The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “There’s no evidence that he did,” said Gemma quickly, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot. “What time did he come in?”

  Reg seemed to relax. “A bit after seven, maybe. It was Friday-night pandemonium in here. I remember serving him after the band came on, maybe eight thirtyish, but it was his second glass of wine, at least. Someone else must have served him before that.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Not really. Couldn’t hear over the music.” Reg gestured towards the back of the room, to the right of the bar, and Gemma saw that there was a small area used as a stage. “Vince was never happy when the bands were loud. He could get downright stroppy about it.”

  “Then why did he come?” asked Gemma.

  “Oh, well, you know. We were his local.” Reg shrugged, and Gemma thought she saw a flicker of discomfort.

  “Did you know him well, then?”

  “Just the usual bar chat. Sometimes he’d nip in for half an hour during the week, when it was quieter. I knew he lived nearby, and that he was a lawyer. A barrister, I think. He said once that his wife was ill.” The discomfort was more evident now.

  “That bothers you,” said Melody, having picked up on it as well. “Why?”

  “Look.” Reg sighed. “I’m a happily married man. And a bartender, so I see a bit of everything. What other people do is not my business.”

  “So what did Vince Arnott do that you didn’t like?” asked Gemma, ignoring his protestations.

  Reg looked at them, then shrugged again. “Not to speak ill of the dead and all that, but more often than not he’d end up with a bird. Buy them a few drinks. Sometimes I think he left with them.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No. But he had a type. Blond. Middle-aged. Divorced. Out for a little weekend fun.”

  “Do you know if he took them to the Belvedere Hotel?” put in Melody.

  Reg gave a bark of disbelief. “That shit hole? Sorry,” he added, wincing. “But anyone round here knows that place is not exactly four star, and Vince was a cashmere kind of guy. Still . . . ” He thought about it for a moment. “Unless he went home with the ladies, I suppose that would be the most convenient option . . . ”

  “Do you know if Arnott went in for anything kinky?”

  “Kinky?” Reg stared at Melody, and Gemma couldn’t be sure if he was shocked at the suggestion or the fact that it came from a woman as wholesome looking as Melody Talbot. “God, no. Surely not. He was Mr. Straight Ahead.”

  “What about last night? Was he with anyone?” asked Gemma.

  “Not that I saw.” Reg scratched his chin. “Oh, but there was the bit of argy-bargy with the guitar player.”

  “What?” Gemma and Melody said in unison, then after a glance at Melody, Gemma went on. “You mean he was in a fight?”

  “Just a shouting match. It was the guitar player who punched the guy in the face.”

  “Okay, back up,” said Gemma. “What guitar player?”

  “The one in the band,” Reg answered a little impatiently. “Look, I didn’t actually see what happened. The band stopped for a break, so there was a crush at the bar. Then I hear somebody shout, and when I looked, there’s this bloke holding his hand to his nose, and the guitar player’s manager clamps the guitar player by the shoulders and drags him back. Then, Vince is telling off the guitar player for starting a row, and the guitar player tells him to fuck off. End of story.”

  “Did they know each other? Arnott and the guitar player?”

  “Don’t think so. Not one of our usual bands, and from what I heard, Vince was reading him the ‘Behave yourself, young man,’ riot act. Vince could be a bit of a prick that way, but I was happy enough. I don’t like fighting in my bar.”

  Gemma frowned. “Did you see Arnott after that?”

  “I served him another drink, maybe a bit before eleven,” Reg said, brow furrowed as he thought about it. “Lost him in the crowd after that.”

  “And this guitar player?”

  “His manager made him put an ice pack on his hand. I know because I got some from the bar for him. Then, the band played another set and I think he left with the manager. Crap band, but the guitarist was good.”

  “Any idea where we could find him?” asked Gemma, thinking that any lead was better than none.

