Read Online The Glass Room (Vera Stanhope 5) by Ann Cleeves - Free Book Online Page A

immediately. They were in the company of others for all but a few minutes during that period. She wondered what Joe made of these loud, showy people, who reminded her of exotic birds, all brightly coloured plumage and irritating squawk, caged in a luxurious aviary. When he’d first started working for her he’d been anxious in the presence of the articulate middle classes. He was more confident now. She’d given that to him, at least.
    Upstairs, a team was searching bedrooms. Not Ferdinand’s. She’d do that herself, once the CSIs had been in. God knows how Joe had pulled in the officers so quickly. With the promise of overtime, which she’d have to pay for from her budget? None of the residents had objected to the search, but then Vera didn’t expect the knife or any bloody clothing to be found. Hours had been wasted, while they’d assumed Joanna to be the murderer. Anything incriminating would surely have been disposed of. There was an acre of garden, thick undergrowth, dense shrubs. But now it was dark and the search there would have to wait for the morning.
    When the timeline was complete she looked at the clock. Gone eleven. Not the time to begin individual interviews; Nina Backworth would be on her feet again, talking about police harassment. Vera needed to get in touch with Holly and Charlie and she supposed she should get some sleep herself. She stood up and stretched and caught Joe’s eye.
    ‘Thanks for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen. That’s all we need for tonight. No doubt I’ll see you at some point tomorrow.’
    Outside, the hearse had arrived to take Ferdinand to the mortuary. The cold air hit her and made her feel suddenly awake and alive. At this point she felt she could go on all night, and for most of the next day.
    ‘Do we know when Keating plans to do the postmortem?’
    ‘Not until the morning. Around ten.’ Joe Ashworth did look tired. Nearly half her age, but he couldn’t match her for energy. Don’t be smug, Vera pet. That’s all down to genetics. Hector was still climbing trees at seventy, stealing birds’ eggs.
    ‘Team briefing at eight-thirty then,’ she said. ‘We’ll come back here after the post-mortem. Lull the bastards into a sense of security by giving them the morning off.’ She grinned at him. ‘Get yourself home, man. It’s your birthday. Your lass will be waiting for you, all frilly knickers and fishnet stockings. I’ll see you in the morning.’
    Back inside, the house seemed quiet. In Ferdinand’s room she found Billy Wainwright; she pulled on the paper suit and boots that he threw to her, and joined him.
    ‘No signs of violence or disturbance in here,’ he said. ‘I was just off home.’
    ‘Hang on for a few minutes, will you, Billy, while I just have a quick look at the man’s things.’
    He shrugged to show that he wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t about to make a fuss. The place smelled of cigarette smoke, despite the sign on the door saying smoking wasn’t allowed. That, and some sort of fancy aftershave. The clothes in the wardrobe felt expensive to her – the shirts were heavy cotton and the jerseys cashmere. She looked at the labels and recognized some of the designer names. She hadn’t thought university lecturers were so well paid.
    On the desk under the window there was a black ring binder and a diary. Again she turned to Wainwright. ‘Have you finished with these? Can I take them with me?’
    He nodded, and it seemed to Vera suddenly that the man was exhausted, too tired even to speak. Perhaps the effort of lying to his wife, of keeping up with his bonny young lovers, was finally catching up with him.
    She got Wainwright to drive her up the lane to her Land Rover. The internal light had never worked, but there was a torch in the glove compartment for emergencies, and she punched numbers into her phone. There was no reply from Charlie, which was only to be expected. He could be an idle bastard, Charlie, though for some jobs – the