The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “According to the night manager, he checked in alone,” answered Gemma.

  “Sensible of him, if he had a habit of playing away.” Rashid nodded towards the corridor. “Easy enough for him to let someone in through the fire door at the end of the hall, once he was settled in the room. The SOCOs are here,” he added. “Just getting their gear from the van. They won’t want anyone buggering up their scene.”

  The pathologist had an ongoing friendly rivalry with the crime scene techs. It was important that the SOCOs had first access to the scene, but Rashid always liked to get an impression before others moved around the victim, and Gemma felt the same way. “I don’t know whether the maid who discovered the body or either of the hotel clerks actually came into the room, but we’ll find out,” she told him.

  Turning to PC Gleason, she added, “Why don’t you go and have the SOCOs come in the fire door? No need to have them traipsing through reception.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The constable looked happy to have an excuse to get outside.

  As he started towards the door, Gemma added, “See if you can prop that door open a bit, as long as there’s a PC outside. It wouldn’t hurt to have some air in here.” Unfortunately, they couldn’t turn the central heating down until the ambient temperature had been recorded, as Rashid would need it for his time-of-death calculations.

  As they waited, Gemma studied the victim.

  “What do you see, boss?” asked Melody.

  “White. Obviously male.” That got a flash of a smile from Rashid and a breath of a snigger from Shara. “The hands are usually a good indicator of age,” she went on as Rashid nodded agreement, “but as we can’t see them, just going by his general condition and his face and neck, I’d put him in his late fifties to early sixties. The hair”—she gestured towards the victim’s full silvery shock—“can be misleading. That type of hair can go gray or white quite early. I’d say he was reasonably fit—a golfer, maybe, by the tan.” She indicated the darker area of skin below the throat. “He could play tennis, but I’m not seeing the definition in his arms or legs.” Turning to Melody, she added, “Anything else jump out at you?”

  Melody frowned, considering a moment before answering. “From the quality of his clothes—assuming for the moment they are in fact his—the well-kept condition of his feet, and the good haircut, I’d say he’s upper middle class with a job that doesn’t require manual labor.”

  A murmur of voices heralded the arrival of the two crime scene techs, escorted by PC Gleason. They often worked with Gemma’s team, and she greeted them by name. “Sharon. Mike.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got an interesting one for us,” said Sharon, a slight, dark woman who always looked as if she might be swallowed whole by the blue bunny suit.

  Gemma nodded. “You could say that. I’d like the name and address from the driving license in the wallet as soon as you can get to it. The first officer on the scene extracted it to ID the victim, but he wore gloves.”

  “Turned our scene into a football pitch, have you?” Mike said with a good-natured nod to Rashid as he opened his evidence kit.

  “Haven’t touched a thing, mate,” Rashid answered with a grin. “But I’ve got another scene to go to. Do you mind if I have a look at him, as long as you’re observing?”

  “Help yourself. Take notes of the good doctor’s exam, will you, Sharon?” Mike answered as he took out his camera and began recording the scene.

  As Rashid retrieved instruments from his bag, Gemma stepped back into the corridor, where Melody and Shara had already joined PC Gleason. The air was quite noticeably fresher and she breathed it gratefully as she watched Rashid.

  Under Sharon’s watchful eye, he moved round the bed with his own digital camera. Although the SOCOs would have a complete photographic record, Rashid focused on things that might be of particular interest to him when he conducted the postmortem.

  Finishing with the camera, he ran his gloved fingertips gently beneath the victim’s buttocks, shoulders, and his one bare heel. “Lividity is well fixed. If he was moved postmortem, it wasn’t long after. Rigor is also quite advanced. Stiff as the proverbial board,” he added, as he tested the flexibility of the joints. “Although if the room was sweltering like this all night, the time he was last seen may be more useful.”

  “The night manager says she thinks it was about eleven,” said Gemma.

  “Then he may have been dead within an hour, but we’ll try to be a bit more accurate.”

  As Rashid pulled a thermometer from his bag and shifted the corpse just enough to get a rectal temperature, Gemma looked away. She had no idea why she was always a bit squeamish about this—silly, really, considering the crime scenes she took in her stride.

