She woke suddenly and still the radio was murmuring in her ear. She knew it was the middle of the night, reached out and switched it off. Silence. Then footsteps in the living room next door. I’m imagining it. She remembered waking suddenly in the Writer’s House and the images of blood and death that had terrified her then. That was nothing, and so is this. I’m being ridiculous. It was all a bad dream.
It had always been impossible to move quietly about her flat. The floorboards creaked. The front door jammed and had to be slammed shut. It occurred to her now that the banging front door must have woken her. If I lie still, they’ll take what they want and go away. But the footsteps moved out of the living room and towards her bedroom. She found herself screaming. Then, mingling with her screams, came the sound of a siren, a police car or an ambulance racing down the street outside. The footsteps pounded down the stairs, the front door slammed shut and there was silence again.
Nina climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Had a neighbour seen the break-in and called the police? She ran into the living room and looked out of the window. But the street was quiet. The arrival of the emergency vehicle had been coincidental. Luck. And there was no sign of the intruder. Further down the street there was the sound of an engine starting.
She tried to breathe more calmly. Perhaps, after all, the incident had been a nightmare, the result of the violence she’d experienced second-hand. She’d make herself some camomile tea and try to sleep. She switched on the light to make sure that there was no sign of a break-in. The room was tidy. It seemed that nothing had been moved or taken. But on the middle of the table sat a crystal bowl full of ripe apricots.
Chapter Thirty
Vera sent Joe Ashworth to deal with the incident at Nina Backworth’s flat. The rest of them had been excited by the news of the break-in. The investigation had achieved so little that they were glad of anything that might move it on.
‘Too much of a coincidence surely, Ma’am, if it isn’t related to the Writers’ House case.’ Holly, bright-eyed, was ready to leave immediately.
But Vera seemed preoccupied with some project of her own. Joe thought she’d had an idea during the team briefing, had made some connection or seen something they’d missed. Occasionally she had these sudden flashes of inspiration; usually they came to nothing, but sometimes they were important and developed the case in an interesting way. Now she flapped her hands to send him on his way.
‘Use your judgement. You’ll know if it’s just a coincidence – some yob trying his luck – or if it’s related to our investigation. Probably nothing. The CSIs have already been in. Holly, you start chivvying the publishers. I need to know what Miranda was up to. That’s our priority at the moment.’
Joe went, secretly pleased to have an excuse to see Nina again, but offended too that Vera hadn’t decided to confide in him. Usually she was happy enough to share her daft ideas. When he arrived in Newcastle he sat for a moment outside the house where Nina lived. By now it was lunchtime and girls from a private school at the end of the road were walking along the pavement, giggling and scuffing the fallen leaves with their feet. He waited until they’d passed, then he got out of the car and rang the bell.
He thought Nina must be dressed for work. She seemed to him very smart.
‘This is such a nuisance.’ Her voice was peevish. ‘I’ve already had to cancel my class at the university, and I’m supposed to be doing a radio interview this afternoon.’
‘It won’t take long.’
Suddenly she put her head in her hands. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault and it was good of you to come. I’m scared. Absolutely bloody terrified. Waking up in the middle of the night to find someone in the flat. I thought I was going to die like the others.’
‘Of course you’re scared.’
She led him into a large living room with a deep bay window. All the furniture was old. One wall was covered in books. There was a table under the window, where long blue velvet curtains reached almost to the floor. And on the floor a grey carpet.
‘It looks very tidy,’ he said. ‘You’ve not moved anything?’
‘Don’t you believe me?’ She turned on him and he saw how close she was to hysteria.
‘Of course I believe you. Has anything been taken?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I can tell.’
He thought she would know if anything was missing. This was an ordered place. She was an organized woman.
‘They did bring something, though.’ She pointed to a glass bowl, containing small fruit. They were so perfect that if it hadn’t been for the smell, he’d have thought they weren’t real, that they were wood or china, painted. ‘They were there, left by the intruder. He meant to leave them. That’s why he came in here first. He was on his way to the bedroom when the siren frightened him off.’
‘Apricots, are they?’ He wondered if she was losing her mind. She’d been so tense when he’d last seen her, so strung out, that he wouldn’t have been so surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘Why would a burglar bring you apricots? You must have bought them before you went away and forgotten all about them.’ He kept his voice gentle. ‘You can tell by the smell that they’re very ripe. They could have been here a week.’
‘I didn’t buy them,’ she said. She was frowning and a little angry, but he thought that she was quite sane after all.
‘There’s no sign of a break-in.’ He took a seat on a scratched leather chair.
‘No, and I don’t get that, either. It’s like he’s some ghost who can walk through walls.’
‘More likely someone who’s got hold of a key,’ Ashworth said. ‘Did you have a spare? Have you ever given one to a friend?’ He was thinking that the fruit could be a message. From a lover, maybe. Or a drunken student thinking it would be funny to scare his teacher. This might have nothing to do with the Writers’ House investigation after all.
‘No, I’ve never given a key away. I’ve always lived here alone.’
‘But you’ll have a spare? Could you check it for me, please?’
‘My neighbour has one in case of emergencies. But Dennis has been here as long as I have. He wouldn’t play this kind of stunt.’
Dennis was a small, tidy man in his sixties. He’d worked as an engineer in the shipyards, moved into the garden flat below Nina when his wife had died. Nina filled in the background information as they went downstairs. They found him sweeping leaves in the yard at the front of his flat. Nina told him about the break-in and asked about the key.
‘It’s hanging up in the kitchen where it always is, pet.’ He seemed affronted, as if Nina had accused him of committing burglary. ‘See for yourself.’ He led them through an arched gate at the side of the house and in through the open kitchen door. Over the sink there was a row of hooks, each neatly labelled. The one marked Nina was empty.
‘Not a ghost then,’ Ashworth said. They were back in Nina’s flat and she’d made coffee and a sandwich. It was a poor sort of joke, but he wanted to make her more cheerful. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if she started to cry. ‘I’ll wait until the locksmith comes before I leave.’
‘But why go to all that bother?’ Now she was furious and he thought it was only the anger that was holding her together. ‘Wait until Dennis was in the back garden and slip into the flat and steal the key. And how would the intruder know he’d have my key in the first place?’