The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Reaching them, she boosted Oliver up next to Charlotte and said to Kincaid, “You cheated. You look fresh as the proverbial daisy. I can tell you didn’t run this morning.”

  “Couldn’t deal with a wet cocker spaniel. And we can’t leave him at home or he goes into a sulk that lasts for days. Get you a coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll go if you’ll keep an eye on the boy. He’ll want whatever Charlotte’s having.”

  “Mango juice.”

  “Mango juice it is.”

  When MacKenzie came back from the counter with her order, she pulled a clean notepad and a new box of crayons from her bag and settled the children with them.

  “How was your weekend?” she asked, sipping a latte as the children began to draw. Oliver was a gentle child, and Kincaid wondered, as he often did, what Kit had been like at that age.

  “It didn’t exactly go according to plan. Gemma had to work, and my sergeant—my friend,” he corrected, reminding himself once again that Doug was not actually his sergeant at the moment, “fell off a ladder and broke his ankle. Stupid git,” he added, but fondly. “Doing DIY.”

  “Ouch. Well, I’m glad it was no worse. But poor you. I’m tempted to commit hari-kari if Bill is gone at the weekend, and I only have the one to look after.”

  “A friend took the boys for part of Saturday, and another friend took all the kids yesterday so that I could go and give Doug a hand.”

  MacKenzie studied him with the frank gaze that was one of the things he liked. “You’re very lucky, you know.” She stirred a tiny bit of sugar into her coffee. “In my circles, friends only do favors if they know there’s a payback.”

  “Ouch.” Kincaid grimaced. “Now I feel a complete rotter, because I came this morning specifically to ask a favor of you. And I doubt I have anything to offer in return.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not like them, isn’t it?” said MacKenzie, instantly grave. “What is it? Do you need me to look after Charlotte?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” He was reluctant now to broach the request that had seemed so simple when it had occurred to him after his visit to Louise. “It’s about Oliver’s school.”

  Kincaid had learned that parents put their children on the waiting list for exclusive Notting Hill schools when their offspring were still in utero, if not before. And that until his discussion with Louise on Saturday, he’d had no hope of paying the fees. “You know things haven’t worked out for Charlotte at her current school,” he continued, “and we’ve been a bit . . . it’s been difficult.”

  He’d not revealed the details of Charlotte’s history to MacKenzie. “The school has made it clear they’re not prepared to work with what they referred to as a ‘special needs’ child.”

  MacKenzie gave Charlotte a startled glance. Turning back to Kincaid, she said quietly, although the children were now deep into an animated discussion about the proper color for chickens, “That’s absurd.”

  “Not exactly the most flexible of environments, I admit.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice. “What I was wondering was if there might be any chance of a placement in Oliver’s class. I think just having a friend would be a big help.”

  MacKenzie chewed on her lip. “But—”

  “If it’s the fees,” he put in quickly, “there’s been a development. We may have help from Charlotte’s estate.” He was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. “Look, MacKenzie, I’m sorry to impose on you like this. I didn’t mean to take advantage of your friendship or put you in an awkward position. And I realize I have absolutely no social clout.”

  She smiled suddenly. “Oh, but I do. And I’d certainly be happy to see if I can help you get a toe in the door. But”—she waggled a finger at him before he could respond—”I will expect something in return. And I don’t mean I want you to get me out of a parking ticket.”

  “Okay,” he said warily, hoping it was something he could deliver. “If I can—”

  “I’m giving a dinner party soon. I want you to come and bring Gemma. I think it’s high time I met your mysterious wife.”

  The atmosphere in the South London CID room was not a happy one that Monday morning.

  Gemma had left home while Duncan was still getting the kids up for school, hoping an uninterrupted hour with the case file and the whiteboard would produce some much-needed inspiration, or that she would see something that they had all unaccountably missed.

  Not long after Gemma arrived, Shara came in, yawning.

  “You’re in early,” said Gemma, resisting the impulse to yawn herself.

