The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

she hoped Joanna had killed Tony.’ Nina closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the warm kitchen, her lethargy. Perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. Had the possibility of Joanna’s innocence sparked some emotion in Miranda? Had she seemed almost excited?
    ‘There were lots of people here who hoped that,’ Vera said briskly. ‘How did Miranda seem? Scared?’
    Nina struggled to come to an answer. ‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t work out why she wanted me there. Was she scared? Maybe. But also wired up. Prepared to put up a fight, I’d say.’
    ‘What sort of fight?’
    Nina shook her head helplessly. ‘Nothing was spoken of clearly. It was as if she expected me to know what she was talking about. But in the end I was just confused.’
    ‘Do you think she knew who the killer was?’ Vera leaned forward again, waiting for the response, and Nina could see how important this was to her.
    ‘Not for certain,’ Nina said. ‘But I think she might have guessed.’

Chapter Twenty-One
    Joe Ashworth arrived just as Vera finished talking to Nina Backworth. He pushed open the heavy door and peered inside.
    ‘Come in!’ Vera said. It disturbed her how glad she was to see her sergeant; she realized that she’d come to depend on his presence at these interviews. It wasn’t the same with Holly. Vera couldn’t relax with her to the same extent. Not the girl’s fault, and probably not fair. ‘Holly, take Ms Backworth up to her room and help her to pack.’
    ‘I can manage on my own.’ Nina’s hands were fiddling with a tissue. She looked at the moving fingers as if they didn’t belong to her.
    ‘I know you can, pet. But the murderer would have scattered lots of blood around when they made that wound. Spatter, we call it. You can see it on the terrace floor. We’ll need to look at your clothes and take some of them away. It’s not personal: it’s not just you that we’ve helped to pack.’ Vera stood up and gave her a little pat on the shoulder.
    They waited until both women had left the room. ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ Joe said.
    ‘I know.’ Vera saw he was expecting a bollocking for arriving late, but she was thinking about Miranda Barton. If the novelist had had suspicions about the murderer’s identity, why hadn’t she shared them with the police? Because her thoughts were still too vague? Or because she’d seen the opportunity for making money? Vera wouldn’t have put it past Miranda to try a spot of blackmail. This was a big place to keep up and maybe, with money tighter all round, folk weren’t willing to pay a fortune to sit round talking about books. Maybe it had occurred to prospective visitors that they could stay at home and write and it would cost them nothing. ‘Come and look at the scene,’ she said. ‘Then I want to show you something.’
    The sun was up now and the garden flooded with cold light. It was still slippery underfoot and their breath came in clouds. ‘My bloody car wouldn’t start,’ Joe said. ‘And then there was an accident on the A1 caused by the ice.’
    ‘Nightmare!’ Vera said automatically, but she wasn’t really listening.
    They put on scene suits and stood just outside the tent. Vera pulled open the flap door so that they could see inside. At the same moment one of the CSIs took a photo of Miranda’s body. It came to Vera that, in life, the woman would have loved this attention – the photographs, the audience. Perhaps that was why she had established the Writers’ House. Not for the money, but because she needed the admiration and envy of the young writers who had yet to be published. She needed to feel that she was still part of the publishing world, in the same way as ageing television actresses made guest appearances to open supermarkets or award prizes to schoolchildren.
    ‘What do you think?’ Vera stood aside so that Ashworth had a clear view.
    ‘Multiple knife wounds,’ Ashworth said. ‘The same cause of death as Tony Ferdinand. Same style too. Unnecessary violence.’
    ‘But not quite the same,’ Vera said. ‘That gash across the throat. It’s post-mortem, according to Paul Keating. Ferdinand was stabbed repeatedly, but there was nothing as showy as that here.’
    ‘Is that relevant?’
    ‘It certainly is. Come back inside and I’ll read you a story.’
    She was about to leave, then stopped and called to one of the CSIs, ‘What have you done with the hankie that was on the floor?’
    ‘Already bagged ready for