by Ann Cleeves
‘You write well,’ he’d said when they’d first met in the house, so she’d assumed that he must have got hold of one of her recent books, and that in itself had endeared him to her. And perhaps Chrissie would persuade him to give a blurb for the next title. ‘You’ll see, my dear, it could happen for you too. But success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. You give up a good deal.’ She’d wondered what a man like him could have to give up. He’d never married, had no family. Privacy perhaps. Or leisure. But surely he could turn down the speaking engagements and the book tours. Why, for instance, had he agreed to spend this week at the Writers’ House? It couldn’t be that he needed the money.
Now he waved at her across the room. Miranda, still speaking to him, seemed not to notice. Nina made herself camomile tea and went to join them.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the evening?’ Nina’s question was directed at Miranda. In her room she’d looked at the programme. Ferdinand had been scheduled to lecture on the editorial process in the time before dinner.
Miranda showed no sign of her earlier distress. The tears had been wiped away and fresh make-up applied. ‘We had a good idea about that. I’ve asked Mark if he’d give us a talk on the crime scene and the role of the CSIs. It would fit in nicely with the writing exercise you set today. What do you think?’
Nina paused. ‘I do wonder if a lecture on true crime might be a bit close to home. Rather lacking in taste?’
‘We’re all thinking about poor Tony’s murder,’ Miranda said, ‘even if we’re too tactful to discuss it. I don’t suppose a lecture on the subject will upset anyone, especially as poor Joanna was something of a stranger in our midst. We seem to have very thick skins here.’
Nina saw that was true. The only person who’d shown genuine emotion at Ferdinand’s death had been Miranda herself, and it seemed she could switch that on and off at will. She was astonished that Mark Winterton had agreed to speak to them. Perhaps Miranda had bullied him into it, because he’d always seemed a shy and retiring man.
His lecture, however, was surprisingly entertaining, and he seemed to come to life talking about his work. He began by explaining the process of securing a crime scene. The students were more attentive than Nina had seen them – certainly more focused than when she’d been speaking on literary matters – and she found herself fascinated too. What was it about the ex-policeman’s talk that intrigued and even titillated? Why this bizarre interest in the process of managing the crime scene? Because, like crime fiction, it gave violent death a shape and a narrative? It turned an inexplicable horror into a process, into people’s work.
Winterton’s voice was pleasant and light. ‘The first officer called to a crime is responsible for securing the scene,’ he said. ‘Even if he’s a new constable and a senior officer turns up, his duty is to restrict access until the CSIs give permission. It wasn’t always like that! One of the first murders I investigated, the chief constable turned up with half a dozen friends – all in evening jackets and dicky-bow ties. They’d been at some smart do, and gawping at a poor woman who’d been battered to death by her husband provided the after-dinner entertainment.’ He paused. ‘And some officers call those the good old days.’
Lenny Thomas stuck up his hand. ‘What do you think of the way the police are handling Tony Ferdinand’s murder?’
Winterton gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, I’m not prepared to comment on a colleague’s work. If you’re personally involved, even as a witness, you have a very different perspective on an investigation.’ He glanced to the back of the room.
Turning, Nina saw that Vera Stanhope had returned and was standing there next to her goodlooking young sergeant. Ashworth gave the inspector a wry grin and she flapped her hand at him, a gesture that said: Don’t you have a go at me too. So perhaps Inspector Stanhope had a tendency to become personally involved in her cases. Perhaps her perspective on the investigation was flawed. The rest of the audience realized the detectives were there and fell silent as if they were expecting an announcement from Vera – news perhaps that Joanna had been charged and that the investigation was officially over. But Vera only said, ‘Don’t mind us, folks! We’re just here to pick up a few tips.’
