The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

from an artisan bakery in Morpeth. Salad in a big glass bowl.
    ‘That fat one, Inspector Stanhope. She wants us to fix a date for Miranda Barton’s memorial celebration. It was her idea in the first place – a party to launch the book and remember all the good work Miranda did to encourage new writers. She said that Alex is okay with the idea. He’s back at home, much better. I suggested a week on Friday and said I’d go to see poor Alex to discuss the details. What do you think?’
    ‘Can you get the book out by then?’ Nina had other objections, but thought Chrissie would only care about the practicalities. The work had by now turned from a modest pamphlet to a substantial anthology; Chrissie had approached former tutors and students for contributions, had been up for nights in a row proofreading. They’d chosen the jacket together. It was a black-and-white photo of the Writers’ House in winter, the trees bare, the sea flat and grey.
    ‘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