‘She was never a great writer. Not dreadful, and the market was less demanding in those days. But Roy had founded his business to champion traditional storytelling and she was never particularly good at that.’
‘Was Roy susceptible to her female charms, do you think? Is that why he decided to publish her?’ Vera tried to imagine how that had worked. Had Ferdinand become involved even at that stage? Had he approached Roy Rutherford on Miranda’s behalf? There are too many connections in this case, she thought now. The Writers’ House had sucked them all in together and created too many suspects with a shared history.
‘When it came to publishing, he wasn’t susceptible to charms of any gender.’ Rickard gave a little smile. ‘He was extremely hard-headed. He must have believed that her books would sell. And he was right for a while. For a year, after Tony Ferdinand’s article in The Observer, she became almost a celebrity.’
‘As you are now,’ Vera said.
‘Ah, she was much more famous than me. And she enjoyed it.’
Vera got to her feet so that they were both standing, facing each other. Outside the wind was even stronger and blew around the chimney. There was a loose slate on the roof.
‘Do you know what happened at the Writers’ House last week?’
He looked at her sharply. ‘If I knew, Inspector, don’t you think I would tell you?’
She didn’t answer that, but pulled her jacket around her and headed out into the storm.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the Land Rover Vera saw that she had missed calls from Joe. She called him back.
‘Where are you?’ he asked immediately. As if she were a teenage girl out on the town without permission. Vera thought his daughter would have a tough time when she was old enough to think for herself.
‘I came to visit Rickard,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’ Maybe. She wasn’t sure she wanted Rickard’s sexuality the subject of canteen comment. She imagined Charlie sniggering and couldn’t stand the idea.
‘The break-in at Nina Backworth’s wasn’t a coincidence.’
Vera listened as he explained about the fruit in the glass bowl, the fact that nothing had been stolen.
‘The CSIs haven’t found anything?’
‘All clean,’ he said. ‘No fingerprints on the bowl or the table.’
‘And nothing stolen?’ She couldn’t see how this could be relevant, how it could relate to the Writers’ House killings.
‘Nina claims not.’
So it’s Nina now, is it? Is this our Joe with ideas above his station?
The tide had come in since she’d arrived in Craster and, with the wind behind it, the waves were breaking against the harbour wall. The Land Rover was suddenly covered in spray.
‘Nina couldn’t have set it up herself?’ she asked suddenly. ‘She’d know about the key in the neighbour’s flat. And the whole scene sounds like something she’d write. A good way to mislead us, if she were involved with the murders.’
‘No!’ He sounded horrified. ‘She’s scared. Scared enough to go and stay with that publisher at North Farm for the night.’
When she switched off the phone Vera sat for a moment. She could go home. Light a fire and watch a few hours of bad television to unwind. There was nothing cosier than Hector’s house with the wind and the rain outside. She could stick some washing in the machine and have a couple of drinks to help her sleep. Rickard’s malt had given her the taste for it.
But she didn’t take the road inland towards the hills and home. She turned down the coast towards the Writers’ House. In the lane leading to it the path was covered with small branches, already snapped by the wind. At one point she had to drive on the verge to negotiate the debris. There were no lights in the main building, but two of the windows in the cottage – one downstairs and one up – were lit. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, but she saw no silhouette. And there was a light in the chapel. Alex Barton was still rattling around this enormous space on his own. She thought if he hadn’t been mad to start with, he certainly would be now.
When she got out of the vehicle the wind caught her and she almost lost her balance. Even from this distance the sound of waves on the shore was deafening. There was something exhilarating about being part of the noise and the gale. She ran towards the cottage and knocked on the door. No answer. She pushed it open. The kitchen was as she had remembered it. The rocking chair by the Aga, the small table with its oilcloth cover. No fat tabby cat, though. And no clothes airing. Alex had kept the place tidier than Miranda had done, but there was a dirty plate, some cutlery and a frying pan on the draining board and that seemed out of character. There was no sign of Alex. She opened the door to the stairs and shouted up. He might not have heard the Land Rover over the noise of the wind.
When there was no reply she climbed the stairs. His place was as clean and impersonal as a room in a hotel. The bed was made. His computer was still switched on and had reverted to standby, a screensaver showing a mixing bowl and floating wooden spoons. Vera pressed a button and Alex’s Facebook page appeared. The photo showed him in his chef’s whites. A list of messages expressed condolence. Vera supposed there was no way of telling whether these were real friends or people he’d met through the Internet. Virtual friends. She’d never been on Facebook before, though she’d caught Holly on it once at work. On Alex’s wall, written two days earlier, was the post: The wicked witch is dead. Had he really disliked his mother, or was this his way of dealing with his grief? A young man playing at being cool? Vera still wasn’t sure.
Outside the wind was as strong as it had been before. Still no sign of Alex, but she saw his car was parked outside the cottage. He couldn’t be far away on a night like this. From the top of the bank Vera had seen a light in the chapel and she made her way there. It was possible, she supposed, that the violence in the house had persuaded Alex to turn to religion. She’d always thought it would be comforting to have faith, had tried it in her youth because Hector had despised it, but had never found it possible to believe. Rationality had been the one perspective on which she and her father agreed.
She pulled open the heavy door, remembered Alex bringing her here the morning following Tony Ferdinand’s death to set it up as an interview room. Inside there was one light, suspended from the high ceiling on a long chain. As she opened the door the wind caught it and made it swing, scattering the light over the dark wood chairs, throwing moving shadows. Vera tried to remember that she was a rational woman. Still she couldn’t see Alex. She called his name and her voice echoed around the space.
There was an object lying on the stone floor in front of the table at the end of the nave. Not Alex. Too small for a grown man. And besides, it glittered, reflecting the swinging light. She walked towards it. The sound of her feet on the flags sounded very loud.
She knelt to look at the object on the floor, and felt suddenly sick. Like some new PC, she thought, called to her first corpse. Pull yourself together, Vera. This is a crime scene and you don’t want to throw up all over it. You’d never live it down. It was Miranda’s tabby cat. As a way of focusing away from her nausea, Vera tried to remember its name. Ophelia. A stupid name. Why call a cat after a mad lass in a play? The animal looked fat and ridiculous, lying on its back. A kitchen knife had been stuck in its belly. Part of the blade was exposed and that was reflecting in the hanging light. There wasn’t much blood, but the guts were spilling out.
She stood up and saw another corpse on the white table, this time tiny. A robin. No blood. She remembered the bird feeders outside the drawing-room window of the big house, and Alex filling them with nuts and seed. Had he been attracting the birds, just to kill them? Or was stabbing the cat a kind of retribution because it had caught the robin? Mad, either way.