‘How did you know it was from Tony?’ Vera asked. ‘It could have been from any of the tutors. And he was a university lecturer, wasn’t he? Not a publisher.’
‘It was signed,’ Joanna said. Vera could tell the woman was making an effort to be patient. ‘Not a proper signature, but initials. And I knew Tony liked to sit in the glass room. He’d escape there most days after lunch with coffee and a brandy. I think he liked looking down on us. Literally, I mean. From the balcony he could see onto the terrace and that was where the smokers all gathered and chatted. I caught him once, listening in.’ She paused. ‘And he was much more than a university professor. He had influence, contacts in the industry.’
‘What did he get out of it?’ Vera asked. ‘I mean if he’d found you a publisher, would he get a cut?’
‘No!’ Joanna was losing patience now and struggled to make Vera understand. ‘It wasn’t about the money. It was about power. If he’d helped me become a best-selling author, I’d always have to be grateful to him, wouldn’t I? It would be like he’d created me. That was what turned him on.’ She considered her earlier assessment of Ferdinand. ‘It was power he was greedy for, not money.’
Vera still wasn’t sure she got it, and decided to stick to the facts. ‘What happened next?’
‘I knocked at the glass-room door. It’s a public room, but Tony tended to treat the place like his own. There was no answer, so I went in. There was nobody there. I thought Tony had been there. There were two coffee cups and a glass on the table. The chairs were arranged differently from usual, and I wondered if he’d been chatting to one of the other students, if someone else had received a similar offer. That was when I saw the knife.’
‘Where was it?’
‘On the floor. Next to that big plant pot. I picked it up to take back to the kitchen. I mean, in my experience that’s what knives are for. Chopping meat and peeling vegetables. Not killing people.’
‘You didn’t go onto the balcony?’
‘Obviously not.’
It was possible, Vera thought. The body wouldn’t have been visible. Not from the table.
‘Didn’t you hear the screaming?’ She would have liked to believe Joanna, but none of this made sense.
‘What screaming?’
‘Miranda Barton yelling fit to bust! I could hear her from outside. You’d surely have passed her in the corridor.’
‘I didn’t pass anyone,’ Joanna said. ‘Until I met Alex in the corridor. And I didn’t hear anyone screaming. The walls here are very thick. I wouldn’t, unless I was in the drawing room or standing outside.’ She stood up and suddenly towered over Vera, seeming very tall and strong. Had she towered over Ferdinand with a knife in her hand? ‘All I heard was music. Someone with a CD player in his room, I suppose. The Beatles.’ She looked down at the detective. ‘That was what happened. You can believe me or not, as you like.’
Chapter Five
Joe Ashworth got the call from Vera just as he was on his way home. He’d left work a bit early because it was his birthday and his wife Sarah, known in the family as Sal, had planned a family tea party. It was supposed to be a surprise – the kids adored surprises – but he knew how it would be. A home-made banner on the wall, balloons and a cake covered in candles and chocolate buttons. The bairns wild with excitement, topped up with a sugar-high after licking out the cake bowl and dipping their fingers in the icing. He loved these family events, of course, but it’d be a bugger putting them to bed afterwards, and he had his own ideas about what constituted a birthday treat. The last thing he needed was Sal fraught and knackered.
So Vera’s call, taken on the hands-free, provoked a mixed response.
‘You slipped out of the office smartish tonight.’ Her voice was amused rather than disapproving, just wanting to let him know that she was aware of what was going on, even in her absence. She’d phoned the station and they’d told her he’d already left.
‘Aye, well, it’s my birthday.’ He slowed down to pass a cyclist in helmet and lime-green Lycra.
‘I’ve got a birthday treat for you, lad.’ And he listened as she talked about the murder, recognizing her excitement. Hearing too his wife’s voice in his head: That woman’s a ghoul – the delight she takes in other people’s misery. He pulled over to the side of the road so that he could write down the details, the postcode and the OS coordinates.
‘I’m on my own at the moment,’ she said, ‘apart from a couple of plods. So quick as you can, Joe, eh?’
He sat where he was for the moment, deliberating. Should he call in quickly to the house, so that the family could do the hiding behind the sofa, jump out and wish Daddy happy birthday? It was only a couple of miles out of his way, and Vera would never know the difference. Or should he send Sal a text, explaining? But a text was the coward’s way out, and if he did that, Sal would be seething when he finally got home, even if it was at some unearthly hour of the morning. He couldn’t imagine life without Sal, thought she was the best wife in the universe, but she knew how to hold a grudge. Better face her now. He started the engine and drove off, thinking that at least he wouldn’t have the nightmare bathtime and bedtime hour to deal with.
Half an hour later he was on the road again, two slices of chocolate cake wrapped in foil on the passenger seat beside him. For some reason the kids had taken to Vera and always remembered her. They sent her gifts and paintings, which he seldom passed on. He thought she’d sneer and chuck them in the bin. She wouldn’t turn up her nose at cake, though.
He drove slowly down a narrow lane, worried that he might miss the turn to the house. There was woodland on either side of him, the bare trees caught in his headlight beams as he turned a corner. No moon. He leaned forward, his hands tense on the wheel. A shadow crossed the road ahead of him, caught just on the edge of his line of vision, and made him brake sharply, skid on the frozen fallen leaves towards the verge. He regained control of the car in time, but found he was shaking. He told himself it was nothing. A deer perhaps. Too big for a fox. Just as well he was on his own. Vera would have ridiculed his panic. What’s wrong with you, Joey-boy? Scared of your own shadow now?
He crossed the brow of the hill and suddenly the valley below him seemed full of light. He passed Vera’s Land Rover parked in a farm gateway on his left. There was no possibility after all that he would miss the place; it was the only house for miles. The entrance to the drive was marked by a lamp. To one side of the house there was a car park. As he walked towards the front door he saw a minibus with The Writers’ House painted on one side.
A uniformed female officer stood at the door. She must have recognized him because she let him in with a smile. ‘DI Stanhope said to send you straight upstairs. She’s expecting you.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘I’ll take you.’ He was a large man, the size and shape of a bear. ‘Lenny Thomas, one of the students.’ He held out a hand. ‘Is that big woman your boss, then?’
Pots and kettles, Joe thought. ‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve written a crime novel,’ Lenny said. He ambled away and Joe followed. ‘But from the perspective of the villains rather than the cops.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘I don’t suppose she’d let me in to look at the crime scene. For research, like.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Aye, well.’ Lenny sounded unbothered by the rejection. It seemed to Joe Ashworth that he was probably used to it. ‘No harm in asking. You know what they say: shy bairns get no cake.’ He stopped at a door. ‘They’re in there.’ Lenny added hopefully, ‘Do you need me for anything else?’