The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “The only verifiable thing I know is that Andy played the second set with the band, and that you picked him up outside the pub afterwards. You told Melody—Sergeant Talbot—that you drove him home. I know where Andy lives, and I think it’s highly unlikely he could have got back to the Belvedere Hotel in Crystal Palace from Oxford Street in time to murder Vincent Arnott. Anyone else could be in the frame.”

  Tam dropped his cutlery on the plate with a clatter. “What is this, bloody Big Brother? And how do you know where Andy lives?” His raised voice was enough to make Charlotte look up anxiously at Kincaid.

  “Is Tam mad at you, Papa?” she asked. “I don’t like people being mad.”

  “No, sweetie.” Kincaid shook his head at Tam, then helped Charlotte cut up some more of her rarebit and toast. “Would Bob like some Welsh rabbit, too?” He mimed feeding the plush elephant an imaginary bite, and Charlotte giggled.

  “There was a CCTV camera outside the pub,” Kincaid explained quietly to Tam. He picked up his own knife and fork and started on his haddock, irritated with himself for having let the conversation get out of hand. He’d needed reminding that he was here as a friend, not a policeman. “And the reason I know where Andy lives is another story that has nothing to do with any of this,” he went on. “I knew Andy before I ever met you.”

  “He never said.”

  “He’d have had no reason. He was a witness in a case. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now I only want to help the both of you if I can.”

  “I’m sorry, Duncan,” said Tam more calmly. “Didn’t mean to lose my temper. But you have to understand how important this is.” He leaned over the table in entreaty. “Andy—well, Andy’s special. I suppose he’s a bit like a son to me. I saw him play in a club when he was just barely out of school, signed him then and there. He hadn’t any family, so I’ve always tried to look after him if I could. And now, this thing with Caleb and the girl—I don’t know that either of us will ever have another chance like this. If there’s anything you can do to clear this up—”

  “Well, why don’t I talk to Caleb Hart? Unofficially. Maybe I can stave off the official interview if he can account for his whereabouts after he left the pub that night.”

  Tam took a bite of his pork and chewed thoughtfully. “Caleb and I go back a long way. I know he’s had some problems in the past, but he’s always been straight with me. And he did me a favor by asking me if I had a session guitarist to work with his girl, when he knew how good she was. So I owe him. If you could do it, maybe, delicate like?”

  “Delicacy is my middle name.”

  Tam looked unconvinced, but he sighed and said, “His office is just round the corner, in Hanbury Street.”

  Melody could see that Gemma was not amused by her “Let’s kill all the lawyers” reference.

  “Henry the Sixth?” said Maura Bell. “I did Shakespeare at school, too, you know,” she added to Melody, as if Melody had questioned her scholastic credentials.

  “Just don’t anyone breathe the words serial killer,” said Gemma. “There’s got to be some connection between these two men, other than being barristers who frequented pubs before they were strangled. But we have got to make certain that no one says anything to the press about the manner of death.

  “We couldn’t keep what happened at the Belvedere quiet because of the hotel staff. But here, the sister’s the only one who saw anything, right, Maura?”

  “I’ve had a PC with her in the car, and I think she was too shocked to talk to anyone.”

  “Let’s try to keep it that way. Melody, can you go have a word at the pub while I speak to the sister? Oh, and look out for a puddle of sick as you go.”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Melody, but despite the sarcasm she was happy enough to have a few minutes to herself.

  Melody surveyed the square. Assuming Shaun Francis had been at the Prince of Wales, and he had been drunk and ill, would he have gone round by the pavement to get home, or taken the most direct route, across the unfenced garden?

  Garden, she thought, even in the dark, so she cut through it herself, walking carefully, eyes on the ground. She saw it about halfway across, rain diluted, but unmistakably a pool of vomit.

  “Oi!” she shouted at the constable who’d checked their IDs, motioning him over. “Mark this, will you?” she asked. “And have someone keep an eye on it until the SOCOs can get to it.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am,” the constable responded, giving her a skeptical look.

