.’
‘No, please! Do come in.’
She made him coffee and he sat beside her at the table.
‘Of course I’d gone over the events in my head, wondering who the murderer might be,’ she said. ‘Mark was at the bottom of the list. He seemed such a gentle man.’
‘Who did you have at the top?’ Joe thought they’d never have had this conversation while the investigation was still running.
She paused and seemed ashamed for a moment. ‘Lenny Thomas,’ she said. ‘Dreadful, isn’t it? The assumptions we make. Just because he’d been in prison.’
‘We had our suspicions about him for a while.’ Joe supposed he should be more discreet, but he didn’t think Nina would be talking to the press. ‘He wouldn’t tell us where he was the night of your break-in and the afternoon the cat was found in the chapel. Turned out he’d been working for a mate, a plumber from Ashington. He was being paid cash, nothing on the books. He hadn’t told the benefit people.’
‘Mark was so respectable, so courteous,’ Nina said. She turned to Joe. ‘Do you know how he got me into the chapel?’
Joe shook his head. This was a comfortable room. It occurred to him that he’d never had this. A space of his own. Quiet. Peace. He’d never thought he needed it.
‘He told Chrissie that he thought he was in love with me. We all knew he was divorced. He’d been too shy to talk to me during the Writers’ House course, but he said he didn’t want to drive back to Cumbria without telling me how he felt. Chrissie knew he was an ex-detective and didn’t think for a moment that he could be the killer. And she’s such a bloody romantic, always playing matchmaker. So she set me up. She asked me to take the books into the chapel, knowing he’d be there.’
Nina looked up.
‘He would have killed me, you know. He thought I’d caused his daughter’s death.’ She paused. ‘I remember it, that session when we pulled apart Lucy’s work. I thought about it again when you showed me the magazine article they found on the beach. Miranda looked much younger, and it reminded me that she was the visiting tutor that day. I’ve always felt guilty about the way I allowed myself to be dragged into the criticism. Lucy and I were friends, and until then we’d always supported each other. I hated the person I became that day. It was horrible.’
‘The inspector should have had more sense than to allow you into the chapel.’ Joe tried to contain his anger. ‘Playing God with other people’s lives. I told her she was crazy.’
‘She came to see me in hospital after you’d finished with Winterton,’ Nina said. ‘Apologized. I told her I understood. She was doing her job.’
‘She’s bloody lucky you don’t sue. Or make a formal complaint.’
Nina smiled at him. ‘She told me you were sulking.’
Joe didn’t know what to say to that.
‘“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”,’ Nina said. ‘That’s what he was playing in the chapel. His song for his daughter, I suppose.’
They sat for a moment in silence. A bell rang to mark the beginning of school.
‘I feel such a fool that I didn’t recognize the reference to the apricots,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s years since I’ve seen the play, but all the same. And the handkerchief.’
‘The inspector googled it.’ They looked at each other and grinned. A moment of intimacy. Joe got to his feet. ‘I should go. I told my wife I’d be home.’
Chapter Forty-One
Vera had a late breakfast at Myers Farm with Jack and Joanna. Joe had turned down her offer of a fry-up and she felt that she owed them an explanation. And that Joanna at least owed one to her. There was local bacon and sausage, and eggs from the Myers hens, and it was a while before she could give her full attention to the case.
‘So it was all about revenge,’ Joanna said when she’d heard the story. ‘Mark saw himself as a great avenging angel, acting on behalf of his daughter.’
‘Aye.’ Vera wasn’t sure she believed in Winterton as an angel. ‘Something like that. Though I suspect the shrinks will
say he’s too mad to plead and he’ll go straight to the loony bin.’
Joanna said nothing to that, and Vera thought she was remembering her own stay in a psychiatric clinic.
It was cold again outside, but snug in the kitchen, and there was condensation clouding the windows, so she couldn’t see into the farmyard.
‘What about you?’ Vera asked. ‘Was your story all about revenge too?’
‘No!’ Joanna was indignant. ‘I wanted to make sense of it. And keep a record.’
‘She’s a great writer,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve told her, if she keeps at it, she’ll be rich and famous one day. She’ll be keeping the pair of us.’ He reached out and touched the woman’s hand, then got to his feet, went to the door and pulled on his boots. ‘But I can’t sit here gassing all day. I’ve got work to do.’
Vera waited until the door had closed behind him. The warm kitchen was making her feel as if she could fall asleep at any minute. Joanna seemed about to go back to work too.
‘So what was going on?’ Vera asked. ‘The demands for money, stopping your medication. What was all that about?’
‘I don’t think,’ Joanna said, playing the grand lady again, ‘that it’s any of your business, Vee. It’s not a police matter.’
‘I want to know. I can’t stand unfinished business. Is it another man?’ Vera couldn’t bear to see Jack hurt. And she couldn’t bear the thought of him dripping around the place, disturbing her with his misery.
‘No!’ Joanna threw back her head and laughed. ‘What would I want with another man? I’m perfectly happy with the one I’ve got, and anyway, who else would have me?’
‘So what then?’ I can be as stubborn as you, lady.
Perhaps Joanna realized that Vera wasn’t going to give up. Or perhaps she wanted to discuss the idea, put it into words. ‘I want a baby,’ she said. ‘Before it’s too late. I can’t be pregnant on the medication. And I thought I should have some financial security before bringing a child into the world. So I asked Paul for money. That’s what it’s all about.’
‘Does Jack know?’
‘No point telling Jack until I’ve made up my mind,’ Joanna said. ‘He’ll be so excited he won’t be able to contain himself. He’ll talk about nothing else.’
‘What’s the next move?’
‘I’ve made an appointment with the doctor to talk through the options. Very sensible. You should be proud of me, Vee.’
Vera stood up and yawned. She needed a few hours’ sleep before she went back to the station. Joanna followed her to the door.
‘What about you?’ Joanna asked as they stood together, looking out down the valley. ‘Did you never want a child?’
‘Eh, pet, what sort of mother would I have made?’
Vera stomped off towards her house. Both of them knew that wasn’t any sort of answer to the question.
By Ann Cleeves
The Vera Stanhope Series
The Crow Trap
Telling Tales
Hidden Depths
Silent Voices
The Glass Room
Harbour Street
The Moth Catcher
The Seagull
The Shetland Series
Raven Black
White Nights
Red Bones
Blue Lightning
Dead Water
Thin Air
Cold Earth
About the Author
Ann Cleeves worked as a probation officer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She is a member of ‘Murder Squad’, working with other northern writers to promote crime fiction. In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black. Ann lives in North Tyneside.
The other novels in Ann Cleeves’ Vera Stanhope series, The Crow Trap, Telling Tales, Hidden Depths and Silent Voices, are available now. The Crow Trap, Telling Tales and Hidden Depths are all major ITV productions.
Visit the author’s website
at www.anncleeves.com, or sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
By Ann Cleeves
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE GLASS ROOM. Copyright © 2012 by Ann Cleeves. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
ISBN 978-1-250-10736-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-13572-8 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-10737-4 (ebook)
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First published in Great Britain by Pan Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
First U.S. Edition: April 2018
eISBN 9781250107374
First eBook edition: February 2018
