The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  As she started for Hackney, she’d tried the mobile number Tam Moran had given her for George, the drummer, which again went to voice mail.

  “Why do people bother having mobile phones if they never answer them,” she muttered. Maybe by the time she arrived, George would have rung her back.

  But when she reached the flat in the well-kept estate east of Haggerston Park, there was no one home at all. Nor was there any sign of the white Transit van she’d seen in the video footage.

  She waited a bit, in case someone showed up, but the car quickly got cold without the engine running. Frowning, she dug in her bag for the card Tam Moran had given her. His home address was near Columbia Road, not far at all. She could stop by, she thought. Tam seemed like a settled chap who might be at home on a Sunday afternoon.

  Kincaid had explained that Tam lived next door to Louise Phillips, who had been Charlotte’s father’s law partner and was now the executor of Charlotte’s estate.

  “And Andy Monahan?” she’d asked. “How do you know him?”

  “He was a witness to a murder near his flat, in that case we worked last spring—the one that involved Erika. It wasn’t until I saw him visiting Tam when I was at Louise’s last summer that I knew they had a connection. I hope he’s not involved in your murder.”

  Melody hadn’t thought it very professional to add that she hoped not, too.

  When she reached Columbia Road, she found Tam’s flat easily enough and climbed the stairs to the first-floor balcony. But the only answer to her knock was the ferocious barking of the two German shepherd dogs she could see through the flat’s front windows, and there was no sound or movement from the adjoining flat, which she assumed must be Louise’s.

  Discouraged, she went back to the car and sat for a moment, irresolute. Heavy clouds were massing in the west of the already darkening sky. She’d wasted the entire afternoon, and now the day was almost gone.

  As she reached in her bag for her phone, intending to check in with Gemma, she knocked Tam’s card from the console and it fell facedown on the passenger seat. On the back, Andy Monahan had scribbled his address and phone number.

  “Hanway Place,” she read. She remembered him saying it was just off Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. And that was right on her way back to Notting Hill.

  Bugger the band, she thought. She’d talk to Andy himself, and she wasn’t going to call first.

  Hanway Place was a dark little alley of a street, tucked away behind the massive Crossrail construction at the intersection of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Melody double-checked the address on the card, as the building looked more like a warehouse than housing. But when she’d parked and gone to the door, she found a row of bellpushes with adjacent name holders. Most of the building appeared to be empty, but beside a flat on the first floor the tag read “A. Monahan” in the same distinctive handwriting scrawled on the back of the business card.

  She pushed the bell and when the intercom clicked on, said, “It’s Melody Talbot. Can I have a word?”

  “Come on up,” answered a crackly voice, and the door latch clicked open.

  Despite the building’s unprepossessing exterior, the stairwell was clean and well lit. As she climbed, it suddenly occurred to Melody that the makeup she’d put on that morning was long gone, her hair was wind mussed, and that perhaps the long turquoise top she’d pulled on over jeans and boots that morning was not the most flattering of outfits. “Don’t be stupid,” she whispered to herself. Monahan was not going to be expecting her to pass a police officer’s dress code, and why should she care, anyway?

  When she reached the first-floor landing, one of the flat doors opened and Monahan looked out at her. “I thought it was you,” he said. “Intercom’s a bit wonky. But what would you expect, really,” he added, with a gesture that took in the building. He was wearing the wool peacoat they’d seen in the CCTV footage.

  “Just coming in or going out?” she asked as he stepped aside to let her enter the flat.

  “Coming in. Another day in the studio. Here, let me take your coat, if you won’t freeze before the central heating kicks in.” As she shed her coat, he hung it on a row of pegs beside the door, then slipped out of his own.

  It gave her a moment to look round the flat. He must have caught her glance because the look he gave her was amused. “What did you expect? A squat? I have to admit the building’s a bit grim. Most of the tenants have fled due to the Crossrail upheaval, but at least the place hasn’t gone under the wrecking ball yet.”