  “Cause of death, Rashid?” asked Gemma, when he’d finished with the thermometer. “Was he strangled? And if so, with what?”

  Rashid peered more closely at the face and neck. “There’s some evidence of petechiae in the eyes, but that’s not conclusive. And there’s some bruising on the throat, possibly from a ligature, but don’t quote me on it. No handprints visible. I’ll know more when I can take it down to the tissue. Sometimes bruising doesn’t show up on the skin, as you know.”

  Mike, now gloved, crossed the room and began checking the contents of the wallet. “Several major credit cards under the name of Vincent Arnott,” he said. “National Health Insurance card, ditto. No banknotes, so they might have been taken. We’ll check the trousers for a money fold. And the driving license, also as Vincent Arnott.” Holding it by the edge, he brought it to Gemma.

  She inspected the tiny photo. It certainly seemed to be the man on the bed. He had been handsome, in a severe way, with regular features set off by his thick, silver hair. She wondered if he had been vain about it.

  Melody stepped closer and entered the address into her phone, then Mike bagged the wallet.

  Going back to the clothing on the chair, Mike said, “Let’s see what it has in its pockets,” with a hiss on the sibilants, and Gemma grinned. Balding, fortyish, Mike was known for a serious addiction to fantasy novels.

  After checking the shirt and pullover, he handed them to Sharon to bag. Then he unfolded the trousers, first patting the rear pockets, then reaching gently into the front. From the right-hand pocket, he pulled out a money fold with a magician’s “Ta da,” then riffled through the folded notes. “Roughly fifty pounds, but we’ll log it. So you can probably assume he wasn’t robbed, and that he was right-handed. Nothing in the left-hand pocket, so let’s check the jacket.”

  “There’s not a single crumpled receipt,” said Gemma as she watched. “No cinema ticket stubs, no chewing gum, no cigarette packet wrappers, no bits of paper with scribbled phone numbers. I’d say we can assume that he folded his own clothes.”

  “Obsessively neat,” agreed Rashid. “And apparently not because he was hiding his identity, or he’d not have been carrying ID and credit cards.”

  “House or flat keys.” Mike held up two Yale keys on a heavy silver key ring.

  “No car keys?” asked Gemma.

  “Not unless he put them somewhere else in the room.”

  Melody had pulled up the driving license address on her phone map. “He lived in Belvedere Road. That’s just on the south side of the hill. He could easily have walked here.”

  “Maybe this will help.” Mike held up an expensive mobile phone, retrieved from an inside anorak pocket. “Let us print it before you have a go.”

  He dusted and taped the phone’s glass surface before passing it to Gemma.

  Switching it on, Gemma saw that it was fully charged. Evidently Arnott hadn’t used it much the previous evening. Nor had its owner gone in for apps. The wallpaper was standard provider issue. No photos. No music. There was no e-mail account, and only a handful of numbers under the phone contacts.

  “What did he need that kind of phone for?” asked Shara, who had been looking over Gemma’s shoulder. She sounded disgusted. “He could have used a che
ap pay-as-you-go. What a waste.”

  Gemma nodded absently, her attention focused on the few tagged numbers. “Home. Kathy.” She glanced at Melody. “His wife, do you think? And chambers.”

  “As in a surname?” Melody asked.

  “It’s not capped.” Gemma met her partner’s widening eyes. “Oh, hell. Don’t tell me the man was a bloody barrister.”

  By midmorning, Kincaid had run out of strategies for dealing with cranky children.

  He’d dressed and gone down to make coffee while Gemma was showering, hoping to have a quick word with her about her case before she left. He’d only caught her “. . . man strangled, Crystal Palace . . . ” muffled by the sound of running water.

  But their movements had roused the younger children, the dogs, and the cat. By the time Gemma had clattered down the stairs like a red-haired whirlwind, the dogs were barking, Sid the cat was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table loudly demanding his breakfast, and Toby and Charlotte, both still in pajamas, were wailing over the cancellation of the day’s plans.

