The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)
Women , it was called. I thought it was appropriate.’
Holly was still grinning when he came back with the novel. ‘I think she pinched it from Miranda’s cottage. The publisher should be listed on the title page.’ He opened the book. ‘ Rutherford. Not much use to you, if you’re trying to find out if Miranda has been trying to sell a new book. Giles Rickard told the boss that Rutherford Press got taken over by a multinational years ago.’ He turned to Holly to check that she was listening. She hated being told what to do. ‘Though I suppose some of the same staff might still be there. Worth a punt.’
He closed the book and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He wondered if this was another coincidence. Rutherford, who ran the company that published Miranda’s novels, had been Joanna Tobin’s father-in-law. He wondered too if Vera had known the name of the publisher all the time, and had been waiting to see how long it would take Holly to track it down. Nah, he thought. Not even Vera would be that petty.
‘Where are you off to with that book?’ He should have realized Holly was so sharp she’d notice what he was up to.
‘I’m going to read it,’ he said. ‘See if there’s anything in it about apricots.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Further north the weather changed suddenly; the sun disappeared and there was a mountain of cloud to the east. A brisk northerly breeze blew against the Land Rover and found its way through the gaps in the windows. Winter had come early. Vera hadn’t warned Giles Rickard that she was coming, but he didn’t seem surprised to see her when she knocked at his door. His holiday cottage was in Craster and looked out over the harbour. There was a narrow front garden, everything brown and salt-blown. The first splashes of rain.
‘My Dad used to come here every winter,’ she said, looking down at the exposed sand. ‘To get Mediterranean gull for the year. There’s one that turns up in the autumn, regular as clockwork.’
He didn’t respond.
‘You’re not a birdwatcher then? Aye, well, it’s not much of a hobby and I expect your writing has taken up most of your time. They’re bonny birds, mind, Med gulls. Get someone to point it out to you if you get a chance.’ She followed him into the house.
The cottage was small and unpretentious. The front door led straight into a living room with a wood-burning stove, a table under the window and a couple of armchairs. She looked round, making a show of it. ‘No computer?’
‘I don’t write any more, Inspector. I’ve retired.’
‘How does that work then? You just wake up one day and decide you’re not going to tell any more stories.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly how it happens.’
‘What do you do here all day?’ She was genuinely interested. She and Rickard had a lot in common. No family. Few friends, it seemed. She might learn something from him that would help her come to terms with her own retirement.
‘I read,’ he said. ‘I think. I remember.’
‘Aye, well, it’s your memory I’m interested in.’
‘I really don’t think I can help you further, Inspector. I’ve told you everything I know.’ His voice was firm. ‘I bought this place so that I’d be undisturbed. In London there are always people who expect me to be pleased to talk to them: journalists, students. I’d thought that would end when I stopped writing, but it seems not to have been the case. This is where I escape from unwanted conversation.’
‘Indulge me,’ she said. ‘I’ve come a long way.’ She sat in one of the armchairs, wedged herself in, making it clear she was there for the long haul.
He looked at her and decided that further argument was futile. He opened the door of the stove and pushed in a log. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?’
‘Eh, pet, I thought you’d never ask. Whisky with a dash of water. Unless you’ve got a single malt, and then I’ll take it neat. Just a small one. I’ll be driving.’
He poured whisky for them both. No water. She saw that his hand was still and didn’t tremble. His movements seemed stronger than they had in the Writers’ House. Perhaps he felt happier on home territory. He pulled a small table between them and set the drinks on it, then took the other armchair. It came to Vera that anyone looking in from the outside would see them as a couple. Happily married for decades, sharing a drink before dinner in front of the stove. For a moment she imagined
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