The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5)

are you?’ he asked immediately. As if she were a teenage girl out on the town without permission. Vera thought his daughter would have a tough time when she was old enough to think for herself.
    ‘I came to visit Rickard,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’ Maybe. She wasn’t sure she wanted Rickard’s sexuality the subject of canteen comment. She imagined Charlie sniggering and couldn’t stand the idea.
    ‘The break-in at Nina Backworth’s wasn’t a coincidence.’
    Vera listened as he explained about the fruit in the glass bowl, the fact that nothing had been stolen.
    ‘The CSIs haven’t found anything?’
    ‘All clean,’ he said. ‘No fingerprints on the bowl or the table.’
    ‘And nothing stolen?’ She couldn’t see how this could be relevant, how it could relate to the Writers’ House killings.
    ‘Nina claims not.’
    So it’s Nina now, is it? Is this our Joe with ideas above his station?
    The tide had come in since she’d arrived in Craster and, with the wind behind it, the waves were breaking against the harbour wall. The Land Rover was suddenly covered in spray.
    ‘Nina couldn’t have set it up herself?’ she asked suddenly. ‘She’d know about the key in the neighbour’s flat. And the whole scene sounds like something she’d write. A good way to mislead us, if she were involved with the murders.’
    ‘No!’ He sounded horrified. ‘She’s scared. Scared enough to go and stay with that publisher at North Farm for the night.’
    When she switched off the phone Vera sat for a moment. She could go home. Light a fire and watch a few hours of bad television to unwind. There was nothing cosier than Hector’s house with the wind and the rain outside. She could stick some washing in the machine and have a couple of drinks to help her sleep. Rickard’s malt had given her the taste for it.
    But she didn’t take the road inland towards the hills and home. She turned down the coast towards the Writers’ House. In the lane leading to it the path was covered with small branches, already snapped by the wind. At one point she had to drive on the verge to negotiate the debris. There were no lights in the main building, but two of the windows in the cottage – one downstairs and one up – were lit. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, but she saw no silhouette. And there was a light in the chapel. Alex Barton was still rattling around this enormous space on his own. She thought if he hadn’t been mad to start with, he certainly would be now.
    When she got out of the vehicle the wind caught her and she almost lost her balance. Even from this distance the sound of waves on the shore was deafening. There was something exhilarating about being part of the noise and the gale. She ran towards the cottage and knocked on the door. No answer. She pushed it open. The kitchen was as she had remembered it. The rocking chair by the Aga, the small table with its oilcloth cover. No fat tabby cat, though. And no clothes airing. Alex had kept the place tidier than Miranda had done, but there was a dirty plate, some cutlery and a frying pan on the draining board and that seemed out of character. There was no sign of Alex. She opened the door to the stairs and shouted up. He might not have heard the Land Rover over the noise of the wind.
    When there was no reply she climbed the stairs. His place was as clean and impersonal as a room in a hotel. The bed was made. His computer was still switched on and had reverted to standby, a screensaver showing a mixing bowl and floating wooden spoons. Vera pressed a button and Alex’s Facebook page appeared. The photo showed him in his chef’s whites. A list of messages expressed condolence. Vera supposed there was no way of telling whether these were real friends or people he’d met through the Internet. Virtual friends. She’d never been on Facebook before, though she’d caught Holly on it once at work. On Alex’s wall, written two days earlier, was the post: The wicked witch is dead. Had he really disliked his mother, or was this his way of dealing with his grief? A young man playing at being cool? Vera still wasn’t sure.
    Outside the wind was as strong as it had been before. Still no sign of Alex, but she saw his car was parked outside the cottage. He couldn’t be far away on a night like this. From the top of the bank Vera had seen a light in the chapel and she made her way there. It was possible, she supposed, that the violence in the house had