The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Andy had let go of Shaun’s T-shirt when he turned to Joe, and the boys fell against each other, laughing.

  “You—”

  “Or you could hit us with your guitar,” said Shaun. “Unless something happened to it.”

  “Ooh, wouldn’t that be a shame.” Joe giggled. “Bet you couldn’t afford to buy a new one.”

  Andy was breathing so hard his vision blurred. “Don’t you dare—”

  Shaun leaned closer, leering, daring him. “Or maybe you could get your neighbor to protect you. She’s totally hot.”

  “You bastards.” Andy took an ineffectual swing at Shaun, who was inches taller and a stone heavier. “You leave her—”

  The shop door opened and the Pakistani owner came out. “What’s this going on in front of my shop? You trying to ruin my business, you little hoodlums?” He grabbed Shaun and Joe, who were closest, by their collars. “And you, Andy Monahan, you should be ashamed of yourself. Go on now, the lot of you, or I’ll call the police.” He let Joe and Shaun go with a shove and they stumbled away, then turned and gave Andy and the shop owner a two-fingered salute before running off.

  Burning with shame, Andy said, “Mr. Patel, I didn’t—”

  “I know you didn’t start it, Andy. But you should keep away from those boys. They are bad news.” Clucking in disapproval, he went back into his shop.

  After that, Andy stopped playing his guitar on the front steps of the flat, too. He played inside, or on the back steps overlooking the barren garden when there was a patch of shade. Most days, he still waited for Nadine, but found he couldn’t talk to her without watching the top of the street for those now all-too-familiar silhouettes.

  Awkwardness seemed to develop between them. Where before they had talked so easily, now there were silences he didn’t know how to fill.

  “Andy, are you all right?” Nadine asked one afternoon. “I miss you playing. Although I hear you sometimes from my kitchen, playing on your back steps.”

  He shrugged, knowing he couldn’t tell her the real reason. “It’s hot. My hands sweat. It gets shady in the back in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, right.” Nadine rubbed the finger on her left hand where Andy thought she must have once worn a wedding ring, something he’d noticed she did when she was thinking. Or unhappy. He knew she didn’t believe him.

  “I could come out later,” he said hurriedly. “When it starts to get dark. I don’t need much light to play.” He’d never seen the boys after sunset. Night was now the only time he felt safe. “It’s cooler then.”

  “That’s a deal.” She smiled and he felt he’d been given a reprieve. “I’ll make lemonade and sandwiches for later then, shall I?”

  The scent of the geraniums grew stronger at dusk. Nadine had tended them until they’d begun to spill over the pots and trail onto the steps. That night she wore a white dress, and in the dimness the red blossoms looked like dark blood splashed across her skirt.

  She’d brought a candle as well as the promised lemonade and sandwiches, and after they’d eaten, Andy played in the flickering light.

  He’d been working on a version of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five,” but this was the first time he’d tried something so difficult in front of Nadine. After the first few bars he forgot his nervousness and lost himself in the notes.

  When he’d finished he looked up and grinned. “It needs the rhythm part.”

  “How did you learn that?” Nadine sounded awed and Andy fingered the strings on the old Höfner, suddenly shy.

  “Just listening. One of my dad’s old records.” He couldn’t afford new CDs, although he occasionally picked things up at charity shops and jumble sales.

  “Andy,” Nadine said slowly, “you say ‘just listening’ as if anyone could do that. You know that’s not the case, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I got some guitar books from the secondhand shop, so I know what the chords are called. But the songs in the books are stupid. It’s more fun to listen to things I like and try to make what I play sound the same.”

  Nadine was silent for so long that he was afraid he’d sounded a complete tosser. “I watch music videos, too,” he added, “so I can see how the real guys do it. But listening is better.”

  “Andy . . . ” This time it was Nadine who gave a little shake of her head. She’d pulled her thick chestnut hair up to cool her neck in the heat, but a loose tendril swung with the movement. “You have a gift,” she said, as serious as he’d ever heard her. “And there’s no one to—” She stopped, and he somehow knew that she’d been about to tread on territory they both avoided—his mum.

