Ann Cleeves - The Glass Room

Soon it was almost dark and Nina felt able to draw the curtains across the drawing-room windows that looked out on the terrace. She’d been itching to do that since they’d arrived. Outside a stray piece of police crime-scene tape, one end trapped beneath the wrought-iron table, blew and twisted in the breeze, like a blue and white kite tail. She shivered slightly, pulled together the velvet drapes and told herself that the terrace could hold no fear for her now.

She’d expected a police presence. Vera Stanhope, big and unmovable, and Joe Ashworth, and perhaps the sharp young woman who’d pretended to befriend her the night Miranda was killed. But there was no sign of them. Perhaps Chrissie had made it clear that they wouldn’t be welcome. The guests began to arrive, hurrying across the cold space from the car park to the house, holding their coats around them, everyone a little tense and brittle, excited to be in this place that had headed up the news for the last couple of weeks.

Many of the guests were acquaintances. Academics and poets, arts administrators and arts funders. Nina had met them on similar occasions, talked books and politics and publishers, usually standing, usually with a glass of white wine in her hand. Today, though, she was holding orange juice. All that kept her going was the knowledge that her little car was waiting outside and that she could escape whenever things became too heavy.

Today the talk was of Miranda, of the importance of keeping the Writers’ House alive as a base for literary talent and encouragement. But Nina knew that few of them would have made the trek north from Newcastle if the place hadn’t been made notorious by the murders. These calm men and women with their references to high fiction and classical theatre were inquisitive, as voyeuristic as readers of tabloid newspapers. Nina remembered Jack Devanney’s outburst at their final dinner here and could understand what had led to his outrage. She felt like shouting too and creating a scene. You don’t care about Miranda Barton. You don’t even care about keeping this place going, though you have a vested interest, of course. You’ll come along as tutors and advisors, promote your own work and earn fees for the privilege. You just want to see where two murders took place. But she didn’t have Jack’s courage. So she stood with her back to the wall, watching and smiling.

Chrissie was beginning to panic because the big taxi with the writers hadn’t yet arrived. Mark Winterton was there; he’d driven from Cumbria and looked rather dashing, Nina thought, in a dark suit. He smiled at her across the room and was making his way to join her when the others burst in, with tales of a driver who’d completely lost his way, all of them laughing: the companionship of people who’d shared a minor drama. Chrissie was pouring wine for them and taking their coats, and suddenly the room seemed warmer and the atmosphere more natural. Perhaps, after all, the evening would go well.

Lenny was there with a woman. Girlfriend? Not a wife, surely, because he’d told her he was divorced. She seemed very small in comparison to him and Lenny was proud. Of her and himself. He took the woman to the table where the books were laid out, picked up a copy as if it were something precious and delicate, and opened it to the title page to show her. She smiled and took his hand.

All these stories, Nina thought, played out in front of me.

Joanna and Jack were in fine form, both flirting with the other guests, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, hugging. They were performing, Nina thought. They’d prepared their script ahead of time and decided that all this physical contact was necessary to the role. But there was a watchfulness too, despite the good humour. Occasionally Joanna, taller than most of the men in the room, would look around her. Like an animal sniffing for danger. A meerkat in the desert.

For a while Nina thought that Giles Rickard had decided to stay away. What reason would he have to be there? He didn’t need the publicity. He had fame and money enough, and during his stay at the Writers’ House he hadn’t formed a real attachment to any of the residents – those now dead or those still living. She didn’t see him as a sentimental man who would feel that he should be there to support the rest. Yet here he was. He’d arrived in the taxi too, but perhaps he’d been to the cloakroom and avoided the mass arrival of the rest. Chrissie, flushed with the success of the evening so far, went up to greet him. She’d discarded the apron and looked beautiful. Nina was reminded of a fictional character and struggled to remember which one, and then it came to her: Samantha, the eponymous cruel woman in Miranda’s novel. Nina had found her old copy at home and was in the process of reading it. Her tribute to the writer, who had died. She still thought it a bad book, but the visual description of the central character had stuck with her.

Now Chrissie was calling the event to order. She clapped her hands and the conversation died away. Why was I so nervous about tonight? Nina thought suddenly. She could have come in the taxi with the others, drunk wine, relaxed and laughed and shared memories of the dead. Nothing terrible will happen here.

Chrissie’s speech was short and well judged: a perfect soundbite for the local television news. She praised Miranda’s qualities as an author and as a mentor for new writers. ‘We’re selling this book in her memory, and to help maintain and continue the work that she started here.’

Chrissie had asked Nina to say a few words about Tony Ferdinand.

‘We can’t ignore him altogether, darling, and he was once your tutor, even if you didn’t last the course.’

Nina couldn’t bring herself to praise Ferdinand even after his death, but spoke briefly instead about the quality of the writers who had grown out of St Ursula’s, the prizes they had won, the breadth of the talent. There was applause at the end of her speech. Gratitude that she’d kept it short, so the guests could return to the wine, rather than appreciation of its quality.

And soon afterwards things started to wind down. Books were sold. The reporters left. It was a long drive back to Newcastle and the weather was closing in. The caterers began collecting glasses. In the drawing room only the main players in the drama remained: the group who’d been present through the tragedy, and Lenny’s ex-wife Helen. Alex reverted to type and brought out a tray with jugs of coffee. The party had finished earlier than they’d expected and there was half an hour before the taxi would arrive. They sat rather awkwardly, unsure what to say to each other.

Mark Winterton made the first move. He said he had a long drive back to Cumbria, and he was sure they’d excuse him. Then there was a sudden flurry of activity. Jack and Joanna said they’d help in the kitchen, Lenny asked Alex if he might show his ex-wife something of the house. Nina thought that now she could decently go too and stood up to say goodbye. Chrissie, though, had other ideas.

‘Alex says we can store the books in the chapel for now. Could you give me a hand to take them over?’ Then classically, after issuing the request, Chrissie was distracted elsewhere and Nina was left to put the books into boxes, onto a trolley and out into the yard. The cold made her wheezy and turned her breath into a white fog. The chapel was unlocked, but dark. There was enough light from the big house to pull the trolley inside, but there she felt for a switch. Before she could find it, the door behind her swung shut and everything was black. She thought she heard a key turning in the lock and felt the first bubbles of panic. But perhaps her mind was playing tricks. Just a few yards away the house was full of people. Chrissie knew she was here. She let go of the trolley and moved along the wall, still trying to find the switch. Then came the footsteps, slow and deliberate. They were behind her, cutting off her route to the door. And a sudden bright light, as a torch shone directly into her face, so that she could see nothing. And, faint but distinctive, the smell of overripe apricots.