  “No, I— It’s just that it’s, um, interesting.” She wondered what it was about this man that seemed to put her on the wrong foot.

  “Interesting. You could say that.” He grinned, then looked at her more seriously. “Is this about your case? I don’t know that I can tell you any more than yesterday.”

  “I just wanted a chat, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Right, then. Sit down, why don’t you? I’ll make some tea. I’m parched. Unless you’d like something else? There might be a beer in the fridge,” he added a little dubiously, as if not sure what might be lurking in the refrigerator’s depths.

  “No, tea would be lovely.”

  “Tea is the police officer’s lot, I should think. Back in a tic, then.” There was none of the edginess he’d displayed yesterday in the studio, and if he was alarmed by having a police officer appear unannounced at his flat, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

  Melody watched him walk into the tiny galley kitchen and switch on the lights, but she didn’t sit. Instead, she looked round the room with the curiosity she had clearly failed to disguise. There was a futon that seemed, if the folded duvet and the pillow neatly placed at one end were an indication, to double as a bed, and an armchair that looked as if it had come from the same era and perhaps the same charity shop. A coffee table held stacks of guitar magazines, a laptop, and an empty mug; a side table held a hideous ceramic lamp that again might kindly have been called “vintage.”

  That was the sum total of furniture. The rest of the room was stuffed with the things that obviously really mattered to Andy Monahan. She counted half a dozen amps in different shapes and sizes. There were foot pedals with switches and buttons, and masses of leads running from one thing to another like a colorful nest of snakes.

  And guitars. Electric. Acoustic. Guitars on stands, guitars mounted on the wall. The far end of the room held shelves and shelves of carefully aligned CDs and vinyl albums, and in the center, a sophisticated music center that included a turntable and what Melody assumed was a mixing board.

  Through an open door, she glimpsed what she guessed was meant to be the flat’s bedroom, but it was filled with workbenches and boxes of tools. An enormous ginger cat jumped down from one of the worktables and strolled towards her, meowing plaintively.

  “That’s Bert,” Andy called from the kitchen. “Don’t mind him. He’s never met a stranger, and he never thinks he’s had enough to eat. Milk and sugar?” he added.

  “Just a bit of both, please.”

  When Andy came back into the sitting room carrying two mugs, Melody sat on the edge of the armchair, tentatively reaching down to scratch Bert’s large head.

  “Don’t you like cats?” Andy asked, handing her one of the mugs, but not sitting down himself. Melody thought he looked tired, but he seemed wired, almost humming with an undercurrent of excitement.

  “I don’t dislike them. I’ve just never had one. My parents have always had Labradors in the country—” She stopped herself before she could say “country house.” What was wrong with her? She never willingly admitted anything about her family, especially to strangers. “Why is he called Bert?” she asked, changing tack as the cat jumped up on the futon and made himself comfortable atop the pillow and duvet. His yellow eyes narrowed to slits, then closed.

  “He’s my muse.” When she looked puzzled, Andy continued. “He’s named after Bert Jansch. He was one of the best guitarists in the world.” Set
ting his mug on a stack of magazines, he took one of the acoustic guitars from its stand and sat down on the futon. He ran his fingers lightly over the strings, adjusted the tuning, then began to play a rhythmic, melodic progression that made it almost impossible for Melody not to tap her feet. His face held the same intensity she’d seen yesterday in the studio, but after a moment he stopped and looked up at her. “You don’t recognize it?”

  “No.” Melody felt as if she’d failed a test. “It’s familiar, but—”

  “It’s called ‘Angie.’ Bert Jansch’s anthem, if you like. Every guitarist worth his salt learns to play it.”

  “How old were you, then, when you learned it?”

  “It was so long ago that I don’t remember.” Shrugging, he put the guitar back in its stand, but she sensed he felt less comfortable without the instrument as a shield. He lifted his mug, sniffed at the tea suspiciously, then took a sip. “Milk’s all right, then. Haven’t been to the shops in a while,” he explained.