The interruption and the arrival of Vera Stanhope and Joe Ashworth seemed to put Winterton off his stride. He continued to lecture, but in a dry and formal way as if he were talking to a group of young trainees, emphasizing the need to follow procedure. It was about bagging evidence and taking photographs. All interesting enough, but without the human element that had captured their interest previously. It seemed to Nina that the appearance of the detectives had reminded him of a real death – the death of someone they’d all known – and, even if the victim hadn’t been particularly well liked, he no longer considered murder a fit subject for entertainment.
Yet it was fictional murder that had captured her imagination. She now had her central character and the germ of an idea, which was both simple and audacious. What fun if I can pull this off!
While all around her the residents were asking Mark Winterton questions about fingerprints and DNA, in her mind Nina was out on the terrace in an October dusk, watching a murderer kill a woman who was sitting on a white wrought-iron chair.
Chapter Twelve
Vera’s meeting with Ron Mason, the superintendent, had gone surprisingly well. She thought she couldn’t have handled it better. Her boss was a small man, given to fits of irritability, but she’d caught him on a good day. Perhaps he was so unused to Vera consulting him about anything that she’d flattered him by appearing to ask for his advice. Certainly he had no idea that he was being manipulated.
‘So the prime suspect is a neighbour of yours?’ He leaned forward across the table. He’d once had red hair and, although it was grey now, his eyebrows were still the colour of powdered cinnamon and there were freckles the same colour all over his forehead. Vera had never noticed that before. She thought that spending time with all these writers was turning her brain, making her look at things in a different way.
‘It certainly seemed like that at first, though we don’t have enough to charge her.’ Vera explained about the knife Joanna had been carrying not matching the wounds on Ferdinand’s body.
‘Complicated then.’
‘I wondered if you’d like to take over as senior officer in charge of the inquiry,’ Vera said. ‘In view of what might be considered a conflict of interest.’ Mason was a competent administrator, but hadn’t taken a personal interest in a major crime investigation for years. Word in the canteen had it that he’d lost his nerve.
‘No need for that,’ Mason said quickly. ‘A rural police area like this, we’re always going to bump up against the odd acquaintance.’ He paused. ‘I take it that’s all you are, acquaintances?’
‘I don’t really move in arty circles,’ Vera said, encouraging him to smile at the thought. ‘Like I said, Joanna Tobin and Jack Devanney are just neighbours.’
And that was all it had taken for Mason to confirm her place in the investigation. At the end of the interview he stood up and shook her hand. ‘Thanks for keeping me informed,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
* * *
Back in the Writers’ House, Vera thought they’d need it. It seemed that many of the people there with the opportunity to commit the murder had disliked Tony Ferdinand, but she had no sense yet of why anyone should choose this particular time and place to do it. She arrived just as Winterton’s lecture had started. She could have told them her own stories about balls-ups at crime scenes, and had been tempted to put in her two penn’orth, but had seen that would hardly be professional. When the talk was over and the residents were preparing for dinner she took Ashworth across the yard and into the chapel.
‘What did you make of Winterton, then?’
‘He had opportunity,’ Joe said. ‘I don’t see how he could have motive. He’s never moved in literary circles. He only retired from the job twelve months ago.’
‘What�
�s he doing here then? Police pension is better than it was, but you’d not think he’d have the spare cash for this sort of jaunt. Have you seen the fees? Or did he get one of those bursaries?’ Vera wondered briefly what she’d do when she retired. She saw herself in Hector’s house, too fat and unfit to get out, watching daytime telly and drinking beer for breakfast. Then the hippy-dippy neighbours would be her only link to the outside world. Maybe after all she had more of a vested interest in Joanna’s innocence than anyone realized.
‘No, he applied for a bursary, but he didn’t get one. I get the impression his writing’s not up to much.’
‘So maybe he had a reason for killing Tony Ferdinand and he came here specially to do it. He used the course as a cover.’
‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘And that’s a piggy I can see floating past the window.’
Vera smiled. She liked it when Joe stood up to her, as long as he didn’t do it too often. ‘He’d have the knowledge about how an investigation works. He’d understand enough to pull the stunt with the knives.’