  “Baby didn’t sleep. It was a relief to drop the kids at day care. Seen the papers, guv?”

  “God, yes,” Gemma answered with a groan. She gestured towards the stack of papers on the conference table. Not only had the story made last night’s late-television news, all the papers had it this morning—complete with lurid details supplied by an “anonymous” witness, whom she strongly suspected was spotty Raymond, the hotel clerk.

  The worst headline blared from Melody’s father’s paper: Sicko Barrister Caught Dead in Hotel Hanky-Panky. But at least the Chronicle hadn’t accused the police of incompetence as had some of the other tabloids. Perhaps Ivan Talbot hadn’t wanted to embarrass his daughter.

  The broadsheets were a bit more circumspect, expressing dismay at the death of “an esteemed member of the law community in unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Unfortunate is bloody right,” said Gemma, pushing the papers aside in disgust. She’d seen the journalists camped out in front of the station again this morning when she arrived. The super was not going to be a happy bunny.

  Detective Superintendent Krueger had decided late yesterday that they might as well use the television news to make a plea for information from the public relating to Vincent Arnott, but so far nothing reliable had come in. Gemma had hoped a former girlfriend would come forward, or that someone would report having seen him leave the pub.

  “What’s on the slate for today, then?” asked Shara.

  “The sister-in-law is arriving from Florida this morning. I’ll talk to her once she’s made the formal ID this afternoon. I’ve got a list of the other barristers in Arnott’s chambers”—the promised e-mail from Tom Kershaw had been waiting in her in-box when she’d arrived—“but as it’s Monday morning, most of them have cases on the docket. It’ll be catch as catch can trying to get interviews. I’ll try to be in Lincoln’s Inn at lunchtime, see if anyone comes in on a break. What about your statements from the patrons at the White Stag yesterday?”

  “I’ll type up my notes, but there was nothing earthshaking. A couple of people remember Arnott shouting at the band, thought he’d had a bit too much to drink. If we had even a rough description of the woman, it might jog someone’s memory.”

  While Shara settled down at her computer, Gemma sat at another, watching the CCTV footage loop, going backwards and forwards, slowing it down, speeding it up. She saw the band arrive, the three musicians together. Now that Kincaid had jogged her memory, she recognized Andy Monahan, even from a brief glimpse in the grainy footage. The band unloaded their equipment; then Andy and the thin bloke went into the pub. The chubby bloke drove the van away and came back a few minutes later.

  At a few minutes after the time Kathy Arnott had told them her television program began, she saw Vincent Arnott come into the frame and enter the pub. It made her feel odd, to see the victim alive, walking quickly and purposefully into the pub. Alone.

  Alone. Was that the key? Would the woman he’d left with have come alone as well? It was possible that she’d come with a group and separated from them once she’d met a likely prospect, but in that case, why had no one reported it?

  Slowing the tape again, Gemma watched as the punters ebbed and flowed from the pub’s entrance, looking for a woman arriving on her own.

  She’d begun to wonder about Melody when Melody came in, looking harried and slightly flushed. “Sorry, guv,” she sai
d, hanging up her coat and dumping her bag on a chair. “Monday morning, dreadful traffic.”

  Gemma pushed away from the computer, her eyes stinging from concentrating on the screen. “Must have been an accident since I came in, then, but I was early. How’s Doug? Did you check in on him last night?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t. Never had a chance.” Melody slid into one of the workstations and was already tapping up the case file on the computer, her back to Gemma. “I’ll give him a shout in a bit. So, any progress today? What’s on our agenda? And where’s the super?”

  “No sign of Krueger this morning.” She looked towards their superintendent’s glassed-in cubicle. The door was still closed, the blinds drawn. “That’s a bit odd, the boss skiving off on a Monday morning. Maybe we should be counting our blessings. Oh, Melody,” she added as it occurred to her, “what about your guitar bloke? Have any luck there?”

