Ann Cleeves - The Glass Room

‘Are you here to see me?’ Then could have kicked herself. Why else would he be there? It made her sound ridiculous. ‘Is there news? Do you know who broke into my flat? Have you caught the killer?’

‘No,’ he said. She thought he looked older than she remembered. Certainly more tired. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

‘Sure!’ She was in no hurry to get back to North Farm. Chrissie had threatened to drag her to the supermarket to buy wine for the Writers’ House party if she got back in time. And Chrissie, with her restless energy and constant enthusiasm for the project, was irritating her more each day.

Nina took him to a small coffee shop in a back street between the university and the hospital. It was dark, like walking into a Victorian parlour at dusk. The place was run by an elderly man. He baked great cakes and scones and the coffee was very good, but he had no sense of how to treat customers. Perhaps he had Asperger’s syndrome, or some other condition that made him awkward in social situations. ‘What do you want?’ he would ask very brusquely as soon as anyone walked in. He hated waiting to take an order. He loved to read, and it was as if the customer had wandered into his home and disturbed him in the middle of his book. But, once served, the customer would be left alone, unbothered.

They sat by the window. Outside the street lights came on suddenly. Already the shops in the main street at the end of the alley had Christmas displays in the windows. Nina smelled the camomile tea as it was set before her, watched Ashworth drink his coffee as if he needed it to stay alive, then he spread butter on a warm cheese scone and took a bite. She wondered when he had last eaten.

‘How can I help you?’ Because Nina thought the man did want her help. He sat across the table from her looking tentative and anxious, the scone poised near his mouth.

‘This do at the Writers’ House…’

‘Yes?’

‘How’s it going to work, like?’

‘It’ll be a party,’ she said. ‘Like a launch party, only for a group of authors instead of an individual. And the idea is to start a fund to keep Miranda’s vision of the Writers’ House alive.’ Across the street she saw a mother holding the hand of a little girl. The girl was skipping, almost dancing along the pavement. Nina imagined what it would feel like to be holding the hand and thought that probably she’d never really know.

‘Have you talked to Alex about the idea?’ Ashworth had swallowed the scone and had almost finished his coffee. He stared at her.

‘I haven’t. I’m sure Chrissie has; she talked about going to see him the other day. It’s her project.’ Still Nina couldn’t work out what the detective wanted from her. Had the fat woman sent him to get information? Was Alex having second thoughts about hosting the party? Nina wouldn’t blame him if he was. Chrissie might dress it up as a memorial celebration, but it would be a party nevertheless. Had Alex complained to the police that he was being bounced into something he didn’t care for?

Ashworth said nothing. He gazed out of the window and she saw that he was watching the mother and daughter too.

‘Is there any news on the investigation?’ she asked. The silence between them was becoming awkward. ‘I suppose I should think about moving back to my flat. I can’t hide out at North Farm for ever.’

He turned towards her sharply. ‘Stay there for a little while longer. At least until after the event at the Writers’ House.’

‘Why until then?’ she demanded. ‘What difference would a book launch make?’

‘Probably nothing.’ He gave a strange little laugh. Nervousness? Or to cover the fact that he was lying to her? ‘We just hope that we’ll have a result by then.’

‘You’re close then?’ He looked at her as if he didn’t quite understand and she added, mimicking his words, ‘To getting a result?’

He didn’t answer and instead came back with a question of his own. ‘Who will be there from the “Short Cuts” course?’

‘Everyone who’s contributed to the anthology: Giles Rickard donated a special story; Mark Winterton has written a true crime piece; Lenny Thomas, Joanna Tobin, me. And Chrissie will be there of course, even though she hasn’t written anything for the book. Is it important?’

‘Probably not.’

But it seemed to Nina that it was the most important thing in the world to him at the moment.

‘Why did you come to the university to find me?’ The words seemed to be propelled by a blast of energy inside her mouth. They emerged sharp and staccato, like gunshots.

He seemed shocked by her bluntness. ‘I wanted to check you were all right.’

‘Did the inspector send you?’

‘No!’ he said. ‘I suggested it.’

‘But she knows you’re here?’ Nina thought he was here to gain information after all. Why couldn’t Vera Stanhope do her own dirty business? She was in touch with Chrissie. She stood up. It seemed to her that the exchange was going nowhere. ‘I should be getting back to North Farm. I promised Chrissie I’d go shopping with her. Stuff for the memorial party.’

He got up and they stood for a moment side by side. The elderly cafe owner continued to read his book – oblivious, it seemed, to any tension, though Nina could feel it. Physically, like static electricity.

Ashworth put a hand on her arm. ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘Yeah?’ And he hurried off and was swallowed up by the Christmas shoppers. She stood for a moment, still unsure of the purpose of his visit. Had it all been about those last few words? Had he come into town just to warn her?

Joe Ashworth hurried through the busy streets and thought he should never have come into town. What had he hoped to achieve? He stopped for a moment outside Fenwick’s department store, drawn by the crowds staring at the window. It was a Newcastle institution, Fenwick’s Christmas window. He and Sal always brought the bairns in to see it and the trip marked the start of the festive season. This year it had a space theme: mechanical astronauts bouncing on the moon, whirling stars and a rocket that took off in one window and landed in another. Real sparks from the engine. Santa Claus and his reindeers all wearing space helmets. The kids would love it.

But he was only distracted for a moment and pushed on, past the grandmothers with wide-eyed toddlers strapped into buggies, the street pedlars, the working people who’d sloped off early to avoid the rush. Usually he liked being in town, but now he felt hemmed in. He’d spent too long with Vera and her need for the hills.

He’d paid the visit to Nina Backworth because Vera had asked him to: ‘Just call in on your fancy friend in the university.’ Her voice amused. ‘Find out what she’s up to. Or what her publisher’s up to. It’s one way of making things happen, this party on the coast. Like a chemical reaction. Shake the bottle and wait for the fizz.’ Then she’d paused. ‘I need to know that all the elements will be there. All the suspects. I don’t want to contact the Kerr woman again. She already thinks I’m taking too much of an interest. But your Nina will know.’

She’s not my Nina , he’d wanted to say, but he knew that would only provoke another caustic comment.

Instead he’d fought back the only way he knew, by turning Vera’s own words against her. ‘I thought we were going to sort this one with traditional detective work. Knocking on doors, talking to witnesses.’

‘Aye, well.’ She’d looked at him, frowning. ‘That’s getting us nowhere quickly, and you know me. Patience was never one of my virtues.’

So he’d phoned the university and found out that Ms Backworth had tutorials all day. And had driven in immediately, knowing he might bottle it if he gave himself time to think. He’d replayed his last encounter with Nina in his head since the group from the Writers’ House had broken up. Lust that felt like adultery. How his colleagues would mock him if they knew! They took one-night stands and affairs in their stride, and he hadn’t even touched the woman.