The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

after all. But when she looked, nobody was there.
    She walked so quickly then, almost running for the last hundred yards, that when she got inside she felt suddenly very warm. The heating had come on while she was out. She locked her door, glad that she lived on the first floor. There was no danger of an intruder climbing in through the window.
    I never used to think like that. I never used to worry. Is that what violent death does to the people left behind? It makes us victims too, of our own anxiety.
    She ran a bath and lay there, running over her meeting with Chrissie. How robust she seemed! If she’d been at the Writers’ House over the past week, would she be imagining footsteps in the dark? Nina thought probably not. She wondered if Chrissie would take on Joanna and Lenny as North Farm writers and what she, Nina, would make of it if that happened. In one sense they’d become her competition. She thought suddenly that she never wanted to see either of them again. Lenny had already sent her his whole novel as an email attachment: I know it’s a cheek, but would you mind having a look and telling me what you think? She hadn’t opened the attachment or sent a reply. She wished them both well as writers, but she didn’t want anything to remind her of the past week.
    When she went to bed she switched on the radio beside it. It took her a long time to fall asleep and she listened to the BBC World Service talking about floods in Pakistan, a riot in the streets in Rio, an earthquake in Mexico. Other tragedies that made the ones close to home less enormous. But still important to her because she’d met the people involved. She’d known their names. And she’d disliked them.
    She woke suddenly and still the radio was murmuring in her ear. She knew it was the middle of the night, reached out and switched it off. Silence. Then footsteps in the living room next door. I’m imagining it. She remembered waking suddenly in the Writer’s House and the images of blood and death that had terrified her then. That was nothing, and so is this. I’m being ridiculous. It was all a bad dream.
    It had always been impossible to move quietly about her flat. The floorboards creaked. The front door jammed and had to be slammed shut. It occurred to her now that the banging front door must have woken her. If I lie still, they’ll take what they want and go away. But the footsteps moved out of the living room and towards her bedroom. She found herself screaming. Then, mingling with her screams, came the sound of a siren, a police car or an ambulance racing down the street outside. The footsteps pounded down the stairs, the front door slammed shut and there was silence again.
    Nina climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Had a neighbour seen the break-in and called the police? She ran into the living room and looked out of the window. But the street was quiet. The arrival of the emergency vehicle had been coincidental. Luck. And there was no sign of the intruder. Further down the street there was the sound of an engine starting.
    She tried to breathe more calmly. Perhaps, after all, the incident had been a nightmare, the result of the violence she’d experienced second-hand. She’d make herself some camomile tea and try to sleep. She switched on the light to make sure that there was no sign of a break-in. The room was tidy. It seemed that nothing had been moved or taken. But on the middle of the table sat a crystal bowl full of ripe apricots.

Chapter Thirty
    Vera sent Joe Ashworth to deal with the incident at Nina Backworth’s flat. The rest of them had been excited by the news of the break-in. The investigation had achieved so little that they were glad of anything that might move it on.
    ‘Too much of a coincidence surely, Ma’am, if it isn’t related to the Writers’ House case.’ Holly, bright-eyed, was ready to leave immediately.
    But Vera seemed preoccupied with some project of her own. Joe thought she’d had an idea during the team briefing, had made some connection or seen something they’d missed. Occasionally she had these sudden flashes of inspiration; usually they came to nothing, but sometimes they were important and developed the case in an interesting way. Now she flapped her hands to send him on his way.
    ‘Use your judgement. You’ll know if it’s just a coincidence – some yob trying his luck – or if it’s related to our investigation. Probably nothing. The CSIs have already been in.