The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

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 even 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.’
    The hand appeared in the circle of light again and lifted the knife. This time Nina screamed.

Chapter Thirty-Eight
    Vera and Joe Ashworth arrived at the Writers’ House once the party was in full swing. By then there were so many vehicles in the car park that theirs wouldn’t be noticed. Joe had been fretting to go all day.
    ‘We could get there early. Hide in an outbuilding or something.’
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ she’d said. ‘Holly had a quick look round earlier. We know what we’re waiting for. My bladder won’t stand long surveillances any more. I’ve never pissed in front of a subordinate yet, and I don’t intend to start now. It’s bad for discipline.’
    He’d grinned, but she could tell he wasn’t happy. There was something going on between him and the writer woman. The last thing she needed was emotion getting in the way and Joe going all chivalrous on her. That was why she hadn’t entirely taken him into her confidence. She couldn’t face the aggro.
    ‘What do we do now?’ he said.
    They were still in her Land Rover; Vera had taken to driving it more often throughout this investigation. ‘The seats are higher up than in the pool cars,’ she’d said when Joe had queried