  “Were you recording in Crystal Palace again today?” she asked.

  “Yeah. We were actually in the studio today. Yesterday was just rehearsal space. It was—” Shaking his head, he set his tea down again, then rose and crossed the room, picking up the guitar case she hadn’t noticed by the front door. He took out the red electric guitar he’d been playing yesterday and brought it back to the futon, placing it in his lap and resting his hands on the curve of its body.

  Again, Melody sensed a barely containable energy bubbling beneath the surface of his nonchalant demeanor. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Look. I know I’m not very musical, but when I heard you yesterday, with the girl—”

  “Poppy.”

  “Right. With Poppy. The two of you—it was something . . . special.”

  Andy Monahan looked up at her, his glance searching. “You thought so, too? I’ve played with a lot of people, but there’s never been anything like that. I don’t want to—I don’t want to make too much of it. I’ve had my little sand castles washed away too many times.”

  “But if you’ve been playing with Poppy—”

  “That’s just the thing. I’d never even met her before yesterday. It was—sort of like a blind date, in musical terms. Our managers put us together.”

  “You played and sang like that, and it was the first time?” Melody stared at him. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. That’s why—” He brushed his fingers across the guitar strings in an impatient gesture. The bruise on his knuckles had darkened, and Melody noticed he didn’t wear a watch. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Andy went on, not meeting Melody’s eyes as he picked out a silent pattern of chords on the frets. “It’s just—my mates—I can’t talk to them.”

  “Nick and George? You’ve been together a long time?”

  “Ten years, on and off.”

  Thinking for a moment, Melody decided she wasn’t going to mention the fact that she’d spent the day looking for Nick and George. Or that she’d seen the CCTV footage. “So you’ve been good friends.”

  Andy nodded. “They’ve been . . . like family, I guess. When there was no one else.”

  “But you were arguing after the gig on Friday night. Before Tam picked you up.”

  He stared at her. “How—”

  “We’ve been interviewing people. Trying to find anyone who saw Vincent Arnott leave the pub. So why did you have a row with your best mates?”

  He shrugged again. “It’s been coming for a long time. I guess you could say that Poppy was just the catalyst. The band is finished. They knew it—we all knew it—but they’re still pissed at me.” He sighed. “Can’t say I blame them.”

  “So it’s your decision?”

  “It’s— It’s just that I’m better than they are. I don’t mean to sound like a total jerk. Nick and George are competent musicians. The band has been fun for them. Something to do until real life kicked in.”

  “Or their parents kicked them out,” said Melody. At his startled look, she added, “Tam gave me their home addresses. The properties aren’t registered to them. So how do you manage?” She waved round the room. “The flat. The equipment.”

  “I’ve been doing session work since I was sixteen. It’s my life, playing. And if you mean the guitars”—he gave her that sudden grin—“that’s what guitarists do. Our downfall. We make enough to eat and pay the rent, if we’re lucky, and then we buy guitars.” He waved at the workroom. “If you’re good with your hands, you learn to repair the ones you find in charity shops and car boot sales, or that other players have to sell to pay their rent.”

  Something was nagging at Melody and she suddenly realized what it was. “Andy, if you’d never played with Poppy before Saturday, you had used the studio before, right?”

  “No. Tam and Caleb set that up.”

  “But when I mentioned the Belvedere Hotel, you knew immediately where it was. And what sort of place it was.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t know Crystal Palace. I grew up there,” he added with a grimace. “I haven’t lived there in years, but the place hasn’t changed much, from what I can tell. It was Caleb who set up the gig at the pub, to see me play. A sort of audition. That’s part of the reason Nick and George were so out of sorts.”

  “Um, I’d say you were a bit out of sorts, too, if you hit a punter,” Melody reminded him, glancing pointedly at his hand.

  Andy flexed his fingers, looking rueful. “Yeah. That was pretty stupid. Believe me, I don’t make a habit of it. But I don’t like drunks. And I was already furious with Nick and George because they were deliberately sabotaging the set. Wankers. It was a lousy venue for anyone to really hear a band. I don’t know why Caleb chose it, except that the management will let him put a band in on short notice.”

