The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

he were an estate agent and was showing around a prospective customer, as if he had no emotional tie to the Writers’ House at all.
    It was only as they were drinking coffee in the kitchen that they discussed his mother’s book. Vera was aware of time passing. She had another place to be. ‘Have you ever read your mother’s novel?’ she asked. ‘The famous one that was adapted for telly?’
    Alex seemed confused by the question. ‘Years ago, when I was a teenager. At least I tried. I’m not sure I actually finished it.’
    And Vera left it at that. She could sense that Joe wanted her to push the point. Why else were they there? They’d achieved nothing by trailing round the house after Alex. Joe even opened his mouth to ask more questions, but she hurried him out of the house. ‘Come on, Joe, man. I’ve got a train to catch.’ And she drove straight to the station at Alnmouth. They got there just as the London train was pulling in, so she left Joe to park her Land Rover and to arrange for a taxi to get himself back to the office. Looking out of the window as the train moved away from the station, she saw that he was still frowning.
    London. She could find her way round well enough. If Hector had taught her anything it was to read a map. And the city didn’t scare her. She knew you could get scary people anywhere. She just didn’t like it much. She didn’t like any city. Even a visit to Newcastle was a bit of a chore and she was glad when it was time for her to leave.
    First stop was St Ursula’s College. A mellow redbrick built around a north-London square. The horse-chestnut and plane trees had shed their leaves and the late-afternoon sun threw shadows of the branches onto the pavement. Vera had arranged to meet Sally Wheldon there and found the poet in a small office, sitting at her desk behind a pile of books. Vera had picked up a copy of her work from the independent bookshop in Kimmerston, had been surprised that she’d enjoyed it. Much of it concerned the domestic and was funny. One poem had moved her to tears. Sally was tiny, dark-haired and dark-eyed. From her voice, Vera had expected a larger woman and it took a few seconds to reconcile her imagined picture with the reality.
    Vera had just introduced herself when a student knocked at the door. A young man with thick glasses and wild hair.
    ‘I’m busy, Ollie,’ Sally said. Her voice was amused and a little impatient. ‘I’m sure it can wait until the tutorial.’ He sighed and left the room, and she turned to Vera. ‘Sorry about that. Some of them are so intense. Occasionally I’m tempted to tell them to get a life so that they’ll have something real to write about.’
    ‘You’re keeping things going then? Without Tony Ferdinand?’
    ‘We’re just about managing.’ A smile to show she was being sarky, but not malicious. Vera liked that in a woman. Sally went on, ‘Shall we go for a walk in the square? That way we’ll be sure we’ll not be interrupted.’
    They wandered across the road and found a bench to sit on.
    ‘I’ve been asked to take it on,’ Sally said. ‘To run the creative-writing MA.’
    ‘Will you do it?’
    ‘I think I will. Just for a limited time. It saps the energy, working with students. They suck the life from you. But I’ll consider it as a sabbatical, a time away from my own writing. I’d like to change the ethos of the course, make it gentler and more positive. It’ll be worthwhile, I think, if I can pull it off.’ She paused. ‘And of course it’ll raise my profile professionally.’
    ‘What do you know about Tony Ferdinand’s family?’ Vera asked. ‘Did he talk about them? We haven’t been able to trace anyone.’
    ‘He doesn’t have one. He was an only child and his parents died ages ago. No wife.’
    ‘No children?’ Vera couldn’t help herself.
    ‘If he had, he never acknowledged them.’ Sally gave a quick smile. ‘I told you, when he was mugged that time I was his only visitor. Most of the writers and editors in London would recognize him, might even describe him as a friend, but there was nobody really that he was close to. Rather sad.’
    ‘Where did the attack happen?’ Vera didn’t know where all this was going or how it could be important.
    ‘Just about here. He was crossing the square on his way back to his flat. It wasn’t particularly late, about eight o’clock at night, but the square is quiet in the evening once all the students have gone home. It was last