The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

according to plan, but happy enough if he felt he was in control. His tutor was pleased when he went to work with his mother. He thought Alex might not stand the stress of a restaurant kitchen, where there’s always pressure of time and unexpected demands. “Not a great one for teamwork.” That was how the tutor described him.’
    Vera nodded. She wondered how Alex would manage now he was on his own. She looked up at Holly. ‘These outbursts of temper, were they ever violent?’
    ‘The tutor never said.’
    ‘Get back to him and find out.’
    ‘I did wonder . . .’
    ‘Aye?’ Vera made sure her voice wasn’t too encouraging. She didn’t always like folk thinking for themselves.
    ‘We’ve always assumed that both murders were committed by people staying in the Writers’ House, but that’s not necessarily the case, is it? Jack Devanney managed to find his way into the place on the night of the dinner. Ferdinand was murdered in the middle of the afternoon when the doors weren’t locked. And Barton was outside when she was stabbed. I’m not saying that they weren’t killed by a resident, but that perhaps we shouldn’t make that assumption.’
    ‘Quite right, pet.’ Vera narrowed her eyes. ‘And we shouldn’t be afraid to teach our grandmothers to suck eggs, either.’
    Holly flushed and Vera thought she’d been hard on the girl. She’d never liked being told how to do her job. Especially when the person doing the telling had a point. ‘No, really,’ she said, ‘it’s a good point, and one that Joe made earlier. Maybe we’ve focused too much on the residents.’ She looked around the room, spreading blame. ‘I suppose we’ve checked all the CCTV in the area.’
    ‘There’s not much.’ Joe shot a small triumphant glance in Holly’s direction, glad that he’d been there before her. ‘One petrol station on the road towards Seahouses. I’ve checked registration details. Nothing belonging to anyone related to the case.’
    ‘Charlie. What have you been up to?’
    ‘I was over in Carlisle yesterday evening. Doing a bit of research on Winterton. In my own time.’
    Vera threw up her hands in mock horror. ‘He has a night in the pub and he wants a medal! I hope you didn’t drive back last night, Charlie. You know what I think of drunk driving.’
    ‘I stayed at my mate’s.’ Charlie was sulking. ‘On a bloody uncomfortable sofa.’
    ‘What did you come up with?’
    ‘Winterton’s ex-wife’s just got divorced for a second time and has taken up with a toy boy. A solicitor half her age. He practises criminal law, so the team all know him.’
    ‘Winterton’ll be a bit of a laughing stock among his former colleagues again then,’ Vera said. ‘He’s a respectable citizen, a bit of a God-botherer, and his former wife’s making a spectacle of herself. I bet they all love that.’
    Charlie shrugged. ‘I think they just feel sorry for the poor bastard.’
    ‘Did you come up with anything else during your wild night out with the sheep-shaggers?’ Vera knew it was irrational, but she’d never really thought much of Cumbria. Hillsides grazed to buggery by too many sheep, arty tea rooms and too many trippers. Give her the east side of the Pennines any day.
    Charlie shook his head.
    Vera was just about to give her ‘boost the morale of the troops’ speech, to send them out to do great things, when there was a knock at the door. It was a small constable with a Lancastrian accent so broad that Vera had to struggle to understand her.
    ‘Ma’am.’
    ‘What!’
    The woman continued bravely, ‘There’s been a call, Ma’am. About Nina Backworth. The locals have been in, but it sounds as if it could be important.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine
    Nina had expected to feel more at ease once she returned home. More comfortable. Here, she’d thought, it should be possible to distance herself from the nightmare of the Writers’ House. But as soon as she unlocked the door of her flat and picked up the post from the floor, she saw that a change of place would do nothing to calm her. If anything she was more restless and tense. The flat, which she’d bought with a legacy left to her by her grandparents, was usually a refuge from the petty irritations of university life. It was on the first floor of an end Victorian terrace. The rooms had high ceilings and looked out over a cemetery: a green space in the middle of the city. From first seeing it, she’d loved the view over trees and the old grey