  Was that what had given her the sense that he was withholding something yesterday at the studio? Melody wondered. He hadn’t wanted to talk about the rift in the band in front of Poppy and Caleb—Caleb. Melody stopped short, feeling a prize idiot.

  Caleb Hart was a regular at the pub. And she had been so focused on Andy, and so mesmerized by what she’d heard, that she hadn’t shown Hart Vincent Arnott’s photo. Hart hadn’t shown any sign of recognition when she’d mentioned Arnott’s name, but he hadn’t actually denied knowing him, either. And even if he hadn’t recognized the name, that didn’t mean he didn’t know Arnott by sight. He might even have seen him that night or on previous occasions.

  “Andy,” she said, “how well do you know Caleb Hart?”

  “Caleb? I just met him on Saturday. He came into the Stag on Friday night but I didn’t see him. Fortunately he left before the end of the first set, so he didn’t see me make a complete arse of myself.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He manages and produces. Has some clout. You should ask Tam. They go way back.”

  “I’ll talk to Tam. But I think it’s Caleb Hart I need to speak to first.” She glanced at the windows, saw that the only light now came from the glow of the sodium streetlamps. Checking her watch, she saw that it had gone six. “Damn,” she breathed. The time had flown, and she hadn’t even touched her tea. “Andy, I’ve got to go. Sorry about the—”

  “Oh, shit.” He was staring at the digital clock on his music center.

  “What—”

  “I’ve got a gig at the Twelve Bar tonight. Didn’t realize it was so late. I need to be there to set up in half an hour.”

  “The Twelve Bar?”

  “Denmark Street. Guitar club. A complete dive, but every good guitarist in the business has played there at one time or another.”

  “I can drive you,” Melody offered, feeling unaccountably guilty for having made him late.

  “No, it’s not far, and all I need is my guitar. I’ll use the club amp.” Andy studied her, and for an instant she felt as immobilized as a butterfly under glass. Then he nodded, as if he’d reached a decision. “Come with me.”

  “But—I should—”


  “Come on. If it’s Caleb Hart you want, I wouldn’t bet on your chances of finding him at home on a Sunday night. Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?” He cocked his head and gave her a quizzical look. “And if you don’t know anything about music, you owe it to yourself to learn.” When he saw her perplexed expression, he laughed. “Don’t you think it’s time you lived up to your name, Melody Talbot?”

  Andy had put the acoustic guitar he’d played for her earlier in a case, then they’d bundled into their coats and walked round the corner of Hanway Place and into the throng of Oxford Street.

  “That’s my Hummingbird,” he’d told her, patting the case.

  “Hummingbird?”

  He’d smiled. “The guitar. A Gibson Hummingbird, 1976. I have better acoustics, but there’s something about the sound of this one that I like. They all have personalities, voices. Like people.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’ll see.”

  They’d crossed Oxford Street at the lights, following the construction hoardings until they came into tiny Denmark Street from the east, passing the dark hulk of a church.

  “The street of guitars,” said Andy as they reached the narrow entrance to a club with a sign over the door saying 12 BAR. Melody caught a glimpse of a printed flyer taped to the window, a monochrome version of Andy’s face on pink paper with his name beneath it.

  “Are you famous here?” she asked.

  “It’s a small world.”

  The bloke on the desk by the door gave Andy an enthusiastic handclasp and Melody an assessing look. “Who’s this, then, mate?” he asked.

  “Melody. Leave her alone, Ricky. She’s new.”

  “Have fun, then,” Ricky told her with a wink. “And watch out for guitarists. They’re dangerous.”

  “Don’t pay him any mind,” Andy told her as he led her to the back. “He’s just jealous.”

  He bought her a glass of the only white wine available. When Melody took a sip, she thought it might as well be horse piss, but she certainly was not going to complain.