The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

gravestones. She liked watching the elderly women laying flowers. Now the flat seemed rather lonely. She switched on the radio and the inane lunchtime phone-in that usually drove her to distraction at least provided some background conversation.
    She’d stopped at the supermarket on her way home and emptied the bag into the fridge and the larder. Sitting with a sandwich and a glass of juice, she switched on her laptop to check her emails. There’d been no Wi-Fi at the Writers’ House. A deliberate decision, Miranda had said. She didn’t want her students distracted. There was nothing exciting to read: a load of spam and a couple of student assignments. Lenny Thomas had already sent his novel to her as an email attachment. The only message of any interest was from her editor Chrissie, suggesting that they should arrange a meeting to discuss marketing of the new book.
    On impulse Nina got out her phone and rang the woman. ‘I don’t suppose you’re free this afternoon. I’m back at the university tomorrow and it might be tricky then to get away.’
    ‘Ooh, yes, do come over. As soon as you like. I’ve got a pile of admin, but nothing that won’t wait.’
    Nina could hear the woman’s excitement. It was nothing to do with the novel, Nina thought. It was murder. It brought out the voyeur in everyone.
    She’d liked Chrissie as soon as she’d met her at the interview for the MA. There was nothing pretentious about her, despite the classy degree and the obvious intelligence. She had a passion for books that was basic and visceral. A hunger for reading. Not for writing, though. She completed her MA, but wasn’t tempted to do further research. ‘There are enough bad writers out there,’ she’d said to Nina when she’d pitched the idea of forming her own publishing house. ‘The world doesn’t need another one. I’d rather spend my time and my energy promoting the good ones. Like you.’
    The formation of North Farm Press had started a partnership that had worked well for them both. Nina felt cherished, and that gave her the confidence to experiment in her work. Chrissie had begun to make a name for herself. And even a little money.
    Chrissie came out of the office to greet Nina as soon as she came into the yard.
    ‘What a nightmare!’ she said. ‘You must have been terrified. I would have been: in that creepy house with a killer on the loose.’
    But Nina thought that Chrissie wouldn’t have been terrified at all. She was the sort of Englishwoman who was scared of nothing. You could imagine her as an indomitable missionary making her way across Africa with only stout boots, a Bible and an umbrella to protect her.
    And as if she was reading Nina’s thoughts Chrissie said, ‘I do feel a bit cheated, though. Driving away from the place just as the excitement was about to start . . .’
    ‘It’s hard to believe that it really happened,’ Nina said. ‘It seems now like a bit of theatre. Something from a Revenge Tragedy. Webster. All that blood.’
    ‘Brilliant timing, though!’ Chrissie couldn’t keep her exuberance in check. ‘With the new book out, I mean. I’ve sorted out a few interviews with the national press. And Radio Newcastle, of course.’ She must have realized she sounded callous and frowned. ‘That is all right? I don’t think Miranda would have minded. She could be pushy enough when she wanted.’
    Nina, following Chrissie into the office, didn’t answer directly. She sat on the small red sofa that stood against one wall.
    ‘Did Miranda ever approach you about publishing her. The police asked me if she was still writing. It’s only just occurred to me that you might know that better than me.’
    ‘No,’ Chrissie said absent-mindedly. She was scrabbling through the papers on her desk looking for the list of interviews she’d arranged for Nina. ‘Shame, really. She’d be selling like hot cakes now.’
    They talked for a while about publicity. ‘There’s a woman from The Times in Scotland. They won’t read it in London, I’m afraid, but it’ll be on their website for the world to read. Seems lovely, and she’s prepared to come down from Edinburgh. And how do you fancy a piece on Woman’s Hour ?’
    Nina thought that a month ago she’d have gone out to buy champagne to celebrate all this attention. Now it seemed as if she was profiting from two people’s deaths. ‘I suppose they all want to talk about the murders in the Writers’ House?’
    ‘Of course they do,