  Hugging them, Gemma had promised to be back soon, but in their household, that promise was heard too often to be given much credence. Charlotte had transferred her limpet grasp to Gemma’s waist. Lifting her, Gemma gave her a squeeze, then passed her back to Kincaid. “Sorry,” she whispered, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “No worries,” he’d said, waving her off.

  The morning had gone downhill from there. The little ones, tear streaked and cornflake sticky, had run upstairs and woken Kit by bouncing on the middle of his bed. A shouting match ensued, punctuated by the distressed yips of Kit’s little terrier, Tess, and then Geordie joining in the fray.

  Reduced to seeking peace at any cost, Kincaid sent the small children and dogs out into the garden, and was rewarded a half hour later by a tracker’s dream of muddy boot and paw prints throughout the house. “But it’s the Marauder’s Map,” Toby protested when they were asked to mop up.

  “Then it will reappear, won’t it?” Kincaid said. “But not until you’ve cleaned up every bit.” His jaw was beginning to ache from clenching. The bass from Kit’s iPod speakers thumped through the sitting room ceiling, proof that his son was up and now thoroughly awake.

  Handing the roll of kitchen towels to the younger children, he grabbed a jacket off the hall peg and left them to it.

  He went out through the sitting room’s French doors into the garden. On days like this he had started to wish he smoked, just as an excuse for the break. He never remembered feeling that way on the job.

  The fine mist in the air felt soft and cool against his face. Taking a deep breath, he stood gazing over the low iron fence that demarcated their small garden from the communal garden beyond. The bare trees looked ephemeral; the grass, a lush, emerald green. A wet emerald green. Living on a communal garden might be the height of aspiration in Notting Hill, and on a fine Saturday it would have its share of dogs and children, happily occupied. But not today.

  It was time to regroup and formulate a plan for the day. Structure was the key—he’d learned that quickly enough. He’d taken it for granted on the job.

  “Dad!” Toby burst out through the French doors waving the kitchen phone and shouting as if Kincaid were at the far end of the garden. “It’s Auntie Erika. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Then we’ll hope she’s not deaf,” Kincaid said, rolling his eyes as he took the phone and shooed Toby into the house. “Hello, Erika.”

  The auntie was a courtesy title. Erika Rosenthal was, if anything, closer to a grandmother to the children. “What can I do for you?” he went on. “I’m afraid Gemma’s not at home.”

  “So I’ve been informed,” said Erika, amusement clear in her slightly accented voice. “Under the circumstances, I thought you might like me to have the boys over for lunch.”

  “Lunch? Really?” Kincaid cleared his throat in an attempt to banish the hopeful squeak. “Erika, that’s very kind of you, but—”

  “I’m perfectly capable of managing Toby for an hour or two, Duncan. I’ve a pot of beef and barley soup on the cooker. It’s his favorite. And I have chess and checkers at hand.”

  “But Kit—”

  “I’ve already spoken to him.”

  Kincaid had to laugh. Capitulating, he said, “Erika, you are more than welcome. What time shall I bring them?”

  “I think they are perfectly capable of walking, Duncan. They won’t melt,” she said with a hint of reproof. Then she hesitated. “I would have Charlotte, as well, but I’m a little lacking in entertainments for three-year-olds.”

  “No need to apologize,” Kincaid told her. “You’re doing quite enough. Charlotte and I will have no trouble entertaining ourselves.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Duncan,” Erika said, and he heard the genuine affection in her voice.

  When they’d completed their arrangements, and Duncan had seen the boys off for the short walk down Lansdowne Road into Arundel Crescent, he found himself wondering what he and Charlotte would do with the rest of their day.

  Kitchen and Pantry beckoned, but he told himself the café would be mad on a Saturday, jammed with tourists and marketgoers.

  Then he realized he’d been given an opportunity to pay a much-needed and too-long-delayed visit. He dialed a number stored in his phone. “Louise, it’s Duncan. Can Charlotte and I come to see you today? There are some things we need to discuss.”

