The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Tossing her coat and handbag in the sitting room chair, she stood for a moment, looking down at the haze of light rising from Portobello. Even with the windows shut tight she could hear the buzz of Saturday-night revelers. It had been a hard day and she was tired, but she still felt wired, restless. She wondered how much of her unsettled state had to do with the case, and how much with the weird frisson of connection she’d felt with the guitar player that afternoon.

  “Andy,” she said aloud. “Not just the guitar player. Andy Monahan.” For an instant, she imagined what it would be like to wander down Portobello Road with him on a night like this, arm in arm, snuggled together for warmth.

  Then she shook herself, breathed, “Stupid cow,” and turned away from the window.

  She had decisions to make. Important ones. Should she call her parents now and tell them she’d be missing the traditional family Sunday brunch at their Kensington town house tomorrow, or wait until morning?

  Wait until morning, she decided, when she could deliver the news in a rush and avoid a scolding about working too hard. One down.

  Now, wine, pajamas, ready meal, and ring Doug, in that order. Easy peasy, that one. The exciting life of a twenty-something singleton in London. That would make Doug laugh, she thought with a grin, and then they could natter about whatever dreadful thing was passing for Saturday-night telly.

  She’d added her suit jacket to the pile on the chair, flicked on the television with the sound muted, and was headed for the fridge when her mobile rang.

  Fishing it from her bag, she glanced at the ID, then answered cheerfully, “I was just about to call you. You must have ESP.”

  “One thing I’m good at,” said Doug. His voice sounded strange. Slurred. Was he drinking? she wondered. She’d never seen Doug have more than a beer or two, except for the time they’d finished a bottle of champagne between the two of them, and even then he hadn’t been all that tipsy.

  “Sorry about today,” she said, still a little absently, opening the freezer door and peering into the depths. “What are you talking about?”

  “Decorating. Not my cup of . . . tea.” The last word faded out, as if he’d forgotten he was on the phone.

  There was definitely something wrong here. Melody closed the freezer door and gave the call her full attention. “Doug? Are you all right?”

  “Effing ladder,” he mumbled. Doug wasn’t much of a swearer under the worst of circumstances.

  “What about a ladder?” Melody said sharply.

  “Fell off it, didn’t I? Broke damned ankle. Bloody paint every”—he hiccupped—“where. Wanted to know if you could drive me . . . drive me home. In the morning. Doctor says swelling has to go down before they can fit a . . . boot.” He snickered. “Like a car boot.”

  “Doug.” Melody was already reaching for her discarded jacket and bag. “Where are you?”

  To Gemma’s surprise, Duncan opened the front door before she could get her key in the lock.

  “My very own welcoming committee?” she said, brushing her cheek against his as he ushered her in, feeling his end-of-the-day stubble.

  “I was in the kitchen and saw Melody pull up. I thought I’d take advantage of having you to myself for at least thirty seconds.”

  “Why?” She pulled away, her stomach doing its familiar clench of anxiety when she’d been away from the children too long. “Are the kids okay?”

  “Of course they’re okay. I’ve just got the little ones settled doing a puzzle in the sitting—”

  There was a scrabble of toenails on the hard floor, and Geordie, their cocker spaniel, came tearing into the hall, yipping excitedly.

  “Mummy’s home,” came Toby’s shout, followed by a squeal from Charlotte.

  “So much for stealth, and my thirty seconds,” Duncan said with a sigh as Toby and Charlotte pelted into the hall after the dog.

  Toby bounced up and down, teasing the dog, while Charlotte grabbed Gemma’s legs in a hug. “We’ve got a puzzle,” Toby informed her. “Harry Potter and the Quidditch Golden Snitch. It’s got a whole hundred pieces. Char’s too little to do it.”

  “Am not,” Charlotte protested as Gemma picked her up and gave her a proper hug.

  “You’re big enough to be heavy, aren’t you, lovey?” Gemma teased. “Where’s Kit?” she asked Kincaid.

  “In his room,” Kincaid answered with a shrug. They were still trying to adjust to their sociable son’s new teenage need for alone time. “Hard day?” he added softly, studying her.

  Gemma nodded. “I’ll tell you after.” Charlotte wriggled down from her hip and ran back to her puzzle.

