‘Coffee?’ Vera asked. ‘Or are you a tea man?’
‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Every time.’
She bought him tea. He didn’t offer to pay for it. Meanness or arrogance? Did he believe that the small social niceties didn’t apply to him? They sat round the corner out of sight of the librarian. Rutherford took no notice of the beautiful surroundings or the shelves of books.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Vera said, ‘why you wanted to see me.’ She smiled brightly at him.
‘I still feel some responsibility for Joanna,’ he said. ‘It’s some time since our marriage ended, but one can’t turn off one’s feelings. I hate to think of her in trouble.’
‘Is she in trouble?’ Vera looked up at him, wide-eyed.
That threw him. ‘I understood, from the newspapers, that she’d been questioned about a murder. Tony Ferdinand’s murder.’
‘Questioned,’ Vera said, ‘but not charged. We’ve questioned everyone who was staying in the house. Even your old friend Giles Rickard.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Rutherford said. ‘Giles Rickard wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve known him since I was a child.’ He held his teacup, sipped and gave a small grimace to show that he was accustomed to better. Vera saw that his hands looked older than his face. Rutherford went on, ‘He was like a second father to me.’
‘But you think Joanna would be capable of murder?’ Vera asked. She looked at him, as if the answer was of considerable interest to her.
‘She tried to kill me!’ he said. A flash of almost childish anger.
‘But that surely was rather different. As far as I know, Professor Ferdinand hadn’t kept her prisoner or beaten her up.’ Vera kept her voice even. She wouldn’t get this chance again and she didn’t want to lose her temper in front of the man. Besides, she was enjoying herself. This was an interesting experience. She didn’t come across psychopaths very often. It occurred to her that there might be a greater proportion of psychopaths in Parliament than in prison.
He paused for a moment and gave another tight smile. ‘You do know, Inspector, that your words are slanderous.’
She leaned forward across the table, made her voice intimate, almost flirtatious. ‘Somehow, Mr Rutherford, I don’t think you’ll sue.’
They sat looking at each other. It was very warm. The hot water in the radiators gurgled. At the desk a phone rang.
‘We’ll stop playing games, shall we?’ Suddenly she’d lost patience with him. ‘Why are you here? What did you want from me?’
‘I wanted to warn you,’ he said, ‘not to be taken in by my ex-wife. She tells stories. Not just to the people around her, but to herself. Eventually I think she comes to believe them. Do you really think that I locked her in our apartment in Paris? That I hit her? It’s the stuff of melodrama.’ His words were scathing. ‘She’s plausible, vulnerable. And very clever. She has a knack of making people love her. Then she makes fools of them. Don’t let her make a fool of you, Inspector.’
He began to stand up as if he was about to leave, but she nodded for him to remain seated and he stayed where he was.
‘When did you last hear from Joanna, Mr Rutherford?’
He paused and she thought he was deciding whether or not to tell her the truth. Or perhaps he too was enjoying the drama, and the hesitation was to add to the suspense.
‘About a month ago.’
‘Would you tell me what she wanted from you?’
Now he did get to his feet. ‘Money, Inspector. That’s what she wanted. Joanna was blackmailing me. Of course I refused to pay. It does seem a coincidence that suddenly I find her picture all over the popular newspapers. Though I find it hard to believe that even she would commit murder to spite me.’ He turned suddenly and walked out. Vera sat where she was and watched him go.
As she drove north into the country, it occurred to Vera that she might have been wrong all along about Joanna. Perhaps Rutherford was no psychopath, just a man who suffered from stress and was being harassed by a flaky ex-wife. The idea was shocking: Vera wasn’t used to being wrong. But why did you want the money, Joanna pet? Why stoop to blackmail? Vera really couldn’t get her head round that one. The Joanna she knew boasted about the charity-shop clothes, the bartered veggies, the Freecycle fridge. Joanna despised money as common, vulgar, and thought an obsession with money displayed the worst possible taste. What had she called greed? The meanest of vices. So why was she so desperate for cash that she’d got back in touch with the man she hated?
Vera was so puzzled that she almost missed the lane to Chrissie Kerr’s place. Vera had tracked down Nina’s publisher the day before. Holly had spoken to her earlier in the investigation. After all, Chrissie had been in the Writers’ House the morning of Ferdinand’s death. Holly had reported back that the woman had no useful information, but Holly wasn’t brilliant at picking up unspoken messages. Besides, Vera had her own reasons now for wanting to speak to the publisher.
Chrissie Kerr still lived with her parents, it seemed, and had given Vera directions. Once it would have been a farmhouse as scruffy as Jack and Joanna’s, but the land had been sold off and the house and a barn conversion were all that was left. The house was rather grand now, solid and double-fronted, with long sash windows and a view out to the National Park. The barn had been turned into a stylish office, one wall made almost entirely of glass, the roof covered in solar panels. A sign, black on green: North Farm Press. Between the two buildings, where once there would have been a mucky farmyard, white lines marked parking places on a paved courtyard.
No shortage of money here. Vera climbed out of the car and waited. Chrissie was expecting her and would have heard her coming. It was mid-afternoon, still a beautiful day, but already the sun was low. Vera hesitated, unsure whether to knock at the house or the office.
‘Inspector Stanhope!’
A young woman still in her twenties, but confident and loud. Big-busted and wide-hipped, dressed in a black frock that hid most of the bulges. Vera didn’t know much about clothes, but thought that sort of magic wouldn’t come cheap. She could do with something similar herself, but would probably shrink it the first time she washed it. Anyway she wouldn’t have the aplomb to carry it off.
‘Come into the house and have some tea.’ Chrissie’s foghorn voice carried from the door of the office. ‘I usually take a break at about this time. Mummy and Daddy are in town, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.’
By the time tea had been made and carried into a living room Vera knew all about Chrissie Kerr. About how Mummy had been an academic, a classicist, and Daddy a scientist, and they’d both given up posts in the university to move out to the country. ‘They both got a bloody good redundancy package, actually. They were at the top of their pay scales and the university couldn’t wait to get rid of them.’ Chrissie poured tea, but she didn’t stop talking. Vera looked around her. A pot of chrysanthemums stood on the windowsill. The carpet was red and there was an expensive-looking rug by the fire. On the walls original paintings: a couple of large oils. ‘They didn’t stop working of course. They’re still writing. And as my business has grown, they’re more involved in that.’
‘You’re a publisher?’ Finally Vera managed to get in a question. Obvious, but at least it stopped the flow of words.
‘Yeah! Crazy, isn’t it? When you think of publishers, you think of London. Huge offices. Men and women in sharp suits. But I do very well.’
‘And you publish Nina Backworth?’
‘She was one of the reasons why I set up the company. I did English as an undergraduate at Oxford and then came home to do an MA at Newcastle. Nina was one of the tutors. Her writing is brilliant! I mean, really outstanding. But she couldn’t find a publisher. So I thought: How many more people like you are there out there? Wonderful writers overlooked by the big presses.’ Mummy put the money in to set up the business, but I’ve nearly paid her back. I’ve already had an author on the Man Booker longlist. Imagine! And Nina’s reviews have been astonishing. But really, choosing the right books is just the beginning. In the end it’s all about marketing. If readers don’t know about the books, how can they read them? We need publicity. To get the word out. I’m working on it, but it’s a tough market.’