The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

darling!’ Sometimes Chrissie affected an arty voice just for show. ‘But can you blame them? You were talking about crime fiction, and suddenly two people die in dramatic and horrible circumstances. It’s too delicious for words.’ She was perched on her desk and leaned forward. ‘You will do it, won’t you, Nina? It’s not as if you actually liked either of them as individuals, is it? And really this could be the breakthrough you need. It’s just a pity we’re not promoting a crime novel.’
    ‘I started writing a crime short story,’ Nina said. ‘While I was there . . .’
    ‘Did you? Is it finished?’
    ‘It’s not ready to show. And it’s only a short piece.’
    ‘But still, one of the more intelligent women’s magazines might take it. In fact I know just the person to talk to.’ Chrissie was already flicking through her address book looking for a phone number. Nina thought she’d never seen her so excited.
    ‘A couple of the other students were very impressive,’ she said, hoping to create a distraction. She wasn’t sure she wanted Chrissie selling her story to a magazine. The writing was good, but surely it was too close to reality to turn into entertainment. Certainly she didn’t want to hear the publisher make the pitch. ‘You might want to look at their work before they’re approached by one of the larger publishers.’
    That stopped Chrissie in her tracks. ‘Tell me about them.’
    ‘One’s called Joanna Tobin. She and her partner run a smallholding in the wilds. Hers is a sort of woman-in-jeopardy story. The other is a guy called Lenny Thomas. He used to work on the open-cast until his back gave up. He spent six months in prison, so he knows what he’s talking about.’
    And that was when Chrissie came up with her idea for a collection of the work from the course, but somehow making it sound as if the brainwave had been Nina’s. ‘Of course! I see just how it would work. A sampler to show the sort of writing you were doing.’ And a few seconds later she dropped the bombshell that she’d been thinking of finding a way to keep the Writers’ House going.
    ‘Inspector Stanhope will never wear it,’ Nina said.
    ‘I’ll ask her, of course.’ Chrissie looked at her watch. ‘In fact I’ll ask her very soon. She’ll be here in a quarter of an hour. She phoned up and made an appointment. Though I’m not sure how she thinks I can help her. I wasn’t even there.’
    Nina thought the last thing she needed was to bump into Inspector Stanhope again so soon. If it had been the sergeant, she might have hung around. She still hadn’t thanked him for allowing her to leave the Writers’ House that morning, and she would have been glad to see him. She said goodbye to Chrissie and drove away.
    That night she persuaded a friend to go out for dinner with her. He worked at the university and harboured, Nina knew, hopes that one day they might be more than friends. She found him sweet, but ineffectual, and despised herself for using him when she was desperate for a companion. They had a pleasant Italian meal together, in a small restaurant not far from her flat. He was sympathetic about her ordeal and allowed her to talk about it all evening. They shared a bottle of wine.
    Afterwards he offered to walk her home, but he’d taken her hand over the table and told her to phone him at any time, that he was always there for her, so she knew there would be an awkwardness on her doorstep when he fumbled to kiss her. She even thought she might feel so lonely that she’d invite him inside and sleep with him. That would lead to horrible complications. So she squeezed his hands and thanked him and said she’d be fine. It was only half a mile, after all.
    ‘You do understand, don’t you, Ian, why I need to be alone tonight?’
    He nodded gravely and said that of course he did. Though that was ludicrous, because if he’d been anyone else, being alone would have been the last thing she’d have wanted.
    She left him outside the restaurant and walked off briskly, suspecting that he’d be watching her at least until she reached the corner. It was freezing again and her breath came in white clouds. She put her hands in her coat pockets. It was only eight o’clock, but the cold seemed to have kept people indoors. Away from the main street the roads were empty. All the curtains were closed. She thought she heard footsteps behind her. Ian perhaps, risking her displeasure by playing the gentleman