  By eleven o’clock, Andy was standing on the curb in front of his Hanway Place flat, his Strat in its case, watching for Tam’s silver Mini Cooper.

  He’d debated about the guitar. He had different guitars for different sounds, and when he knew what he’d be playing in a session, he chose the guitar accordingly. But today he had no idea, and the Fender Stratocaster was both his oldest electric and his favorite. And if he had to admit it, the Strat was his security blanket—the instrument that felt like an extension of himself.

  His favorite amp, however, was still in the back of George’s van. He’d meant to ask George if he could borrow the van this morning, but things had been so frosty between them after the gig last night that he’d accepted Tam’s offer of a lift back to the flat, and then agreed to let Tam drive him to Crystal Palace today.

  Tam had reassured him about the amp. “They’ll have plenty of equipment in the studio, and you’ll not want to be carrying your Marshall up those stairs. Trust me, laddie.”

  And Andy had had no choice.

  Peering down the narrow street, he transferred the guitar case to his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right. His knuckles were a bit bruised and swollen, but he’d followed Tam’s advice, icing and elevating his hand as soon as he’d got back to the flat last night. He’d practiced a bit that morning, and although it hurt, his playing didn’t seem to be impaired.

  But he didn’t want to think about the injury, especially not now, when he was feeling more nervous by the minute.

  Why the hell had he agreed to this? Why had he pissed off his mates so badly that whatever happened today, the band was fated to split up? And why had he ever thought he could go back to Crystal Palace?

  There was a swish of tires on the wet tarmac and Tam’s Mini came round the tight corner from Hanway Street. When Tam came to a stop, Andy walked round the car, stowed the guitar in the backseat, and climbed into the front.

  “All right, lad?” asked Tam, shooting him a concerned look as he put the car into gear.

  “Yeah. Fine.” Andy didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Bloody traffic. Oxford Street on a Saturday. Can’t think why you stay in this dump.” Tam was on vocal autopilot. He never failed to say that he didn’t understand why Andy stayed in the flat, and Andy never failed to say that he couldn’t afford to move anywhere better.

  But Tam was right. He could find someplace in Hackney, like George, or Bethnal Green, like Tam and his partner Michael, or anywhere, for that matter, out of the dead center of London. The truth was that he loved being in the m
iddle of the hustle and bustle. And he loved being able to walk to the guitar shops in Denmark Street, which had drawn him like magnets since he’d been old enough to take the bus into the city.

  “I’ve got room for my guitars and my cat,” he said.

  Tam grinned. “Barely room to swing the bloody cat. What you see in that beast, I don’t know.”

  “He’s my mate, is Bert,” Andy said, relaxing into the familiar argument, as he knew Tam intended. Tam, who had German shepherd dogs, pretended to have no use for cats, but whenever he came round the flat Andy caught him giving the cat a surreptitious rub behind the ears.

  Coming back late from a gig one night, Andy had found the tiny, shivering kitten in the middle of Oxford Street. There’d been no one else to help, and no other place to take him, so Andy had tucked the kitten inside his jacket and carried him back to the flat. That tiny bit of fluff had grown into an enormous tomcat the color of Dundee marmalade, and now Andy couldn’t imagine life without him.

  “You’re sure that hand is okay, son?” Tam asked, when they’d crossed the river at Waterloo.

  “It’s fine, Tam, really.”

  Tam let him be after that, and Andy was glad of the silence. He was tired, and after a bit he almost dozed in the warmth of the little car. When he opened his eyes and blinked, they were climbing Gipsy Hill.

  He sat up, his nerves kicking in again as they reached Westow Hill and the triangle of streets that formed the crest of Crystal Palace. This studio was relatively new, and he didn’t know it, although he remembered the steep little lane that dropped from Westow Street. He looked away as they circled past Church Road and the White Stag.

  From Westow Street, Tam turned right. He bumped down a narrow way that was more of a passage than a lane, then turned left at the bottom, pulling into a small car park. To the west, the hill dropped away towards Streatham, a gray palette of rooftops seen through the delicate filigree of bare trees.