  “Matter of fact, I do.” Reg looked pleased at being able to offer something helpful. “Only reason we put the band in last night was that Caleb Hart, the record producer, is a regular here and he wanted to hear the guy play. He’s got him recording today at the studio down the hill. I can give you directions, if you like.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  August 1852 saw the rebuilding work begin and in June 1854 Crystal Palace was reopened in its new location by Queen Victoria . . . The whole building was enormous—1,848 feet long and 408 feet wide including two huge towers and many fountains with over 11,000 jets rising into the air.

  —www.bbc.co.uk

  Andy had plugged in the Strat and began to adjust the tuning when Poppy hit the first notes of a bass riff. He looked up at her in surprise. It was distinctive, unmistakable, and not at all what he’d expected.

  “Know this one, guitar boy?” Poppy asked, her grin wicked.

  He finished tuning, then fell in with her, finding the notes, getting the feel for it, watching her small fingers slide on the neck of the bass. When they’d got the rhythm, she moved into the intro, leaning into her mic until she was almost kissing it, and began to sing the familiar lyrics. “‘She’s a rich girl, she don’t try to hide it. She’s got diamonds on the soles of her shoes.’”

  Andy felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Little Poppy Jones was an alto, rich, deep, slightly husky, and she didn’t sound like anyone he’d ever heard.

  He glanced across the room at Tam, who nodded once. An I told you so nod.

  They played, working and reworking their way through the song. Time grew liquid, lost in sound. From Paul Simon, Poppy segued into Rickie Lee Jones’s “Chuck E’s in Love,” then into something he didn’t recognize. Her own composition? It was jazzy, bluesy, unique, and a little rough. When Andy had the words down, he came in on backup, adding his own riffs on the Strat, and the song began to mutate into something more polished. She was good, but together they were better.

  After a while, he realized Caleb Hart was filming them with a video cam, and that they’d gone well past the time Caleb had allotted for the rehearsal space. But he also knew no one wanted to burst the bubble. There would be time for that later.

  What they were making, in this finite moment, was magic.

  Gemma and Melody emerged from the warmth of the pub into a fierce wind blowing up Westow Street. The clouds were in tatters now, the temperature noticeably lower. Gemma buttoned her coat, then pulled up an area map on her phone.

  “Shall we get the car, boss?” asked Melody. “Drive back to the scene?”

  Frowning, Gemma thought for a moment. “I think one of us should check out this guitar player. So far he’s the only person we know of that had any interaction with the victim.” Westow Street, where Reg the barman had said they would find the recording studio, ran to their right. Belvedere Road, where they’d left the car, to their left, Church Road and the Belvedere Hotel, straight ahead. “Why don’t you go to the recording studio,” Gemma continued. “I’ll walk down to the hotel, see if Shara or the techies have made any progress. Then we can meet back at the Arnotts’ house. Maybe by that time the FLO will have Mrs. Arnott settled, and we can have a look through Arnott’s things.”

  “Right, boss.” Melody didn’t look thrilled at the allocation.

  “Maybe you can get an autograph,” Gemma teased. “I could have sworn you had the makings of a groupie.”

  When Gemma reached the Belvedere Hotel once more, the coroner’s van was gone. The crime scene van was still parked in the road, however, so she decided to check in with the SOCOs before she compared notes with Shara MacNicols and talked to the hotel
staff.

  The younger constable, Gleason, stood guard at the propped-open fire door. When she reached the room, she found that the fresh air and the removal of the body had alleviated a good deal of the stench, although an unpleasant odor still lingered.

  Mike and Sharon, the techs, had bagged the victim’s clothing and the bedding, and were in the process of lifting prints from the room’s surfaces.

  “Bloody nightmare,” said Mike as he transferred a strip of tape to a card. “Prints everywhere. And fibers. The cleaning staff in this place don’t exactly do spit and polish.”

  “I’d never have guessed.” Gemma glanced in a tiny cubicle that she suspected was referred to as the “en suite” bathroom. While the basin and toilet looked fairly clean, there were drifts of hair along the skirting boards. “Ugh.” She found it interesting that a man as fastidious in his home and about his clothing as Vincent Arnott could have frequented a place like this.