  “I’ve got a nice bottle of sauvignon blanc chilling in the fridge. Will that help?”

  “Brilliantly.” Following him into the kitchen, she sank into a chair at the kitchen table, which was already set, and with the good dishes and glassware to boot.

  Kincaid took the wineglass from her place, filled it from the already uncorked bottle in the fridge, and handed it to her with a flourish. “Sainsbury’s finest, madam,” he said. “Crisp yet delicate, with hints of pear and citrus. Or something like that.”

  Laughing, she took a sip, held it in her mouth, then swallowed with an appreciative sigh. “I’d agree with all of the above. Maybe you missed your calling as a sommelier. Whoa,” she added as Charlotte climbed into her lap. Gemma deftly slid her wineglass out of harm’s way and settled Charlotte more firmly.

  “Mummy.” Charlotte patted her cheek to make sure of her full attention. “We saw the doggies today. Look, I drew a picture.” She handed Gemma a piece of paper she’d held crumpled in her fist.

  Smoothing out the sheet, Gemma examined two oval shapes drawn in red crayon, each with smaller circles at one end—presumably the heads, complete with triangles for ears—and four stick legs. “That’s lovely, darling. Is that Tess and Geordie?”

  “No, no.” Charlotte shook her head, curls bouncing. “We went to see Jazzer and Henny.”

  Kincaid turned from the cooker, where fish cakes had just begun to sizzle in the pan. The smell was delicious and Gemma’s stomach rumbled. “Jagger and Ginger,” he explained. “We went to see Louise. Michael was there and he and Char took the dogs for a walk.”

  “Louise? Why? Is everything all right?” Gemma reached round Charlotte, who was content to snuggle against her while tracing her crayoned dogs with a fingertip, and took another sip of her wine.

  “Fine. Erika had the boys over for lunch, and I just thought it was a nice opportunity for a visit.” He seemed to hesitate, then added, “Louise seems a bit tired.”

  “Who’s tired?” said Kit, coming into the kitchen with Toby on his heels, and trailed, as always, by Tess, his little terrier.

  “Me,” answered Gemma. “And making the most of being waited on. It sounds as if you had a nice day.”

  “Erika gave me a cool book. It’s about Darwin’s garden.” Kit went to sniff the fish cakes, taking the spatula from his dad and giving them an exploratory prod.

  “She does spoil you two,” said Gemma, but without criticism. She knew how much pleasure it gave her friend, and the little gifts were always things that interested and stimulated the boys. Gemma only hoped that Erika would one day be able to find such a close connection with Charlotte.

  Kit helped his father serve the plates—the fish cakes, a chilled yogurt and dill sauce, steamed new potatoes, and a salad. They had all got settled at the table when, from the hall where Gemma had left her handbag, came the insistent ring of a phone.

  “Oh, blood—I mean blimey,” muttered Gemma.

  Kit hopped up. “I’ll get it.”

  He was back in a moment, and having, of course, looked at the caller ID, said as he handed it to Gemma, “It’s Melody.”

  Gemma pushed her plate aside and answered the call. “Has something come up?” she asked.

  “As in a breakthrough?” Melody answered, with a laugh that sounded a little strangled. “Not unless you count Doug. He’s broken his ankl
e. He’s in Charing Cross Hospital.”

  Melody stopped at the Tesco at Notting Hill Gate and bought some grapes and a bunch of slightly wilted yellow roses. By the time she reached the hospital, she was regretting both purchases, but she carried them in anyway.

  The nurse on the ward desk told her it was past visiting hours, but when Melody showed her warrant card and said she was Doug’s fellow officer, she got a nod through.

  “Not too long, though,” the nurse added. “We’ve given him something for the pain, and he needs to rest.”

  Finding the curtained cubicle, Melody peeked in. Doug was dozing, his splinted leg propped up on pillows. He wore a pale blue hospital gown, and without his glasses and with his blond hair rumpled, he looked ridiculously young and vulnerable.

  “Hey,” she said softly. He opened his eyes and blinked at her. “Nice outfit you’ve got there,” she added.

