The Glass Room

Chapter Twenty-Six

Joe Ashworth turned to his colleagues. ‘So everybody went to bed once the party had broken up, and no one saw or heard anything,’ he said. He kept his voice low, but Lenny and Mark were still deep in conversation at the other end of the room and were taking no notice of them. He looked at Holly and Charlie and waited for an answer.

‘Pretty much,’ Charlie said. ‘Jack got up in the middle of the night for a piss and thought he heard music. The Beatles’ album Sergeant Pepper.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About two in the morning. Does it really matter?’

‘It shows someone was still up. A possible witness.’

‘If you think you can believe anything that man says.’ Charlie rolled his eyes.

Holly jumped in. ‘And they all thought Miranda Barton was a wonderful woman, and nobody had met her before this week.’

‘Not even Giles Rickard?’ Joe Ashworth asked. ‘They were writing at the same time.’

‘Different sort of material, apparently. She was considered a literary novelist. He wrote detective stories. They’d have no reason to bump into each other.’ Holly paused. ‘And nobody can remember seeing a handkerchief with a red heart in the corner.’

‘You need to have a word with the boss,’ Charlie broke in angrily. It seemed to Joe that he hadn’t even been listening to this last exchange. He got that way sometimes, for no reason. Since his wife had run off there were times when he was angry at the whole world.

‘What about?’ Joe said, though he could guess.

‘She’s making a fool of herself over those hippies.’ Joe thought Charlie had eaten lunch too. Tuna sandwiches, from the smell of his breath. ‘It’s obvious that they’re behind it all. The woman’s tried to kill before, and the bloke’s as mad as a snake. Sergeant Pepper! And look at the way he stormed into the place last night, shouting the odds.’

‘Everyone says that he calmed down and apologized before the end of the evening.’ Joe didn’t know why he was standing up for the hippies. Because Vera didn’t think they were behind the murders? Is that what he’d become? Vera Stanhope’s representative on Earth?

‘Doesn’t mean the chap still didn’t have murder on his mind.’ Charlie was chuntering just loud enough for Joe to hear him.

Joe thought if they didn’t get on with the next two interviews they’d be here all day, and the hotel, with its Seventies colour scheme and his nana’s ghost, was already freaking him out.

‘Why don’t you get off, Charlie?’ he said. ‘I can sit in with Holly for these. It won’t take three of us.’

Charlie brightened. ‘I’ve arranged to go over to Carlisle tonight to have a beer with my mate. The one who worked with Winterton. Despite what the boss says, I don’t see why I should do it in my own time.’

‘Off you go then.’

And when Charlie shambled out of the room Joe felt a sudden sense of relief.

They took Mark Winterton first, because he had furthest to travel home and Lenny seemed to be in no hurry. The ex-policeman took a seat opposite them. The hotel had provided a trestle table, and Joe thought this felt more like a job interview than taking a witness statement. Tell me, Mr Winterton, why did you decide to apply to be a writer?

And his first question was almost like that. ‘Why the Writers’ House course? It’s not cheap, is it? And pretty intensive for a beginner. I’d have thought there’d be places closer to home, if you were interested. Evening classes. That sort of thing.’

Mark Winterton blinked at him through the small, square spectacles. ‘I thought I’d already explained that to your colleague.’ He nodded towards Holly. He kept his voice patient and polite, but the blinking eyes suggested a repressed irritation. ‘I’d always enjoyed writing, and this seemed like a great opportunity to kick-start the crime novel I’d thought I might write.’ He paused. ‘As to the money, I don’t have many extravagances.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘I paid maintenance for the children of course, when I was first divorced, but they’ve left home now. My ex-wife married again very quickly and her husband’s a wealthy man. My pension seems rather generous for a man of simple tastes.’

Joe wondered why Winterton felt the need to share all this personal information. Perhaps he was just lonely. Perhaps that was the explanation for him attending the course.

‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your daughter,’ Joe said.

