The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

never without a hat, the glamorous art historian, the famous poet – and nodded to them whenever they met, as if they were friends.
    Upstairs in the magnificent main Georgian library, with its domed roofs and balconies, silence wasn’t expected. Today two elderly men sat at the big table and talked about shipbuilding, re-creating the life of the Tyne with books and memories. Vera bought herself a cup of coffee and a sticky bun from the woman behind the tea counter and waited. She found a quiet table with a view of the door. She’d googled Paul Rutherford. He had a slick website and there was a photo of him beaming out of the home page. When he arrived she probably would have picked him out anyway, a stranger, hesitating very briefly at the top of the grand stone stairs, before preparing to make an entrance.
    He was wearing black. Informal black, so that she found it hard to believe the meeting that he’d used as an excuse for being in the North-East. Didn’t politicians always wear suits? Rutherford wore black jeans, a black T-shirt under a black jacket. She thought he’d find it cold outside without a proper coat, and then wondered if he’d dressed deliberately to create an air of menace. Was he out to intimidate her?
    But it seemed he intended to try charm first. She stood up to greet him and he approached her as a long-lost friend. ‘Inspector Stanhope. Thank you for taking the time to meet me. I know how busy you must be.’ The voice clipped. Posh south, but without the drawly vowels. He gave a thin smile that had no warmth or humour in it. His eyes never quite met hers. The elderly men walked past them and out. The library was empty apart from the tea lady and a librarian at the front desk.
    ‘Coffee?’ Vera asked. ‘Or are you a tea man?’
    ‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Every time.’
    She bought him tea. He didn’t offer to pay for it. Meanness or arrogance? Did he believe that the small social niceties didn’t apply to him? They sat round the corner out of sight of the librarian. Rutherford took no notice of the beautiful surroundings or the shelves of books.
    ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Vera said, ‘why you wanted to see me.’ She smiled brightly at him.
    ‘I still feel some responsibility for Joanna,’ he said. ‘It’s some time since our marriage ended, but one can’t turn off one’s feelings. I hate to think of her in trouble.’
    ‘Is she in trouble?’ Vera looked up at him, wide-eyed.
    That threw him. ‘I understood, from the newspapers, that she’d been questioned about a murder. Tony Ferdinand’s murder.’
    ‘Questioned,’ Vera said, ‘but not charged. We’ve questioned everyone who was staying in the house. Even your old friend Giles Rickard.’
    ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Rutherford said. ‘Giles Rickard wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve known him since I was a child.’ He held his teacup, sipped and gave a small grimace to show that he was accustomed to better. Vera saw that his hands looked older than his face. Rutherford went on, ‘He was like a second father to me.’
    ‘But you think Joanna would be capable of murder?’ Vera asked. She looked at him, as if the answer was of considerable interest to her.
    ‘She tried to kill me !’ he said. A flash of almost childish anger.
    ‘But that surely was rather different. As far as I know, Professor Ferdinand hadn’t kept her prisoner or beaten her up.’ Vera kept her voice even. She wouldn’t get this chance again and she didn’t want to lose her temper in front of the man. Besides, she was enjoying herself. This was an interesting experience. She didn’t come across psychopaths very often. It occurred to her that there might be a greater proportion of psychopaths in Parliament than in prison.
    He paused for a moment and gave another tight smile. ‘You do know, Inspector, that your words are slanderous.’
    She leaned forward across the table, made her voice intimate, almost flirtatious. ‘Somehow, Mr Rutherford, I don’t think you’ll sue.’
    They sat looking at each other. It was very warm. The hot water in the radiators gurgled. At the desk a phone rang.
    ‘We’ll stop playing games, shall we?’ Suddenly she’d lost patience with him. ‘Why are you here? What did you want from me?’
    ‘I wanted to warn you,’ he said, ‘not to be taken in by my ex-wife. She tells stories. Not just to the people around her, but to herself. Eventually I think she comes to believe them. Do you really think that I