  “Yours is not to question why,” she responded, grinning, and he tipped his cap to her in a mock salute.

  “Cheeky sod,” she muttered, making sure he heard her as she walked away.

  As she neared the pub, cooking odors wafted out to greet her and she realized she was starving. She admonished her stomach to behave itself as she studied the pub.

  The Prince of Wales was a charming place, with a narrow redbrick Georgian facade. Even in January, flowers cascaded from planters above the bright blue ground-floor awnings, and the lunchtime crowd was still braving the cold to enjoy drinks at the tables in the small forecourt.

  She imagined coming here with Andy for a leisurely drink, then quickly banished the thought as she felt the color rise in her face. How did she even know he would want to see her again, much less go out with her?

  She went into the pub and threaded her way to the bar.

  “What can I get you?” asked the barman when she’d got his attention.

  “A chat.” She showed him her ID.

  His eyes widened. “Is this about all the commotion on the other side of the square? I wondered what was going on.” He was young, friendly, and good looking, and from the assessing look he gave Melody, not unappreciative. All the better, she thought, and smiled at him.

  “It is, actually. I have some questions about last night and about one of your patrons. A regular, I think—Shaun Francis.”

  “Shaun? Yeah, I’d say regular—regular as clockwork. Eats—and drinks—here most nights.” He glanced out the front window at the police cars on the other side of the square. “Lives across the way. Not sure which flat. Has something happened to him?”

  Melody avoided the question. “Was he here last night?”

  The barman wiped a glass with a towel for a moment, frowning. “Yeah. At least early on. He had something to eat—a salad, the smoked mackerel, I think. That, and a gin and tonic. He said he was doing a bit of slimming, so no beer and no chips.”

  “That takes the fun out of things a bit, I should think.”

  He met her eyes. “I’ll bet you can have all the beer and chips you want.” Definitely a practiced flirt.

  “About Shaun Francis,” said Melody. “Do you mean he didn’t stay long last night?”

  “No, just that I only served him the once. It was bloody sardines in here last night. Three of us on the bar. And as the rain had let up, there was a full crowd outside as well.”

  “When you served him the meal and the G and T, what time was it?”

  “Half seven, maybe. Why all the—”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  The barman thought, then shook his head. “Not that I noticed.”

  “Was there anyone in particular he talked to regularly? Friends he met up with?”

  Shrugging, the barman said, “Oh, you know, lawyers. We have a lot of lawyers and MPs round here, and the occasional actor or media type. Most of the lawyers seem to know each other. But—” He paused, then gave a flick of the towel and went on. “Shaun likes to talk about himself. He can usually find someone to impress, but I don’t notice people seeking him out.” He grimaced. “Ouch. That sounds a bit hard. I probably shouldn’t be saying this.”

  “Tell me anyway. You can put it down to police coercion.” Melody propped her elbows on the bar and gave him her most encouraging look.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Handcuffs and all?”

  That cut a little close to the bone, thought Melody, but merely said, “Go on, then
.”

  “It’s just that the bar staff has learned to avoid Shaun like the plague on quiet nights. No one wants to get stuck listening to an hour’s monologue on some important case he’s just tried, or hear about some new gadget he’s bought for his flat.” He glanced round, making sure the patrons on either side were involved in their own conversations, then added more quietly, “To be honest, Shaun’s a bit of a prick.”

  Just as Gemma glanced towards the car where Shaun Francis’s sister was sitting with the uniformed PC, the mortuary van pulled up. “Oh, bugger,” she said to Maura. “I’d like to spare her seeing the removal. Tell them to hold off for a bit, even if Rashid’s finished. Let me interview her, then we’ll get her prints for elimination and see if we can arrange for someone to see her home.”

  She’d started towards the panda car when her phone rang.

  “Hullo, love,” said Kincaid when she answered. “I hate to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to know I’ve spoken to Tam. I don’t think either Tam or Andy Monahan can have had anything to do with your murder on Friday night. But Tam says that Caleb Hart, the producer who arranged the band’s gig, left after the first set. He said he had a meeting.”

