The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

then went out again, or if she went to bed and went out early this morning, that would make us look differently at her death.’
    But Vera knew Miranda hadn’t gone to bed. She was still wearing the garments she’d been in the night before. White silk shirt and long black skirt. Not the clothes for an early walk on a freezing October morning.
    ‘I didn’t hear her,’ Alex said. He looked up at Joe. ‘I didn’t want to hear her. I listened to music until I fell asleep.’
    There was another moment of silence. Then outside a shout, so loud that it penetrated the thick walls of the cottage. ‘Has anyone seen the boss? They’ve found something!’
    Joe slipped out of the door, but Vera stayed where she was. She pulled herself slowly to her feet. ‘Where did your mother keep her books then?’ she asked. ‘I’d have thought they’d be in pride of place in the main house, but I couldn’t find any in the library.’
    ‘She didn’t want the students noticing that it’s years since she’s been published,’ Alex said. ‘They’re upstairs in her bedroom.’
    ‘I’ll see myself up there, shall I?’ Vera said.
    He seemed not to hear her and sat where he was.

Chapter Twenty-Two
    Joe Ashworth stood outside the cottage door and took a deep breath. Inside the house there’d been a sweet and unpleasant smell. Chemical. Air freshener or some kind of cleaner? Maybe trying to hide the smell of incontinent cat, maybe something more sinister. The CSIs would move on to the cottage when they’d finished on the terrace.
    The yard was busy. A couple of men in overalls and navy uniform jackets were deep in conversation, and a CSI, peeling off her crime-scene suit close to the van, hopping as she pulled it over her foot, shouted to a colleague, ‘Where are the toilets? I am so desperate for a piss.’ Beyond the end of the track Joe saw the aerial of a radio van. So the press were there already. The journos, who’d been camping out there since Ferdinand’s death, had dwindled away the day before, and now they were back. He was glad someone had had the sense to keep them well away from the house. And Charlie was there, leaning against the bonnet of his car, drinking tea from a mug with the Writers’ House logo on it. The whole place was still lit with the sunshine that bounced off the car windscreens and the frozen puddles and turned faces the colour of butter.
    Joe called over to Charlie, ‘Someone was shouting for the boss. She’s busy. What have they got?’
    Charlie pushed himself upright. ‘The murder weapon,’ he said. ‘They think.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Down on the beach. I’ll show you. Apparently they were lucky to find it.’
    Charlie bent to put his mug on the doorstep and walked round the house until they were looking out to the sea. On the terrace, work continued in the white tent. The nylon fabric, with the sun behind it, displayed the figures inside as slowly moving shadows.
    Walking through the garden, Joe remembered what Alex Barton had said about moving here from London, about how much he’d loved the place when it was still just a family home. This would be a paradise for a child. Trees to climb and dens to build, rock-pools to poke around in, and on the odd good day when it was warm enough there’d be the sea for swimming. And a child would know every inch of it. If anyone could find a hiding place close to the house, it would be Alex Barton.
    Charlie had started on the steep path down to the beach. He slipped once, ripping a tear in the leg of the crime suit, and swore, and by the time they’d reached the shingle he was breathing heavily and sweating despite the cold. He leaned forward, rubbing the stitch in his side.
    ‘You’re out of condition, man.’ But Joe was feeling the effort too. Too many greasy breakfasts and not enough exercise. There were times, kicking a ball round with the kids, when he felt age creeping up on him.
    Three figures stood at the base of the cliff. From this distance and in this light it was impossible to tell if they were men or women. A small flock of wading birds ran along the tide line and took off, calling, as Joe and Charlie approached, black commas against the white sky. The figures near the cliff became clearer, more than silhouettes. Two men and one woman. One was the crime-scene manager Billy Wainwright, who would have been at the house already, working on the terrace. Two others Joe didn’t recognize. Members of the search team.
    They’d heard