  Melody knocked a stack of papers from the workstation surface. She knelt, muttering and scrabbling for them, and only when she’d replaced them on the desk in a neat stack did she turn to Gemma. “Not really. It seems the band is splitting up and it was just a bad night all round. I still haven’t managed to track down the drummer and the bass player. But it did occur to me that Caleb Hart, the producer who booked the band into the pub, might know Arnott at least by sight. He didn’t react when I mentioned Arnott’s name at the recording studio on Saturday, but then I didn’t show him Arnott’s photo.”

  “That’s something to follow up,” said Gemma. “Oh, and I think Duncan told you that he knows the band’s manager, Tam Moran? He thought he might have a word with Tam. I’m sure he could get Caleb Hart’s contact information from him.”

  Melody stared at her, looking unaccountably dismayed. “But—I’d thought I could—I’m sure the recording studio will know how to get in touch with Hart. Or Reg at the pub—”

  The CID room door swung open and Superintendent Krueger walked in. One look at her face froze Melody in midsentence, and made Gemma’s heart contract in anticipation of very bad news. She had an instant to hope that it wasn’t their screwup.

  “I’ve had a call from Southwark,” said Krueger. “We have another victim. Male. Found dead in his flat this morning. Naked, trussed, and strangled.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cleaver Square is a paradox. Sandwiched between two busy streets, it provides a sense of eerie calm rarely seen outside of a Hitchcock movie. Shielded from the outside world with perfectly aligned houses and shaded by tall trees, the square is a regular host to boules games, providing the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful afternoon: the sound of the metal balls hitting the ground; the air rushing through the leaves; the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. Just sit on a bench, and observe.

  —www.themagnificentsomething.com

  The address Gemma had been given was in Cleaver Square, near the Kennington tube station. The square was a perfect rectangle of Georgian terraced houses surrounding an unfenced tree-lined garden. There was a pleasant-looking pub in the far right-hand corner, but the obvious activity was on the left side of the square, where the road was blocked by a phalanx of panda cars with blue lights flashing.

  Finding a place to park between the pub and the crime scene, Gemma was pleased to see Melody’s Clio pull in behind her.

  “Major circus,” said Melody as she got out and they walked towards the scene. “But it’s obviously not a hotel, so maybe it has nothing to do with us.”

  “Maybe.” Gemma thought that was wishful thinking, which was not usually one of Melody’s indulgences. “I’d say we’re just lucky the rain has let up.”

  They showed their IDs to the uniformed constable doing perimeter duty by the first panda car. “South London MIT,” Gemma added.

  He was young enough to look impressed. “Guvnor’s expecting you.” He nodded towards a slender, dark-haired woman in a Burberry standing in front of a flat with a yellow door.

  Gemma stared at the detective, knowing her face was familiar but not quite able to place her. “Your guv’nor,” she said to the constable, “DI—” She let it hang as a question and the constable cooperated.

  “DI Maura Bell, ma’am. Southwark Station.

  Gemma thanked him, then muttered, “Bugger,” under her breath as she and Melody walked towards the flat.

  “What’s up, boss?” asked Melody.

  “I know her. And I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  But when they reached Detective Inspector Bell and introduced themselves, Bell showed no immediate sign of recognition.

  “The techs are here, and we’re expecting the pathologist any moment,” said Bell, with a faint trace of the Scots accent that Gemma remembered. “But I imagine you’d like to have a look straightaway.” She shook her head. “This is a weird one. Certainly not your ordinary weekend domestic.” She gestured towards the flat, which was surrounded by a low, wrought-iron railing. “It’s the ground floor. The door was locked, the victim’s keys inside. No sign of forced entry in the front or back. None of the neighbors—at least none that we’ve spoken to—reported a disturbance.”

  “He lived alone?” asked Melody.

  “Apparently. His name is Shaun Francis. His sister called it in. Said they work in the same office. She was worried when he didn’t show up for work this morning and didn’t answer his phone. Afraid he might be ill. Turned out to be an understatement. She came over and let herself in with her own set of keys.” Bell nodded towards the panda car farthest from the flat. “She’s quite shocked. I’ve got her sitting with one of the PCs for the moment.”