  “Did Tam know if he knew Vincent Arnott?” Gemma asked, watching one of the SOCOs cross the garden to the spot where she’d seen Melody flag the vomit sample.

  “Not that Tam was aware. But he’s given me Caleb Hart’s office address, and I’m not far from there. It’s in Hanbury Street.”

  “Hanbury Street? What are you doing there?”

  “I’m at Spitalfields Market, actually.” When he paused, she heard voices in the background, one of them definitely Charlotte’s. “Look, love,” Kincaid went on, “it’s complicated. And I know I’ll be treading on your territory if I talk to Hart. But it turns out that Tam has a vested interest in Caleb Hart’s feathers not being ruffled any more than necessary at the moment—I’ll explain when I see you. Tam thought I might smooth the way.”

  “You can’t take Charlotte with you to interview a witness—or a potential suspect,” she protested.

  “I’ve got Doug with me. He can look after her here at the market for a few minutes.”

  “Doug? What the—no, no, just tell me later.” Gemma weighed just how much trouble she might get into over Duncan’s interference against the expediency of getting information quickly. “Okay. But make sure it’s clear you’re there on Tam’s behalf and that it’s not official. And while you’re at it, ask him where he was last night between ten and midnight.”

  Kincaid’s comprehension was instant. “What’s happened?”

  “Another dead lawyer. A barrister, but young this time. Found in his flat in Cleaver Square by his sister this morning. That’s where I am now.”

  “Same method?”

  “It looks that way, but this time the killer left the scarf. Oh, and, Duncan, you remember the DI you worked with in Southwark on the arson case?”

  “Maura Bell.” He sounded suddenly cautious.

  “It’s her investigation. Or it was, until they called us in.”

  “Ah, well. You might want to wear your stab vest. She’s a wee bit territorial.”

  The female constable who had been sitting in the car with Shaun Francis’s sister got out as Gemma approached. “I’m glad to see you, ma’am.” Nodding towards the car, she added, “She’s calmed down a bit now and is wanting to make phone calls. I’ve asked her to wait until she’s spoken to you. One of the lads went round the corner to the shops and got her a cup of tea.”

  “Good idea.” Gemma realized her hands were freezing and rubbed them together. “I’d kill for a cuppa.”

  “I’ll go myself,” said the constable. “Won’t be a tic.” The constable turned back. “Her name’s Amanda, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Oh, milk, no sugar,” Gemma called after her as the PC set off in the direction of Kennington Road.

  Taking a breath, she walked to the car and slid in next to the woman in the backseat. “I’m Detective Inspector James,” she said. “I’m the senior officer in charge of looking into what’s happened to your brother. You’re Amanda, right? Amanda Francis?”

  The woman nodded. She was, Gemma thought, about her own age. Her brother’s tendency to put on a bit of weight around his middle had in her been translated into an overall heaviness. She wore all black, as if she’d come prepared for mourning, and her square face was red and blotched with weeping. In one blunt hand, she clutched a polystyrene cup of tea that had gone scummy on the surface, in the other, a soggy tissue.

  “Tell me what happened this morning,” Gemma said gently. “Why were you worried about your brother?”

  “We—we’re in the same”—Amanda Francis’s voice caught and she stopped to clear her throat—“chambers. Shaun was supposed to be in court this morning. A big case. For all his faults, he’s not likely to be late for something that’s to his benefit.”

  “So you rang him?”

  Amanda nodded. “I left half a dozen messages. By the time the hearing had started and I still hadn’t heard from him, I was frantic. I thought maybe he was ill. Or—I don’t know. I never imagined—” She looked at Gemma with shocked dark eyes. “How could—why would—”

  Gemma patted her hand, then dug in her coat pocket for a fresh tissue from her emergency packet. There were times when mummy preparedness paid off on the job. “Let’s back up a bit, why don’t we? I understand your brother was a barrister, and you worked together. Are you a barrister, too?”