  “We did find something,” said Sharon. “A spot of what looked to be fresh blood on the sheet.”

  “Any corresponding injuries on the victim?” asked Gemma.

  “Not that were readily visible. Rashid will be able to tell you, of course.”

  That was something, thought Gemma. Assuming they could get DNA, or at least blood type. If the blood was not Arnott’s, and the hotel cleaner would testify that she had changed the linens after the previous guest, they might be able to tie a suspect to the time and place. Assuming, that is, that they found a suspect.

  It was time she had another word with the staff.

  “Cancer?” Kincaid said, on a rush of dread.

  But Louise shook her head. “It’s TB. Apparently it’s on the rise in London, especially among the immigrant black and Indian communities. My clients, in other words.”

  “But TB’s treatable.” His relief was not mirrored in Louise’s expression.

  “Yes, but.” She gave him a tired smile. “There’s always a ‘yes, but.’ It seems there are more and more antibiotic-resistant strains. They’ve started me on the most consistently effective drug, but it will be a couple of months before they’ll know if it’s working.”

  “Months?” Kincaid said in dismay.

  “The normal course of treatment is at least a year on antibiotics. And that’s assuming the drug works from the beginning. And rest. Lots of rest. Not my cup of tea.”

  “Will you be able to keep working?”

  “I’ll do as much from home as I can for the time being. I’ve hired an assistant, and I’ll go into the office a few hours a week. But there’s the contagion issue.” His alarm must have shown in his face because she shook her head. “I’m not coughing, and I’ve been very careful with my hygiene,” she added, gesturing at his coffee. “I think my hands may fall off from all the bloody washing. So as long as we don’t have ‘intimate’ contact”—she made a wry face—“they say there’s little risk. But I thought it better not to have Charlotte in the flat.”

  “And Michael and Tam?”

  “Not likely to be any ‘intimate contact’ there.” Louise gave a hoarse chuckle. “At any rate, I’ve told them they should just leave me alone, the old biddies, but they won’t hear of it. They’ll need to be tested every few months, just in case.”

  “If there’s anything we can do—” he began, but she was already waving away his offer.

  “Just get Charlotte settled.”

  Next door, he found Michael and Charlotte had already returned from their walk. As often as he’d visited Louise, he’d never been in Michael and Tam’s flat. The rooms were mirror images of Louise’s, but considerably more tidy and organized. Potted plants the size of small trees filled the front windows, while one long wall held neatly shelved books and CDs. Several guitars on stands were tucked into a corner, and two large rectangular dog beds were positioned opposite the sofa and armchairs.

  Charlotte sat in the middle of one of the dog beds, arranging dog toys neatly on the other. Jagger and Ginger lay nearby on the polished wood floor, watching her with expressions of bewilderment.

  “They’re very patient,” Kincaid said as Michael ushered him in.

  “They love kids,” Michael answered. “Interesting, isn’t it, how they know? They knew about Louise, too,” he added more softly. “That’s why we insisted she see a doctor. Damn good thing.”

  “How did they tell you something was wrong?” Kincaid asked, curious.

  “Well, generally Louise is sort of tolerantly affectionate with them, and vice versa. But the last month or so, they’ve been glued to her, nudging, whining, then coming to us as if they expected us to know what to do. Finally, even we began to see how bad she looked. Then we bullied her into going to a clinic.”

  “How bad is it, really?” murmured Kincaid, with an eye on Charlotte, who was still absorbed in her game.

  Michael shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ve read that if it’s an antibiotic-resistant strain, it can be tough, even for those who were in good shape before they became ill.”

  Kincaid knew what he wasn’t saying—Louise had been a heavy smoker who didn’t exercise, worked too much, and ate halfway decently only when Michael and Tam fed her.

  “Can I get you a coffee?” Michael asked. “I know Louise made some, but I also know she mainlines her caffeine.”