‘But he wouldn’t have got it wrong, would he?’ Joe said. ‘He’d have made sure the right knife was in Joanna’s possession.’
‘So he would.’ Vera was feeling hungry now, but she didn’t want to eat her dinner in front of a party of suspects. Let Mark Winterton play the performing cop for them.
‘I was thinking Winterton might be useful,’ Joe said. ‘An insider. They’ll say things to him that they wouldn’t say to us.’
‘He’s a suspect,’ Vera said sharply. ‘A witness, at the very least. Sometimes you have to keep your distance.’ She saw it was on the tip of Joe’s tongue to make some comment about her own lack of objectivity. Instead he looked at his watch.
‘I should get home. If I don’t see the kids before they go to bed tonight, they’ll forget what I look like.’
‘I was going to talk to Joanna Tobin,’ she said. ‘Now that she’s had a while to think about things and we know what questions we want to ask. I can’t do that on my own. But no problem, of course. Your family has to come first, Joe, I understand that. I’ll ask Holly if she can come along. She could do with the practice. I might get her to take the lead. What do you think?’ Vera smiled sweetly. Joe Ashworth would know exactly what she was playing at. There was no love lost between Holly and Joe, and he wouldn’t want the bright young lass to take credit for any information gained in the interview. Vera lifted up the canvas shopping bag that did as a briefcase, a sign that she needed a decision.
‘The wife’ll kill me.’
‘Like I said, pet, no pressure. Holly could use the experience. You get an early night.’ But she knew now that she had him hooked.
‘I’ll do it.’
Vera beamed. ‘Champion,’ she said. ‘There’s a casserole I made a couple of days ago when I was feeling domestic. I get the urge sometimes, but it soon passes. We’ll have a bite to eat before we talk to the dippy hippies, shall we? I can’t concentrate when I’ve got an empty stomach.’
‘And you’ll let me lead the interview?’
‘Of course, bonny lad. It’s only right. We can’t compromise the inquiry.’
* * *
The house was cold and Vera put a match to the fire. From the kitchen, heating up the chicken casserole and sticking a couple of jacket potatoes in the microwave, she heard Ashworth grovelling to his wife.
‘Yeah, I know I promised, but this is something I can’t get out of.’
They ate sitting by the fire with plates on their knees.
‘Is there anything I should know,’ Ashworth said. ‘Before we go in there?’
‘I wouldn’t want to influence you.’ And that was true enough, Vera thought. She’d be glad of Joe’s take on the pair. He disapproved of them instinctively, just because of their clothes and the way they looked, the fact that they didn’t have a real job or the whole 2.4 kids thing. Vera wasn’t sure of the way her sergeant voted, but she knew that by temperament he was conservative. He’d be sceptical about the pair and wouldn’t be taken in by the romance of their relationship. That was just what Vera needed.
They saw the couple before they realized Vera and Joe were there. Again the lights had been switched on, but the curtains – if there were any at the Myers Farm kitchen window – hadn’t been drawn. Jack and Joanna were sitting at the table. Supper plates were piled on the draining board. Jack was wearing thick woollen socks. His feet were stretched towards the ancient Rayburn and he drank beer from a bottle. The pose suggested complete exhaustion, and Vera thought he couldn’t have slept much even after Joanna’s release from custody. Joanna was sitting at an old-fashioned sewing machine, turning the handle with her right hand and guiding the fabric under the dipping needle with the other.
‘My nana used to have one of those Singers,’ Joe Ashworth said. He sounded wistful. Perhaps he thought his wife should spend her time sewing clothes for the kids instead of making a life of her own.
‘No time for nostalgia, lad.’ Vera knocked sharply at the door and marched in without waiting for a reply. Jack jumped to his feet. It was almost as if they’d woken him from a deep sleep. Joanna just looked up from the sewing.
‘What is it, Vera? Have you come to arrest me?’ The question was amused and impassive, as if the answer would have been of purely academic interest.