  Nadine noticed things—how could she not, living next door? She knew the hours his mum worked, knew Andy did the shopping and the cooking and made sure his mum got to and from work every day. And although he never said, he suspected she knew that there was never quite enough money to get through the week.

  Often she’d just happen to have sandwiches or biscuits for him, or she’d say she’d made more than she could eat for dinner, no point just throwing it in the bin. And he knew she kept an eye on him when he was home alone at night, which he found weirdly comforting.

  But once, when she’d hesitantly asked if it might help if she talked to his mum, he’d felt such panic that he’d shaken his head and bolted into the flat. It had been two days before he’d spoken to Nadine again, and she hadn’t brought it up since.

  He didn’t want the two halves of his life to come together. His mother didn’t approve of Nadine, although he wasn’t quite sure why. And Nadine—he didn’t want anyone, especially her, to know how bad things really were with his mum. It made him ashamed. And afraid.

  Nadine stood, suddenly. “I’ll be right back. Wait for me.”

  He sat obediently as the minutes ticked by, watching the last of the light fade over the distant city below, playing little bits of things he’d been learning, a Django Reinhardt song, the first few bars of Bert Jansch’s “Angie.” He’d begun to think he’d said something wrong and Nadine wasn’t coming back when he heard the soft click of her door latch.

  When he looked up, he saw that she was cradling a flat, rectangular guitar case against her chest.

  Sitting down, she laid the case across her knees and stroked its surface with her fingertips. “You need a better guitar.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying, but her face was concealed in shadow. She slid her hands over to the three latches and flipped them up, but still didn’t open the case. “This was my husband’s,” she said. “I haven’t opened it since he—died. But it’s doing no one any good sitting in my cupboard. I want you to have it.”

  “But—”

  “He found it in a car-boot sale. He was so proud of it, though he only messed about with playing. He hadn’t any real talent, but he recognized it when he saw it. I think he’d have wanted this”—she patted the case—“to go to someone who deserved it.”

  “But I—”

  “Shhh.” She pushed open the lid, lifted out the guitar, and handed it to him. “See? It suits you.”

  Andy could only stare at the thing he held in his hands. “It’s—”

  “A 1964 Stratocaster. Fiesta red. Marshall had it valued. Everything’s original—headstock, body, the pickups. There’s an amp, too. You can get it tomorrow.”

  Finally, he looked up at her, past feeling any shame for the tears in his eyes. “But I can’t possibly—”

  “Yes. You can. Just play, Andy.” She touched one of the geranium blossoms. “No one has been kind to me except you. Think of it as red for red.”

  It was an ugly building, one of the postwar concrete blocks that had filled the bombed gaps in the East End. Two stories, with graffiti covering sections of the street-level wall, although on a closer look Kincaid realized that it was not ordinary tagging but quite well-executed street art.

  He entered the double glass doors at the far end to find that appearances were once again deceiving. Caleb Hart’s office had an expensively fit
ted-out reception area that sported an equally decorative receptionist. On the wall above her desk a stylized logo read HART PRODUCTIONS.

  “Can I help you?” asked the receptionist, and her tone told him immediately that this was not a place where the uninvited walked in off the street.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hart.” Before she could utter the refusal forming on her lips, he added, “My name’s Duncan Kincaid. Tell him I’m a friend of Tam Moran’s.” He was glad he was no longer wearing a Scotland Yard suit—he doubted it would have cut any ice here.

  “I’ll just check,” she said, with a minute degree of thaw, and left her desk to disappear into what Kincaid assumed was the inner sanctum, rewarding him with a view of very long legs in a very short skirt.

  A moment later she reappeared. “Caleb says he’ll see you.”

  It was hardly gracious, but Kincaid considered himself lucky to have got past the guard dog.

  “Thanks.” He gave her his best smile, although he suspected it was wasted.

  The man who came out of the inner office to greet him was tall and slender, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and glasses. Kincaid thought he looked more like a teacher than a record producer, although unlike Tam, his clothing was trendy and obviously expensive. Black shirt, black silk jacket, designer jeans, high-topped boots. Kincaid felt shabby and altogether too GAP by comparison.

