The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

giving evidence in court.
    ‘I’m not going to read,’ he said. His face was thin and the small, square spectacles he wore gave him the appearance of a rather pedantic teacher. His words too were clipped and precise. ‘One of the great benefits of the course has been the development of an ability to assess one’s own work. And I’ve realized that my work really isn’t very good at all!’ There was a sympathetic murmur from the other end of the table. ‘I’m not going to put you lot through any of my stuff. But, like Lenny, I want to thank all the staff and students for their support. This was something I had to try. I gave it a go, and it didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll have to find another outlet for my creativity. But in the meantime I look forward to seeing some of your books on the shelves and to telling my friends: I knew them before they were famous. ’
    He smiled at them all and took his seat. Nina thought this was all going much better than she’d expected. It might not end up as the turgid, smug event that she’d dreaded. She turned to watch Miranda take centre stage once more. She wears too much make-up: all that powder is very ageing. I wonder who she’ll pick on next. Miranda’s gaze moved around the table. Really, the woman’s like a stage medium, looking for an easy target.
    ‘Joanna,’ Miranda said. ‘I know you’ve not had an easy week, but would you feel up to reading, dear?’
    At once the patronizing tone made Nina want to jump to her feet and come to Joanna’s defence. It occurred to her that Miranda disliked the woman more, now that it seemed she was innocent of Ferdinand’s murder, than when it was assumed she was the killer. Joanna, though, seemed capable of looking after herself. She stood slowly, reached out to fill her glass with red wine and took a sip. Then she surveyed her audience.
    She looked striking in the candlelight. The long corn-coloured hair was pulled back from her face and the simple black dress made Nina think of a young widow, a woman certainly in mourning.
    ‘I came to the group with a story,’ Joanna said. ‘Something very personal. But I was too close to it and the language was all wrong. Too elaborate. It took the help of the tutors, especially Nina, for me to realize that I needed to keep it simple. To keep it real.’ She started reading without further introduction. It was the description of a young woman being beaten up by a man. The words were carefully chosen, clear and without emotion. The piece was written from the woman’s point of view, but there was no self-pity. She described finding herself on the floor, feeling the cold tile against her cheek, seeing a piece of bread dropped from the morning’s breakfast.
    Joanna paused to catch her breath, and in the distance they heard the sound of a door banging. Nina sensed Holly tense beside her. Everyone in the house was present in the room. Perhaps a window had been left open and the wind had blown the door to. But that night there was no wind. Joanna continued to read. Then the dining-room door was thrown open, so hard that the handle knocked against the wall.
    Joanna stopped in the middle of a sentence and turned to look at the man who stood just inside the room. He was wiry and middle-aged, his greying hair tied back in a ponytail. When Joanna spoke, it was in the weary tone of a mother who’s had a tiresome day with a fractious child, at once affectionate and irritated.
    ‘Jack, man. What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?’
    That was when the man lost his temper and started shouting.

Chapter Nineteen
    Vera sat in her house in the hills waiting to hear from Holly. There was still some light outside – it hadn’t been worth going back to the station after the interview with Helen Thomas and she’d come straight home. She’d let Joe get off early too, expecting gratitude, because he always claimed that he liked to spend time with his bairns before bedtime, but he’d been in an odd mood all day and he’d slunk away without a word. It was freezing – this year, it seemed, winter had come early – and she’d got a good fire going. She was warming her feet in front of it, drinking a mug of tea when her phone rang.
    ‘Holly. How did it go with Winterton?’
    When Vera had suggested that the younger officer should spend the afternoon at the Writers’ House, talking to the ex-detective, Holly had looked like a greyhound let off the leash. Almost quivering with