Vera looked at her. ‘But you believe that Joanna Tobin killed the professor?’
‘Of course!’ Then, when there was no response from Vera, her voice became uncertain. ‘That’s what we were told. That’s what I assumed.’
Joe watched and found he was holding his breath. Sometimes, when she was angry, Vera let her mouth run ahead of her brain. And Joe knew that the assumption that Joanna was a murderer would make her very angry. Don’t let her mention the knives, he thought. Don’t let her give away more than she needs.
Vera looked across at him and her face twitched into what might have been a wink. It was as if she’d known what he was thinking and was saying: Give me credit for a bit of sense, lad!
‘Joanna Tobin is helping the police with our enquiries,’ she said blandly, challenging them to ask more questions. ‘She hasn’t been formally charged, and our investigation continues.’ She took a sip from the coffee cup in front of her, though by now, Joe thought, the drink would be cold. Vera had better timing than a stand-up comedian and knew the importance of a pause. ‘I understand that the writing course is planned to run for two more days. I see no reason why this arrangement should be changed. My colleagues and I will need to talk to you individually, and we’ll begin that process this evening. Our officers will remain here overnight to provide protection and to prevent any intrusion from the press.’ She paused again and swept her eyes around the room. ‘And to stop anyone from running away.’ She looked around the room once more. ‘I assume all the course members are still here.’
‘We had a visiting tutor this morning,’ Miranda Barton said. ‘Chrissie Kerr, who owns and runs North Farm, a small literary press based in the county.’
‘When did she leave?’
The question was directed to the whole room, but again Miranda answered. ‘After lunch. I saw her drive away. And Tony was still very much alive at that point, so I don’t think she’ll be much of a witness for you.’
‘Excuse me!’ This was Nina Backworth again, on her feet, scarcely able to contain herself. Joe thought she’d make a decent defence lawyer. ‘Are you saying that you intend to keep us as prisoners in this house while you carry out your investigation?’
‘Of course not, Ms Backworth.’ Vera gave a chuckle. ‘The comment just now was one of my little jokes. Certainly you’re free to leave, but please tell my officers if that’s your intention. You’re witnesses to a murder, after all.’
Chapter Eight
The drawing room had a huge inglenook fireplace and an ornate wrought-iron basket where logs burned. It seemed to Vera that all the heat went up the chimney and the fire was just for show. Typical of this place. All show and no substance. And just like these people, who were acting their hearts out in an attempt to persuade her that they were sophisticated, intelligent and entirely blameless in the matter of Tony Ferdinand’s death.
She and Joe moved around them, taking contact details and plotting a timeline for their activities, from the coffee served after lunch to the time when Ferdinand had last been seen alive. She doubted Keating would give her a more accurate time of death than the victim’s leaving the meal and the discovery of his body. Some of the Writers’ House residents could be ruled out of the murder immediately. They were in the company of others for all but a few minutes during that period. She wondered what Joe made of these loud, showy people, who reminded her of exotic birds, all brightly coloured plumage and irritating squawk, caged in a luxurious aviary. When he’d first started working for her he’d been anxious in the presence of the articulate middle classes. He was more confident now. She’d given that to him, at least.
Upstairs, a team was searching bedrooms. Not Ferdinand’s. She’d do that herself, once the CSIs had been in. God knows how Joe had pulled in the officers so quickly. With the promise of overtime, which she’d have to pay for from her budget? None of the residents had objected to the search, but then Vera didn’t expect the knife or any bloody clothing to be found. Hours had been wasted, while they’d assumed Joanna to be the murderer. Anything incriminating would surely have been disposed of. There was an acre of garden, thick undergrowth, dense shrubs. But now it was dark and the search there would have to wait for the morning.
When the timeline was complete she looked at the clock. Gone eleven. Not the time to begin individual interviews; Nina Backworth would be on her feet again, talking about police harassment. Vera needed to get in touch with Holly and Charlie and she supposed she should get some sleep herself. She stood up and stretched and caught Joe’s eye.
‘Thanks for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all we need for tonight. No doubt I’ll see you at some point tomorrow.’
Outside, the hearse had arrived to take Ferdinand to the mortuary. The cold air hit her and made her feel suddenly awake and alive. At this point she felt she could go on all night, and for most of the next day.
‘Do we know when Keating plans to do the postmortem?’
‘Not until the morning. Around ten.’ Joe Ashworth did look tired. Nearly half her age, but he couldn’t match her for energy. Don’t be smug, Vera pet. That’s all down to genetics. Hector was still climbing trees at seventy, stealing birds’ eggs.
‘Team briefing at eight-thirty then,’ she said. ‘We’ll come back here after the post-mortem. Lull the bastards into a sense of security by giving them the morning off.’ She grinned at him. ‘Get yourself home, man. It’s your birthday. Your lass will be waiting for you, all frilly knickers and fishnet stockings. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Back inside, the house seemed quiet. In Ferdinand’s room she found Billy Wainwright; she pulled on the paper suit and boots that he threw to her, and joined him.
‘No signs of violence or disturbance in here,’ he said. ‘I was just off home.’
‘Hang on for a few minutes, will you, Billy, while I just have a quick look at the man’s things.’
He shrugged to show that he wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t about to make a fuss. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, despite the sign on the door saying smoking wasn’t allowed. That, and some sort of fancy aftershave. The clothes in the wardrobe felt expensive to her – the shirts were heavy cotton and the jerseys cashmere. She looked at the labels and recognized some of the designer names. She hadn’t thought university lecturers were so well paid.
On the desk under the window there was a black ring binder and a diary. Again she turned to Wainwright. ‘Have you finished with these? Can I take them with me?’
He nodded, and it seemed to Vera suddenly that the man was exhausted, too tired even to speak. Perhaps the effort of lying to his wife, of keeping up with his bonny young lovers, was finally catching up with him.
She got Wainwright to drive her up the lane to her Land Rover. The internal light had never worked, but there was a torch in the glove compartment for emergencies, and she punched numbers into her phone. There was no reply from Charlie, which was only to be expected. He could be an idle bastard, Charlie, though for some jobs – the meticulous searching through a suspect’s background, for example – there was nobody to match him. Most likely now he’d be in his bed. Or a lock-in at his local pub, his phone switched off.
Holly did answer, and Vera could have predicted that too. Holly was young and fiercely ambitious. A good detective, but not as good as she thought she was. Sometimes Vera took it upon herself to remind her DC of that fact.
‘How did the chat with Joanna go?’ No need to introduce herself. Holly would know who it was at this time of night.