  “I’d rather have a look inside before we speak to her,” said Gemma.

  “Be my guest.” Bell tapped on the yellow door and a constable opened it immediately.

  The main entrance led into a central hallway, lit by the fanlight above the door. A staircase led up to the next two floors, and an interior door stood open on the left. This, Gemma surmised, was the ground-floor flat, but she paused before entering. “Both outer and inner doors were locked?”

  “Yes. No one’s home in either of the upstairs flats or the basement flat.”

  “A nasty surprise when they get home, then,” said Gemma. “But we’ll definitely need statements. It’s possible they heard something they didn’t identify as odd at the time.” After another glance around the hallway, she stepped into the flat, followed by Melody and Bell.

  Behind her, Melody murmured, “I hate seeing these Georgian houses converted into flats, but this one doesn’t seem to have been done too badly.”

  “I try to keep in mind that they didn’t have plumbing,” said Bell. “Lessens the pain considerably. As does the fact that the servants lived in the basement.”

  Shooting a glance at Gemma, Melody whispered, “Bit prickly,” as they moved into the room.

  Gemma had more sympathy with Bell’s attitude, considering that she came from a family whose ancestors would undoubtedly have labored in the basement and carried the chamber pots up and down the stairs.

  A very small foyer with coat hooks and an umbrella stand led into a sitting room filled with light from the two large front windows. Gemma’s first thought was that the flat was very deliberately masculine. Taupe walls with gleaming white trim, large expensive-looking sofa and chairs in coordinating taupe fabrics. Crimson accents. Expensive media gadgets and contemporary art that looked as though it might be original. A new issue of GQ was thrown casually across a stack of Sunday’s papers on the coffee table, and a set of keys lay in a porcelain bowl on a console table in the foyer.

  “Interior designer,” Melody said with conviction. “And he used a good one. Didn’t mind spending money.”

  Nothing in the sitting room seemed disturbed or unusual, so Gemma walked on, towards the open kitchen tucked into the middle of the flat. Although small, it was fitted out with the latest decor and appliances, but she saw no evidence that its owner had actually cooked.

  By the time she reached the door to the bedroom
just beyond the kitchen, the smell that had been tickling the back of her nostrils became unpleasantly pronounced. Decay, human waste, and something else she couldn’t quite identify.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she said as she looked into the room.

  Two unfamiliar SOCOs in bunny suits were processing the scene, but they didn’t block the view of the bed. The sheets were pulled back, as they had been at the Belvedere. But this was no cheap, rickety hotel bed. Massive and modern, it dominated the room, and made the figure lying facedown upon it seem even more grotesque.

  This man was younger. Much younger. Brown hair that looked—at least from the back—as if it had been expensively barbered. A slightly stocky build with the beginnings of thickening at the waist.

  Sturdy ankles—ankles bound with a brown leather belt.

  Wrists bound behind his back with a tie. Liberty of London, how posh, thought the part of Gemma’s mind that was picking out details from the big picture. A bit feminine compared to the atmosphere of the flat. Had it belonged to the victim?

  And around his neck, a fine, gray silk scarf.

  “No gag this time,” said a familiar voice behind Gemma. “And he’s facedown.”

  “Good God, Rashid,” she said, turning. “You gave me a fright. Don’t you ever take a day off?” she added, looking at him more closely. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Short rota. Two pathologists down with winter flu.”

  “Well, I’m just as glad it’s you, considering.” Gemma turned back to the room but was careful not to step into it. “What do you think?” she asked quietly. “Is it the same perpetrator?”

  “I’d be willing to bet all my accumulated vacation time on that being the scarf used to gag Vincent Arnott.”

  “If that’s true, why use it as the ligature this time? And why leave it behind?”

  “First things first.” Rashid turned to the taller of the techs. “Laurence, mate. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Got your booties on?” Laurence gave him the once-over. “Right, then. Just watch your step.”