The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

herself into the fiction. What would it have been like? To have this domestic ritual? This comfortable silence? Boring, she decided. It would be bloody boring.
    ‘I spoke to Alex Barton earlier,’ she said.
    ‘How is he?’ They could have been discussing a mutual friend. A neighbour perhaps. Nobody too close or dear to them.
    ‘I don’t know. He seems a strange young man to me. I’m not sure if that’s because his mother has just died or if he was always like that. I don’t like the thought of him in that place on his own. But he claims he’s fine. He’s an adult. I can’t force him to find some company, and I can’t see him being happy away from the house. Seems to me he only ever leaves it to go to the shops.’ She turned slightly in her chair so that she was looking at Rickard. Before pouring the drinks he’d switched on a wall light. Now he stared at the wood-burner and his face was in shadow.
    ‘Some of us function better on our own,’ he said.
    ‘You never fancied marriage?’
    ‘No.’ He paused and seemed entirely lost in thought. She might not have been there. Then he jerked back to the present and realized more was expected. ‘There was somebody I was very fond of at one time,’ he said. ‘It never worked out. Now I’m accustomed to being on my own.’ A gust of wind rattled the sash window. He got slowly to his feet and drew the curtains.
    ‘Alex told me you turned down their offer to tutor at the Writers’ House at first. You changed your mind at the last minute.’
    ‘An old man’s prerogative. But we’ve discussed this already, Inspector. I was intrigued when I saw that Joanna Tobin would be one of the students.’
    ‘So it had nothing to do with Paul Rutherford?’
    He turned to face her. ‘What are you saying, Inspector? We’re both too old for games. What do you really want to know?’
    ‘Joanna tried a bit of blackmail,’ Vera said. ‘At least your friend Rutherford called it blackmail. She said she was making a claim on what she was owed. I’m still not sure what that was about. Did he ask you to have a word with her? Scare her off maybe.’
    For a moment Rickard didn’t answer. He sat facing the stove, his chin on his chest. Good God, she thought. Perhaps he’s dead. He’s had a stroke or a heart attack. What do I do now? ‘Mr Rickard?’
    He turned slowly to face her. She thought his face was like a tortoise’s. Impassive and grey. He gave nothing away.
    ‘What are you suggesting? That I scared Joanna away by killing two strangers?’ His voice dry, laced with sarcasm.
    ‘I’m not suggesting anything! I’m asking if you went to the Writers’ House because Rutherford asked you to. I need to clear the decks here and work out what’s really important. There’s too much stuff getting in the way.’
    He was staring into the stove again and she thought he might refuse to answer, but after a moment he started speaking.
    ‘Yes, I came to the Writers’ House because Paul asked me to. Joanna had contacted him at work and demanded money. He said she was crazy again. He was worried about what might come out, if she decided to go to the press with an election only months away. You’re up in Northumberland anyway. It’ll only be for a few days. See what’s happening. What’s rattling her cage after all this time. ’
    ‘What I don’t understand,’ Vera said, ‘is why you agreed. You’ve retired. You hate meeting readers, all the marketing bollocks. Don’t you? You’ve just said that’s why you bought this place.’
    He nodded his tortoise head. ‘As you say, I hate the bollocks.’
    ‘So why didn’t you tell Rutherford to deal with his own shit?’ Vera wondered why she felt the need to be crude. It wasn’t like her. She could swear like a trooper in her own home, but was professional enough when it came to work. Did she hope the coarse language would shake Rickard from his slow and solid resistance to her questions?
    He paused for a beat and then he started talking. He didn’t look at her and the words came with difficulty. She saw he had never told anyone this before and he wanted to be precise, to describe the situation accurately. Vera kept her mouth shut and listened.
    ‘Paul Rutherford is the closest thing to a son I ever had.’ He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them. ‘I loved his father. Not as a friend. Or at least as a friend, but as much, much more than that too. He was my passion. Do you understand what I’m saying,