  Taking the offered tissue, Amanda blew her already swollen nose. “No. I’m a legal secretary. I’m two years older, but when Father died, there wasn’t enough money to keep both of us in good schools and then uni. So I trained as a paralegal, and then when Shaun finished his law degree, I convinced my head of chambers to take him on.” Pride and resentment warred in her voice.

  “Your chambers,” said Gemma, keeping her voice level, “is there another barrister called Vincent Arnott?”

  Amanda looked at her blankly. “Never heard of him. What has that to do with Shaun?”

  Well, that was one easy connection she could cross off her list, thought Gemma. She tried another tack. “Were you close, you and your brother?”

  “I don’t know.” Amanda’s laugh was harsh. “By what standards? Other brothers and sisters? All I can tell you is that if Shaun needed something, he would call me. Always available Amanda, that’s me.” Her face crumpled. “Now what am I going to do?”

  A tap at the window signaled the return of the friendly PC. “Ta,” said Gemma as she rolled the window down and took the steaming cup.

  The distraction had given Amanda Francis a chance to get herself under control again.

  “Amanda, had you noticed anything different about Shaun recently?” asked Gemma as she turned back to her. “New friends? New girlfriend? Was he worried about anything?”

  “Shaun’s girlfriends tended not to last long. And friends—he hung out with some of the guys from chambers. And the pub here.” She glanced across the square. “Not that he ever invited me.”

  “What about yesterday? Did you speak to him? Did he say anything about his plans?”

  “He was going to play squash,” Amanda said with a disapproving sniff. “He was never any good at sports, but lately he’d been on this slimming thing and had started playing squash at the weekends. He’d pulled a muscle in his back and I told him it was stupid not to lay off a bit longer. But of course he didn’t listen—”

  She stopped, shaking her head, her eyes brimming. “How stupid. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Whatever I said, or whether or not he paid attention. Did I—did I really see what I thought I saw? Did someone really do that—those—things to him?”

  Glancing towards the flat, Gemma saw Rashid come out of the building and speak to Maura Bell. They’d need that print kit, and she needed to get Amanda Francis away from the scene.

  “Amanda, did you drive here or come on the tube?”

 
; “Oh, the tube. I don’t have a car. I take the train into the City from Dulwich every day.”

  “Dulwich?” asked Gemma, alarm bells ringing. That was almost to Crystal Palace. And hadn’t there been someone else mentioned who lived in Dulwich?

  “I can’t afford a flat in the city, like Shaun.” Even now, Amanda Francis couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “I still live with my mum in—Oh, God.” She put a shaking hand to her mouth and her words came out in a wail. “How am I going to tell my mother that Shaun is dead?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Crystal Palace was cursed by bad luck and financial crisis. In 1861 the Palace was damaged by strong winds and on Sunday 30th December 1866 a fire broke out destroying the North End of the building along with many natural history exhibits.

  —www.bbc.co.uk

  He gave up going to the park to practice. Now that the boys knew where he lived, they seemed to appear like shadows wherever he went.

  Just bullies, he told himself. He knew enough like them at school, and he’d learned that the best way to deal with their sort was to pretend they were invisible. But it had taken the joy out of playing his guitar on the steps by the Sphinx, and he felt threatened by their presence in a way he didn’t quite understand.

  What did they want with him? Why, when they had money and things and the freedom to go where they pleased, did they care about a poor kid from Crystal Palace?

  He’d never told them his name, but one day when he’d walked his mum to the pub for her shift and she’d given him an unexpectedly affectionate hug, he turned and found them watching from outside the shop next door.

  “Your mum’s a bit of a slag, eh, Andy,” said Shaun, and Joe snickered. “You didn’t tell us she worked in a shit hole of a bar.”

  Andy had had enough. He was on them in an instant, grabbing Shaun by the front of his T-shirt. “You just leave me the fuck alone. And you leave my mum the fuck alone.”

  “Oh, look, it can swear,” mocked Joe, his voice high with excitement. “What are you going to do about it? Tell your mum? Fat lot she could do.”