The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

straight spine and upright posture were so characteristic of Nina Backworth that it seemed another, more vulnerable woman was there. A stranger. ‘Someone came into my room,’ she said. ‘They went through my things.’
    He wanted to sit on the bed beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s a horrible feeling.’ The words seemed inadequate to him.
    ‘So you believe me? You know I didn’t poison Tony Ferdinand?’ Something of the old spark returned. ‘You know I wouldn’t be so foolish as to use my own sleeping pills!’
    Ashworth took a moment to answer. ‘My job’s not about belief,’ he said. ‘It’s about fact. Evidence.’
    She looked up at him. ‘Then do your job,’ she said. ‘Find your evidence. Prove that I didn’t kill Ferdinand.’
    Downstairs Vera was waiting for him. ‘Charlie’s coming over to pick up the pills,’ she said. ‘He’s bringing some stuff he’s dug up about Ferdinand and Lenny Thomas.’
    Ashworth nodded. He knew it was ridiculous, but Nina’s words had given him a new energy, a new determination. ‘We’ve got time to fit in an interview with Rickard, then. And Charlie won’t mind waiting if he can get his hands on coffee and a home-made biscuit.’
    Vera looked at him. ‘Did your lass put something in your tea this morning?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You seem like a new man.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to lead on the interview with Rickard? I mean, I know there might be some history with Joanna, so maybe you’re better doing it.’
    But Ashworth shook his head. Rickard was a writer, intimidating, and anyway at the moment he wasn’t sure he’d be able to concentrate. ‘Nah, you do it. I’ll sit in.’ And from the beginning of the interview he could tell he’d made a wise decision. Vera was at her sharpest, her most outrageous and clever.
    From the moment Rickard came into the chapel, leaning on a stick and struggling to push open the heavy door, Ashworth couldn’t get past the fact that this was an old man. Old men weren’t murderers. It wasn’t just that it seemed physically impossible: Rickard couldn’t have stabbed Ferdinand, and certainly couldn’t have lifted him from the wicker chair in the glass room and out onto the balcony. It was more than that. In Ashworth’s mind, old people weren’t wicked. Vera seemed not to share this inhibition, and Ashworth wondered if that had something to do with her relationship with her father. Horrible Hector , she called him, or my beastly father , though she’d spent most of her life looking after him.
    Now Vera was leaning forward across the desk towards Rickard.
    ‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is why you’re here at all. You’re a famous writer. Even I’ve heard of you. Seen your books in WH Smith at Central Station in town. So why give up your precious time to spend a week on the Northumberland coast?’ She smiled and stretched back in her chair, waiting for the old man to speak.
    Rickard hadn’t expected the question. Ashworth thought he’d anticipated a gentle and routine interview, that he’d be treated with deference because of his age and his celebrity.
    ‘Perhaps, Inspector, I feel the need to give something back to the writing community. Success is such a matter of luck, and mine certainly has little to do with the quality of my work.’ He gave a little smile, apparently pleased with his answer.
    ‘Don’t give me that crap.’ Her voice was icy. ‘Did you know Joanna Tobin would be here, before you agreed to be a tutor?’
    There was another silence. Through the window Ashworth saw that the sun had come out. From here, the blue sky gave the initial appearance of a summer’s day, but even with this restricted view he saw that the light was different. Colder. And the shadows would be longer. There must be a coffee break; students had spilled out into the courtyard. He couldn’t see them from where he was sitting, but Rickard had left the chapel door open and he could hear the voices outside and smell the cigarette smoke.
    ‘Miranda showed me the work of the students who had received bursaries,’ Rickard said. ‘An attempt to persuade me to sign up. She should have realized that authors hate seeing good writing by newcomers. It only proves to them how pitiful their own attempts are.’
    ‘You recognized Joanna’s name?’ Vera had narrowed her eyes.
    ‘Not immediately. She’s using her maiden name again. I only knew her when she was