‘Nothing to make a joke about.’ Vera took a seat at the end of the table, leaving the one opposite the woman free for Joe. ‘We’ve just got a few questions.’
‘What will you have?’ Jack said. ‘Beer? Coffee?’ Now he was on his feet, it seemed he couldn’t keep still. He bounced towards the dresser on the balls of his feet, shook the stiffness out of his arms and shoulders.
‘This isn’t a social call.’ Vera looked at him. ‘Maybe there’s something you could be getting on with. We could do with some privacy.’
‘I’m not sure.’ He glared at them. ‘I think I should stay. You hear all sorts of things about the police. You might need a witness.’
‘This is Vera, Jack!’ Joanna threw back her head and laughed. ‘She’s not going to fit me up.’
He seemed about to respond, but glowered at the detectives and walked out without a word. They all watched him leave the room. After Jack’s bluster, the place seemed very quiet and calm, like a house after all the kids have been put to bed. Eventually they heard his boots cross the yard as he made his way to the barn.
‘Someone’s trying to fit you up,’ Joe Ashworth said. ‘That’s how it seems at least.’
Oh yes! Vera said to herself. Good opening, Joey-boy. Nice way in!
‘What do you mean?’ Joanna was sitting very upright in her chair.
‘The note, apparently from Ferdinand. If it wasn’t from him, perhaps the killer wanted you at the murder scene. What did you do with it, by the way? The note, I mean.’ The question was thrown in as an afterthought, although it was what he’d wanted to know from the start.
‘I’m not sure. I have looked for it. I thought perhaps you’d be able to test the handwriting, though only the initials were written. The rest was done on the computer and printed out.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’ Joe said. ‘A note as short as that, why not just scribble it on a bit of paper? Why not speak to you, if it comes to that? Ferdinand must have seen you at lunch. He could have told you whatever he wanted then.’
‘Everything about that place was weird,’ Joanna said. ‘And I did wonder if the note was a ruse and Ferdinand just wanted to get me into his room on our own. But while there was a chance he had information about a publisher I decided to play along with it.’ She paused and returned to Joe’s initial question. ‘I rather think I must have chucked the thing into the basket by the fire in the drawing room as soon as I got it. I put all my waste paper in there. They use it to lay the grate every evening.’
‘So it’s probably burned?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It probably is. And if that’s the case, there’s no proof I received it at all.’ Th
e last words were thrown towards Ashworth like a challenge: I dare you to call me a liar!
Ashworth looked at her for a moment and then changed the subject. ‘Had you met anyone at the Writers’ House before?’
Sitting at the end of the table, Vera thought this was another good question.
This time Joanna paused before answering. ‘It’s possible.’
‘You don’t seem very sure,’ Ashworth said.
‘That’s because I’m not.’ Joanna frowned. ‘Look, it’s probably not relevant to Ferdinand’s death. I don’t see how it can be.’
‘But…’
‘But I thought I recognized one of the tutors. An old guy. Giles Rickard. The name was familiar when I got the list of participants.’
‘He’s a writer,’ Ashworth said. ‘They tell me he’s famous. Maybe you’ve read one of his books.’ The tone was sceptical: Don’t play games with me, lady.
‘I’m trying to be honest here, Sergeant.’ Joanna was holding her temper, but only just. ‘I’m telling you how it is. Maybe I only recognized the name because I’d seen it on a bookshelf somewhere, but I don’t think so. And then when I saw him on the first night of the course, I was convinced I’d met him before. Even before I was told who he was. It was a long time ago and he’d changed, got bigger, softer. Old. But the features were the same. I’ve got a good visual memory.’
‘Where do you know him from?’ Vera asked the question. Ashworth frowned at the interruption, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d become involved in the conversation. She looked at Joe, a sort of apology, before turning back to Joanna to wait for the answer.
‘He was a friend of my ex-husband’s,’ Joanna said. ‘If it’s the man I believe him to be, that’s how I know him.’