  Fumbling his glasses from the nightstand, he put them on and glanced down at the gown. “I asked for pink, but they were out.” He seemed to be making an effort to enunciate.

  “Good thing.” She sat in the plastic bedside chair, feeling awkward, and held up the Tesco bag. “Grapes,” she said, retrieving her first offering. Looking round for someplace to put them, she settled for an empty spot on the nightstand. The flowers she drew out a little more reluctantly. “They’re a bit sad,” she apologized. “Here, I’ll put them in your water jug. I’ll ask the nurse for a clean pitcher before I go.”

  “Thanks.” He looked pleased, and she felt better.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked, glancing at the ankle.

  “Like blazes at first. Not so much now. They say it’s a clean break, but I have to stay overnight. Have to get the swelling down before they can put on the cast . . . thingy.” His eyelids drooped and he blinked owlishly at her. “Don’t want me playing football.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you after this. The lengths you’ll go to for a little attention.”

  “Lengths to get off work, more like it.”

  “Or to get out of DIY.”

  “There is that. Sorry to ruin your Saturday night,” he added.

  “I had a hot date with the telly,” she told him easily. “You’ll owe me. Now, what’s this about tomorrow morning?”

  “I could take a taxi home, but they said I’d need help getting settled. Got to keep weight off the ankle for the first day or so.” He licked at dry lips and took a sip of water before going on. “Hate to ask, but otherwise, I’ll have to ring my mum in St. Alban’s.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “Fate worse than death.”

  Melody laughed. “I know what you mean. Not to worry. Just tell me what time,” she reassured him, all the while wondering how she was going to juggle looking after Doug with the demands of a murder case.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The site attracted 2 million visitors a year and was also home to displays, festivals, music shows and over one hundred thousand soldiers during the First World War.

  —www.bbc.co.uk

  Gemma was halfway to Brixton the next morning when her mobile rang. A taxi horn blared beside her just as she picked up, and then a familiar voice said in her ear, “I do hope you’re on hands free. Talking while driving, tut-tut.”

  “Rashid, hi.” She flipped on her headset. “I’ve just crossed the Battersea Bridge, so give me a sec.” Easing into the traffic passing Battersea Park, she said, “Okay, good now. What’s up? You have something for me?”

  “I’m on my way to a scene in Tooting Bec, but it’s not one that can’t wait half an hour. I thought maybe we could meet in Brixton for a chat. I’ll be going right past.”

  Glancing at the car clock, Gemma saw that she’d be a good half hour early for the scheduled nine o’clock briefing, and from Melody’s second phone call last night detailing the arrangements for Doug, she suspected Melody might be running a bit late. “Right, I can do that.”

  “Station?”

  She thought a moment. “You know the Caffè Nero across from the tube station? Why don’t you meet me there instead. I’ll buy you a cuppa.”

  “Deal,” said Rashid, and rang off.

  There were disadvantages to having Rashid come into the station, Gemma had learned—mainly that every female in the building would come up with some excuse to stop and say hello. No one had warned her when she joined CID that a pathologist with rock-star looks might present a problem.

  And, she admitted to herself, she wasn’t averse to a little one-on-one case discussion with Rashid. Last night had not given her much chance to do more than go over the bare bones of it with Duncan. Between conferences with Melody and the normal dinner-bedtime routine with the children, she’d fallen into bed too knackered to do more than mumble a good night.

  When she reached Brixton, she parked her Escort in her designated spot in the gated police station car park, then ducked out and hurried up Brixton High Street towards the place on the second level of the old Morley’s Department Store. Only when the building was in sight did she remember that it was Sunday, and that the department store wouldn’t open until eleven.

  Rashid, however, was standing outside the Starbucks on the tube station side of the road, grinning. He wore his usual jeans and black leather bomber jacket. A woman walking by gave him a covert glance, but he seemed, as usual, completely oblivious.

  “Starbucks will have to do,” he said as she reached him. “Minus the view, but at least it’s warm.”

  “As long as there’s a double-strength latte, it could be the moon.”

  He held the door open and ushered her in with the lightest of touches on her elbow. “Early start?” he asked. “Or late night?”