‘You know about that? Of course, you’ll have checked up on us all. Nothing is ever the same afterwards.’ He looked up. ‘I discussed that with Miranda yesterday afternoon. The loss of a child. How that affects absolutely everything that happens later. Miranda was immensely understanding. I’d never really talked about it to anyone else in the same way. She was a sympathetic woman.’

‘When did you have this conversation with Miranda?’ Joe kept his tone light. The woman had never struck him as particularly sympathetic. Beside him, Holly was twitching like a hunting dog scenting prey. He hoped she’d have sense enough to keep her mouth shut.

‘Before dinner. I’m always early. At work I was a tyrant about punctuality, and I see now that it was my obsession. I’d showered and changed and was waiting for the others in the drawing room when Miranda came in. She brought me a sherry and we began to talk. She was nervous, I think. She wanted the final evening to be a success, despite Tony’s death. I’d never been alone with her before and I was surprised at how well we got on.’

‘Did she ask for your advice?’ Joe remembered that Miranda had invited Nina into her cottage the same day.

‘I had the sense that she wanted something from me, but I never quite worked out what it was. You must have come across that, Sergeant: acquaintances with vague anxieties wanting reassurance. About children mixing in unsuitable company, or neighbours who seem suddenly to have come into money. I suspect it goes with the job, but of course we have no answers. We can’t always keep our own family safe.’ Winterton looked up. Joe had the sense that he wanted to prolong the discussion and that he was in no hurry to return home to his empty house. Joe wondered about the ex-wife. Had she had a lover even before the separation? Was that the cause of the divorce? Joe thought it would be interesting to meet her.

‘What anxiety did Miranda have? Did she have concerns about her son?’

‘Certainly we talked about our children. But I don’t think Alex was causing her any problems. He always seemed the sort of boy you’d be proud of. I did wonder…’

‘Yes?’

‘… if she’d had a daughter. Perhaps who’d died when she was still a baby.’ He put his hands on the table in front of him. Ashworth saw he still wore a plain gold wedding ring. ‘Miranda spoke with such understanding about losing a child,’ Winterton said, ‘and last night there was a slip of the tongue that made me think she’d had a baby girl. She was talking about the experience of giving birth. I’d never known pain like it, but once I’d taken the baby into my arms it was all worth it. She was so tiny.’ Really, I’m sure she said she, but I didn’t want to follow it up.’ He looked up and frowned. ‘Of course none of this is evidence. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But sometimes in an investigation small snatches of gossip can make a difference. I thought you should know.’

Joe’s attention was caught by a bright-yellow coach that had pulled up outside the hotel. Elderly people climbed stiffly out. The driver began to unload luggage. Joe dragged his focus back to the room.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Would you mind waiting until we’ve finished talking to Mr Thomas? Then we can give you both a lift to the Writers’ House.’

‘No problem at all.’ Winterton stood up and gave a polite little nod. ‘I’m not in any rush to get home.’

Lenny Thomas sat awkwardly looking at them across the table. ‘I wouldn’t have killed her,’ he said without introduction. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have killed either of them. But Miranda picked me to go to the Writers’ House and I loved every minute of it. I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me the chance. For taking me seriously. As a writer, like.’

‘We’re not accusing you, Mr Thomas,’ Holly said. They’d agreed that she should take the lead on this one. Only fair. But Joe wished he was asking the questions. Sharp, bright Holly would make Lenny nervous and tongue-tied. ‘We’re just trying to find out what happened.’ She paused. ‘Last night you read your piece early in the evening, while the group was still in the dining room.’

‘Aye.’ He looked at her. ‘You were there. What did you make of it?’

The question obviously threw her. ‘It was very good,’ she said at last. ‘Very moving.’

Lenny grinned widely at them both. Joe was reminded of his youngest child, coming home from nursery with a gold star on a painting.

‘What did you do later in the evening?’ Holly asked. Joe sensed her, tense and impatient. Under the table her foot was tapping on the floor.

‘After Jack Devanney came in, shouting his mouth off, I moved out of the dining room with the others and listened to their readings in the drawing room.’

‘And after that?’

‘They all went off to bed, but I didn’t. It was my last night there and I wanted to make the most of it. To make it last. Do you understand?’ He directed the question to Joe. He’d think Holly was too young and too confident to understand.