  “Roxy says you’re a friend of Tam’s,” said Caleb Hart, shaking his hand. “You’ve just missed him by an hour.”

  “Actually, I’ve just had lunch with him. That’s why I’m here.” Kincaid glanced round as Hart offered him a chair, not in front of his desk, but in a very retro-contemporary conversation grouping on the other side of the room. Gold CDs and posters of bands—some of whom Kincaid recognized—were mounted on the walls and shelves, but like Hart’s clothing, the display was tastefully done.

  Wondering if he had taken Tam’s excitement seriously enough, Kincaid’s interest rose a notch. “Tam asked me if I’d have a word with you,” he continued. “He told me about the video with Andy Monahan and your singer.”

  “Her name is Poppy. Poppy Jones,” said Hart, looking puzzled and a little impatient. “But I’m not sure how I can—”

  “Mr. Hart, just so there’s no misunderstanding. I’m Tam’s friend, and I know Andy. But I’m also a police officer. I wanted to make it clear, however, that I’m here in an entirely unofficial capacity.”

  Blanching, Hart said, “If Monahan is in some sort of trouble and Tam hasn’t told me—”

  Kincaid held up his hands. “No, it’s not that. As far as I’m aware, Andy Monahan hasn’t done anything wrong. But Tam said the police questioned Andy about a man who was verbally abusive to him in the pub on Friday night.”

  “The man who was murdered? Or at least I’m assuming he was murdered—the detective who came to the studio was a bit cagey.”

  “Exactly. His name was Vincent Arnott. Tam took Andy back to London immediately after the band finished their second set that night, so Andy can’t have been involved in Arnott’s death. But as Andy was the last person known to have spoken to the victim that night, Tam’s anxious to clear up anything that might potentially cause him adverse publicity.”

  “As am I,” Hart said fervently. “But I still don’t see how I can help you.”

  “When Tam was telling me what happened, he said that the pub in Crystal Palace—the White Stag, I think?—was your regular. So I thought perhaps you’d seen Arnott before. If he’d behaved that way on previous occasions, it would make his encounter with Andy Monahan less . . . notable.”

  “Ah.” Hart looked thoughtful. “I didn’t recognize the name, and the detective didn’t show me the photo. Tam didn’t describe him to me.”

  Kincaid couldn’t very well pull up the photo Gemma had sent him on his phone, so he said, “According to Tam, sixtyish, handsome, very striking silver hair.”

  “Tam would notice that he was good looking,” Hart said with a grin. “But the description doesn’t ring a bell. I haven’t been to the Stag in a while, but the manager will let me book bands in on short notice, and I wanted a look at the guitarist before I put him in the studio.”

  “Is that what you usually do?” Kincaid asked.

  “No, although generally I do like to hear session musicians before I use them. But this all came together in a bit of a last-minute rush. I’d booked the studio for Poppy, but she’d had an open-mic gig at the Troubadour the week before. Tam was there and he told me he had a guitarist that he thought would suit her perfectly.”

  “But you didn’t trust Tam’s judgment? He said you’d been friends for a long time.”

  Hart looked uncomfortable. “It’s not that I didn’t trust his judgment. But Poppy is . . . special. She’s also young, and I feel a bit in loco parentis. Poppy’s father is an old friend—and a vicar. I know I can’t shield her from everything, but I’d like to keep her out of the drugs and alcohol scene as much as possible. Not that I actually think Poppy needs much shielding,” he added a little ruefully. “She’s a strong-minded girl and as dedicated a musician as any I’ve ever worked with. Still, I never expected what happened in the studio last Saturday.”

  Kincaid waited, knowing that silence was often more encouraging than a question, and after a moment, Hart went on. “In this business, you come across something like this once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re very lucky. They are both exceptionally good musicians. But together, they become something more. Bigger than the parts. Unique.”

  “You mean like Lennon and McCartney?”

  “Oh, God.” Hart laughed. “No one dares make those sort of comparisons. But there is a . . . chemistry.”