  “A bit of both. And Doug Cullen fell and broke his ankle yesterday. Melody’s picking him up from hospital this morning, and Duncan’s trying to make arrangements for the children so that he can look in on him midday.”

  “How the hell did Doug do that? Sitting at the computer?” Rashid asked as Gemma got in the order queue. She didn’t have to ask his coffee preference. One of the T-shirts he wore regularly bore the slogan PATHOLOGISTS DRINK JET FUEL.

  “Apparently he’s expanding his repertoire. He fell off a ladder while trying to paint his sitting room ceiling.”

  “DIY will get you every time.” Rashid shook his head. “Silly git. He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck. I’ve seen enough cases like that.” When Gemma had picked up their coffees and they’d found a booth, he added, “Any progress with our gentleman from yesterday?”

  Gemma told him what they’d learned about Arnott’s movements on Friday evening and about his home situation, adding, “And we found a stash of bondage DVDs hidden in his home office, but there was no other evidence that he made a regular practice of it. I’m having his car gone over today, just in case he kept equipment or contacts stashed there.” She took a sip of her latte, which was still hot enough to burn her tongue. For a moment, she envied the other patrons, most of whom were lingering over spread-out copies of the Sunday Times with cooling ceramic mugs rather than paper takeaway cups. “I was hoping you’d have something more helpful,” she said to Rashid.

  He pulled a stack of printed sheets from the leather satchel he’d had slung over his shoulder. “Here’s the report with i’s dotted and t’s crossed, but in a nutshell, I can tell you that he was strangled, and that it wasn’t self-inflicted. Considering the bruising from the ligature, the pressure was definitely exerted from behind, so I think he was killed facedown, then immediately turned over.”

  “Could it have been an autoerotic liaison gone too far?”

  “Most autoerotics go it alone. And the position was wrong. Practitioners want to, um, take full advantage of the stimulus.”

  Even with his olive skin, Gemma could have sworn that the imperturbable Rashid Kaleem was blushing.

  “Besides,” he went on a little hurriedly, “the bruising was deep in the tissue. Most autoerotics just get carried away—and usually the deaths are hanging accidents—but whoever
did this really meant to do damage. And there was no evidence of anal penetration or sexual activity of any kind.”

  The older man who had been so comfortably reading his paper in the next booth stood up, giving them a disgusted glare, and walked out.

  “Oh, dear,” said Gemma, glancing round to make sure there were no other patrons within hearing distance. “I’m afraid we’ve just ruined that poor man’s breakfast.”

  “As long as he doesn’t complain to the management.” Rashid’s grin was unrepentant.

  “Any findings on the ligature?” Gemma asked, leaning a bit closer and keeping her voice down.

  “Some luck there. First, he was gagged, but not tightly. There was a little chafing at the corners of his mouth, but no tearing, and no bruising of either lips or tongue.”

  “Would the gag have been enough to keep him from crying out?”

  “He could have made some noise, but probably not anything intelligible.”

  “There was no one else in the basement rooms. And there’s a TV behind the reception desk,” Gemma mused. “I’d bet the night manager keeps it on for company.”

  “Which would have masked any sounds from downstairs, especially with the interior fire doors closed.” Rashid moved his coffee so that he could flip through the report, although Gemma was quite sure the gesture was no more than habitual. She’d never known him to have to check a fact. “I did find some interesting fibers,” he went on. “Lodged in the corners of the mouth, a very fine silk blend. Pale gray. And in the ligature bruising on the neck, a few bits of a fuzzy wool-acrylic, some fibers navy, some maroon.”

  Gemma frowned, digesting the information. “I’ll see what the SOCOs turned up as soon as I get into the station. The fuzzy stuff could have come from something that shed in the room as well.” She sipped her cooling latte, which now tasted of scalded milk. “Anything interesting from the tox screen yet?”

  “Blood alcohol was fairly high. He certainly shouldn’t have been driving. And although his judgment was almost certainly impaired, I expect he could have still put on a pretty good front.” Rashid glanced at his watch, then downed the rest of his coffee in one long swallow. “I’ll have more for you on the tox results in a couple of days, but I’d better get on to Tooting Bec. An elderly man dead in his home, but the medics found an empty bottle of sleeping pills, so the coroner will need a postmortem.