Joe nodded.

‘What did you do, Mr Thomas?’ Holly broke in immediately. ‘Did you sit all night in the drawing room?’

‘I sat there for a while. Then I thought I’d take a walk, clear my head before going to bed. Outside it was dead still. And there were all those stars. In the town, with the street lights, you never see the stars. And the moon making a road over the sea. I wanted to remember it. One day I might write about it.’

‘Where did you walk, Mr Thomas?’ Holly managed to sound bored and hostile at the same time.

‘Onto the terrace. But there was nobody there. No body, either.’

‘Are you sure?’ Joe asked. ‘It was dark.’

‘Aye, but like I said, there was a moon.’

‘And it was cold,’ Joe said. He was aware of Holly firing furious glances in his direction, but he took no notice. ‘Did you go upstairs to get a coat before you went out?’

‘No, there was a jacket in the cloakroom downstairs for folk to borrow. I took that.’ Lenny looked at Joe as if he were daft.

‘What did you do with it when you came back inside?’

‘I put it back!’

‘And then?’ Holly asked, determined now to have the last word. ‘What did you do then?’

‘I went to bed,’ Lenny said. ‘I couldn’t make the night last any longer. It was going to end, wasn’t it? I had to get ready to go back to the real world.’

‘What time was that?’ Joe wondered if the week at the Writers’ House had been a good thing for Lenny. Had it set up expectations that would never be realized?

‘Twelve-thirty. I looked at my watch when I got into my room.’

‘Did you listen to any music when you were sitting in the drawing room?’ Joe asked.

‘No. Why?’ Now he just looked confused.

Joe looked at Holly. She shook her head to show that there were no further questions.

Joe ended up giving Lenny a lift back to his flat in Red Row. Lenny said he didn’t have a car any more. His ex-wife had offered him her old one, but he couldn’t afford to run it. They dropped Mark Winterton at the Writers’ House to pick up his Volvo. The lane was blocked with vehicles. A reporter from BBC Look North was doing a piece to camera with the house in the background. They watched him straighten his tie, then nod to the cameraman. At last the media all moved aside to let the car past. Joe thought Lenny might be interested in the activity, but he sat in the passenger seat, listless and unengaged.

Red Row had once been a mining community just inland from the big sweep of Druridge Bay. Recently there’d been a new private development, big houses all looking out to the sea, but the village itself still looked sad. As if there were no longer any point to it. A main street with red-bricked terraced houses and a small council estate. A boarded-up shop.

‘Do you want to come in?’ Lenny sounded eager, but he expected refusal.

‘Aye, why not? I could use a cup of tea.’

And before the words were out of Joe’s mouth, Lenny was knocking at his neighbour’s door to scrounge some milk. The old lady who lived there seemed pleased to see him: ‘Eh, Lenny lad, it’s good to have you home.’

Sitting in the small, cold room, Joe wondered what he was doing there. Was this about pity for a lonely man? ‘We talked to your wife,’ he said. The words were out of his mouth too quickly. He hadn’t thought them through. This sounded like interference.

But Lenny didn’t seem offended.

‘She’s a grand woman,’ he said. ‘A great mother.’

‘You don’t think you could still make a go of it, the two of you?’ Joe wondered what Vera would make of this. You’ve turned counsellor now, have you, Joey boy? Well, maybe you could always get a job with Relate.

Lenny looked up at him and grinned sadly. ‘Likely too much water under the bridge,’ he said. ‘And I can’t fancy being a kept man any more. It might have been different if I’d got the contract with the publisher. That would’ve put us on an equal footing. You know what I mean?’

Joe nodded.

‘Not that I don’t dream about it,’ Lenny went on. ‘Late at night. Not that I wouldn’t do anything to make it right.’

Driving back to Police Headquarters, Joe Ashworth thought Lenny was a romantic, the sort of dangerous romantic who might kill for the notion of the perfect relationship. But Joe couldn’t see how the deaths of Tony Ferdinand or Miranda Barton could help him achieve his aim of a perfect marriage.