  “Did you intend to film them?” Kincaid asked. He was genuinely curious now.

  “No. Not until halfway through the first improvised jam. And then I knew I’d better capture it while I could. They will get more polished, but there will never be the same raw joy of discovery as there was that day.”

  “Is Tam right?” Kincaid felt a frisson of excitement. Perhaps he should have taken Tam’s enthusiasm more seriously. “Could this be something really big?”

  “It’s a fickle business,” Hart said, drumming his fingers on his knee. His thumb and forefinger bore nicotine stains, Kincaid saw, but he had not noticed the smell of cigarettes. “All you can do is trust your instincts and jump on your opportunities,” Hart went on. His phone dinged, signaling a text, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket. “And I’d better be doing just th—”

  Kincaid stood, shaking Hart’s hand as he rose. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Best of luck, for all of you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hart.” Kincaid turned back as he reached the door. Hart was already replying to the text. “Tam said you left before the end of the first set. Why the rush, when you’d booked the band in specifically?”

  “I had a meeting,” Hart answered easily. “I don’t miss them for anything, even work. I’m an alcoholic, Mr. Kincaid.”

  When Melody came out of the pub and started back across Cleaver Square, the mortuary van was driving away and Rashid’s car was gone. Gemma was standing at the curb in front of the flat, conferring with Maura Bell. While Melody had been inside, the sky had gone steely gray again, and Bell had turned her trench coat collar up against the damp chill of the wind. It made her look like a Cold War spy, which, thought Melody, quite suited her.

  Melody had had the barman pack up sandwiches for her and Gemma, figuring they could eat them on the fly, but she hadn’t thought of Maura. Hastily, she stopped and tucked the package in her car.

  When she reached them, Gemma said, “I’ve sent Amanda Francis home in one of the panda cars. She says Vincent Arnott didn’t work in the same chambers as her brother, and as far as she knows, her brother wasn’t acquainted with him.”

  “Dead end there, then?”

  “No obvious lead, at any rate.”

  Melody glanced at her watch. “We were supposed to be meeting Mrs. Arno
tt’s sister at the morgue for the formal identification.”

  “So much for best-laid plans.”

  “Aye. I was going to have my toenails done.” Maura Bell’s delivery was so deadpan that Melody wasn’t sure she was joking until she saw Gemma smile.

  The two senior officers seemed to have established a rapport, and Melody felt a twinge of jealousy that surprised her.

  “I’ve sent Shara,” Gemma told Melody. “From there she can go on to Arnott’s chambers. We’ll see if anyone there knew Shaun Francis. Any luck at the pub?” she asked.

  “Francis was a regular, and apparently considerably more of one than Vincent Arnott was at the White Stag. According to the barman, he came in almost every night and took most of his meals there, but he didn’t seem to have any particular friends.”

  “That seems to have been true of Arnott as well—the friend bit,” Gemma said thoughtfully. “I wonder if that made them potential targets?”

  “What about last night?” asked Maura.

  “Francis was there. Arrived about half-past seven, had a salad and a G and T, but the barman says the place was packed and he didn’t see him after that.”

  Gemma turned to Maura. “Any CCTV coverage?”

  “Not on the square itself, no. Not exactly your usual high-crime area. I’ll pull up whatever footage I can find leading in and out of the square, though.”

  Gazing across at the pub and its now-deserted forecourt, Gemma said, “A salad and a gin and tonic. Sounds a bit girly, doesn’t it? But his sister said he was trying to lose weight, and that he’d hurt his back playing squash. That might explain the Valium.”

  “And if he was only eating a salad, the gin and the drug might have hit him harder than he expected.” Maura shrugged. “But hard enough to let someone strip him, tie him up, and strangle him? Did you ask the sister if he had a taste for kinky sex?”

  “No. She was still very shocked. And there was something . . . not quite right there. Between them, I mean. She seemed bitterly jealous of him, but at the same time, weirdly emotionally dependent.”

  “One for Hazel,” murmured Melody. When Maura gave a questioning look, she added, “A therapist friend.”