  “Stout,” Kincaid agreed with a grin. “I think that was my limit for the next week, but thanks. Maybe another time. And I think I might have promised a certain young lady a cupcake.”

  “Me! Me!” Charlotte jumped up, proving she’d been listening all along.

  As Kincaid bundled Charlotte back into her coat, he glanced at Michael. “I know Louise won’t ring us, but you will, won’t you, if there’s anything—”

  “Of course. Tam will be sorry he missed you.”

  “The guitars—are they Tam’s?” Kincaid asked as the instruments caught his eye again. “I didn’t know he played.”

  “Relics of his misspent youth. He does still play occasionally, and he’s quite good. But I think it was when he realized he’d never be great that he went into managing. He’s still looking for his holy grail.”

  The directions given by Reg the barman took Melody into a steep lane that led off to the left from Westow Street. Not only steep, but cobbled. Within ten feet, she was cursing her heels. By the time she reached the bottom, she wondered if she’d misunderstood. The lane seemed to dead-end, and there was no sign of a recording studio.

  Then she saw that the lane gave a twist to the left and leveled out for a few dozen yards before it jogged downhill again. There were a few cars parked on the right. Beyond them, treetops masked the hill as it fell steeply away to the west.

  But on the other side, wildly colored murals decorated the lower part of brick walls. And above, brick and metal rose into a disjointed jumble of buildings that might have been thrown together with a giant’s LEGO.

  She stopped, surveying the place, and then she heard it. Music. It took her a moment to separate the source of the sound from the echoes, but when she did, she realized it was coming from the top of several flights of open iron stairs.

  “Bugger,” she muttered. With another disgusted glance at her shoes, she headed for the stairs.

  The music grew clearer as she climbed. A ripple of guitar. Bass notes providing a punchy beat. And then the voices. One female, strong, assured, slightly quirky. Then a male voice coming in on harmony, and together they soared into a melody that made her think of songs she loved but was somehow completely new.

  By the time Melody reached the railed wooden platform at the top of the stairs, she’d caught her heel only once. Pausing to adjust her shoe, she peered in the window beside the closed door, but saw only blurred shapes behind her own reflection.

  She knocked lightly, feeling suddenly very much the intruder. There was no answer, no break in the music, so after a moment she opened the door and stepped gingerly inside.

  The room was large, with dark, scuffed wooden floors. Bits of furniture a
nd electronic equipment were pushed haphazardly against the walls. An electric heater near the door put out a welcoming blast of heat that Melody suspected didn’t penetrate far into the room.

  Four people were gathered near the large windows at the western end. For a moment, she watched them unobserved, as no one seemed to notice her.

  The guitarist and the girl she’d heard singing faced each other, their mics close together as they sang. The girl, in spite of her powerful voice, looked like a child in her ruffled skirt and flowered tights. She had short hair the color of orange sherbet and held a slightly odd-looking bass guitar.

  The guitarist, in jeans, trainers, and T-shirt, played a battered red electric guitar as he sang, his fingers flying over the strings. He was about her own age, she guessed. Slight—too thin, really—with rumpled blond hair. Nice looking, with features that might almost have been pretty if not for the intensity of his focus.

  Melody thought she’d never seen anyone so completely absorbed in the moment, every line and muscle in his body an extension of the guitar in his hands. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt a sudden skip in her pulse.

  It took an effort to shift her attention to the other two people in the room.

  A small man wearing a faded Scottish tam stood beside a glossy-black grand piano, watching the artists as if mesmerized. Another man, taller, with neat brown hair and beard, was filming them with what looked to Melody like a professional-quality video cam.

  Then the musicians held a last sustained note, the guitarist hit a final, ringing chord, and silence descended. The tension went out of the room like a whoosh of air.

  The small man gave a congratulatory whoop and crossed the intervening space to give the guitarist a thump on the shoulders. The guitarist, starting to grin, looked up and saw Melody.