The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

pleasure at the response to her work. Perhaps she’d see the moment as a new start to her career. A few hours later she’d be dead.
    ‘Did you know that Mrs Barton was still writing?’ Joe asked. ‘It’s ten years since she’s had anything published. You’d think she’d have given up.’
    ‘I don’t think writers ever really give up,’ Nina said. ‘But I didn’t know she was writing seriously. We weren’t close in any way. She wouldn’t have confided in me. She left the paper she was reading from in the drawing room. I picked it up to give back to her. Now she won’t have the opportunity to finish her story. Would you like it?’
    He took it from her. It would be something to keep Vera happy.
    ‘The handkerchief that was under the table on the terrace,’ he said. ‘It had a little red heart embroidered in one corner. I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything like that while you’ve been here?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘Aye, well, worth a try.’ He put the magazine article in its plastic bag onto the dressing table. ‘Would you mind looking at this? Does it mean anything to you?’
    She looked at it and he thought there was a moment of recognition. ‘Nothing beyond the obvious,’ she said. ‘Miranda obviously tried to cash in on the publicity for the television film. I don’t remember seeing the article.’
    ‘Nothing else?’ Something about the way she stared at the photo made him think there was more on her mind.
    ‘I remember seeing her around St Ursula’s occasionally when I was there,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how attractive she was in those days. Like a different woman.’
    He turned to go.
    ‘When can I leave?’ she cried suddenly. ‘When can I go home?’
    He paused at the door. Bugger Vera, the woman was in pieces. ‘Have you got your own car?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Go now then,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken your statement and we know where to find you. I’ll tell the guys on the gate you’re free to leave.’
    She smiled and for an instant he thought she would take him in her arms and kiss him. Walking down the stairs to meet Vera, he found himself trembling at the idea.
    Vera reacted remarkably well to the news that he’d sent Nina Backworth home. There was a poke in the ribs. ‘Eh, Joey, you’ve always been a soft touch when it comes to a pretty lassie. Though I wouldn’t have put her down as your type.’ But it was all good-humoured. There was no edge to it. She was preoccupied by the prospect of her meeting with Paul Rutherford.
    ‘You’re going all the way down to London just to chat to Joanna’s ex?’ Not hiding the disbelief. The disapproval. He thought Vera had her own agenda here. How could she be objective, interviewing the man who’d beaten up her neighbour? Her friend.
    ‘No need, bonny lad. He’s coming to see me. The mountain to Mohammed. Well, he claims he had a meeting in Newcastle anyway. I’m not so sure.’
    ‘What do you want me to do now?’ He could tell there was no point in trying to persuade Vera against the meeting. Through the kitchen window he saw Nina Backworth walk across the yard towards the car park. She had a little suitcase on wheels that juddered over the cobbles. It was red, the same colour as her lipstick.
    ‘Get off to the Coquet Hotel and see how Holly and Charlie are getting on with the statements.’
    ‘What will I do with the residents, once the statements are taken?’
    ‘Send them home,’ Vera said. ‘We can’t have one rule for Nina Backworth and one for the rest of the party.’
    The Coquet Hotel in Seahouses had been built in the Seventies when there were still pits and shipyards, and the Northumberland coast had seemed an exciting place for Scottish workers to come for their holidays. Joe had been taken to the hotel once by his nana. She’d dragged him along on an over-sixties coach trip one summer, when he was off school, and he’d complained of being bored. Even to a seven-year-old the place had looked shabby. They’d had afternoon tea in the lounge after being shown round Bamburgh Castle. He remembered a knickerbocker glory so tall that his spoon wouldn’t reach the bottom of the glass. His nana had complained that the scones were hard. In the coach on the way home she’d pulled off her shoes, and her feet were swollen to twice their normal size, her toes all twisted and bent.
    ‘Never grow old, Joe lad,’ she’d said, though she hadn’t seemed upset and she’d joined in the singing of