The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  She eased the lid off her cup, using the moment to study him. He seemed very different from the cheeky bloke she’d occasionally seen coming and going from Tam and Michael’s flat when she was visiting Louise. He was older than she’d thought, and perhaps, up close, more good looking, with his shadowed dark blue eyes and tousled, blond-tipped hair. And in the video, she’d seen the grace and skill in his playing, and something else that was both indefinable and undeniable. He had star quality, whatever that was, and she wondered suddenly what he would be willing to do for the success he deserved.

  “Tell me about Shaun Francis,” she said.

  Andy gave her a startled glance, as if he’d expected her to make small talk. She tapped her watch. “You’re the one on a schedule.”

  “I told Melody. I met him one summer when we were kids, in Crystal Palace Park. I didn’t like him. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Taking out her phone, Gemma pulled up a photo they’d copied from one in Shaun Francis’s flat and handed it across to Andy.

  He looked at the picture, frowning, then shook his head and gave it back to her. “If that’s Shaun, I’m not sure I’d have recognized him.” He rubbed his fingers on the leg of his jeans—an odd gesture, thought Gemma, as if he were erasing even such distant contact.

  “Did you know he lived in Cleaver Square?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Have you ever been to the pub there, the Prince of Wales?”

  “Yeah, but not for a while. I’ve a photographer mate who uses the Camera Club round the corner. I’ve been for a drink with him when he’s done some publicity shots for the band, but he’s been in Australia this year.”

  Gemma made a mental note to check how long Shaun Francis had been living in the Cleaver Square flat. “But you didn’t see Shaun when you were there?”

  “No, I’ve told you. I don’t think so.”

  “Would Shaun have recognized you?” she asked, thinking about it the other way round. “If he’d seen you somewhere—anywhere, not just in the Prince of Wales.”

  He seemed taken aback. “I don’t know. Maybe. I was skinny and blond all those years ago, too. But really blond,” he added with the first hint of a smile she’d seen, touching his hair. “Like barley straw, and that summer it was bleached almost white from the sun. But what if he did? I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”

  “I don’t, either.” Gemma changed tack. “What about Caleb Hart? What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a friend of Tam’s. He seems like a good guy, and he really knows his stuff, musically.” Andy moved his coffee in a circle on the table, but he hadn’t taken a sip. “You can’t possibly think Caleb has anything to do with these—these deaths. That would be mad.”

  “Murders,” Gemma corrected him, holding his gaze. “And I think whoever is doing this might be quite mad, actually.”

  It was Andy who broke the eye contact first. “I can’t help you. And I’ve got to go.” He hadn’t bothered looking at the time on his phone again. Standing, he retrieved his guitar case, and Gemma resigned herself to letting him go. For the moment. She didn’t think he’d lied to her, but she was equally sure that he hadn’t told her the whole truth.

  “Andy,” Gemma said quietly as he turned towards the door, “Melody had no choice but to speak to me.”

  “I know,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it any better.” And then he was out the door and gone, swallowed up by the milling crowd in Oxford Street.

  Having done the post-breakfast washing-up and got Charlotte settled in the sitting room for her allotted half hour of morning telly on BBC2, Kincaid was looking out into the garden, weighing the look of the sky against the prospect of a run in the park.

  He’d just decided that the best option might be to leave Geordie at home and take Charlotte for a gentle jog in the direction of Portobello Road, where they could take cover if needed.

  “Slacker,” he said aloud, chiding himself. But the dark day seemed to call out for color and crowds, not an isolated pounding of the paths in the park.

  The doorbell rang, making him jump and startling the dogs into a frenzy of barking. Charlotte, mesmerized by the garishly colored animated figures on the television, remained unperturbed.

  Wondering if Gemma had ordered something and forgotten to tell him, he went to the door and looked out the sidelight. A black Mercedes SUV he didn’t recognize idled at the curb, plumes of white fog drifting from its exhaust. Frowning, he opened the door and found MacKenzie Williams standing on his doorstep.

  “Duncan,” she said, “sorry to drop by unannounced, but I didn’t have your mobile number, and I knew where your house was because you’d told me.”

  “Not to worry.” He was surprised, pleased, and a little disconcerted. “Are you all right? Won’t you come in?”

  “I’m fine, and no, I can’t stay. I’ve got a job to go to this morning. That’s why I stopped by, because I knew I’d miss you at K and P.”

  Hushing the dogs at his ankles and stepping outside, he wondered what sort of job it was. She had her long, curly hair pulled up in an untidy bunch, wore not a stitch of makeup, and looked as though she’d thrown on her old waxed jacket and faded jeans in her sleep. “I had some news for you and it couldn’t wait,” she went on, grinning. “There was a parents’ evening at the school last night, and I’ve convinced the head to at least consider Charlotte for placement. You’ve an appointment tomorrow morning at ten.” MacKenzie couldn’t have looked more pleased with herself if she’d just given him the crown jewels.

  “But—”

  “Oliver will be in his class. I can wait in reception with Charlotte while you talk to the head. And she may want to see Charlotte as well.”

  “Oh, I—” Kincaid collected himself. “MacKenzie, you’re brilliant. But what should I—What does one wear to an interview with the headmaster? It feels like a state visit.”

  “It’s headmistress,” MacKenzie warned. “And she won’t like it if you assume otherwise.” She pursed her lips, giving him a considering glance. “I’d go for nice but casual, the stay-at-home Notting Hill dad look. No suit. You’ll do fine.”

  “Will I need any sort of paperwork or credentials?”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ve told her all about you.”

  “Now I really am terrified,” he said, joking, but he was feeling a bit gobsmacked by the speed of MacKenzie’s results, and her apparent influence. And by the fact that he had yet to speak to Gemma about any of this.

  “I’ll see you at the school, then, a bit before ten tomorrow? You know where it is?”

  Kincaid nodded. It was east of Notting Hill Gate, and he’d seen the children coming out in their uniforms often enough.

  “Got to dash. Cheerio.” MacKenzie waggled her fingers at him, ran lightly to her car, and drove away, leaving Kincaid staring after her and feeling as if he’d just been blitzed by a force of nature.

  He’d just come in and shut the door when his mobile rang. He swore under his breath as he realized he still hadn’t given MacKenzie his number, in case of a hitch, and then he wondered if Gemma or one of the boys had forgotten something or if Doug was going stir-crazy again.

  But it was Tam on the other end of the line, his voice high and his Scots accent more pronounced than usual.

  “Duncan, our Andy just rang me and said Gemma turned up at his flat this morning to question him. Something about anither murder and a lad he knew from years ago, and what I’m wondering is why Gemma would think he knew anything at all about that?”

  Still trying to work out whether or not that had been a question, Kincaid said, “Whoa, Tam. You knew it was Gemma’s case, the murder in Crystal Palace. There’s a possibility that the two might be connected.”

  “But why talk to Andy?” Tam asked, a bit more coherently. “How did Gemma ken that Andy knew this lad?”

  “He wasn’t a lad anymore. He was a junior barrister, living in Kennington. And as for how Gemma k
new, did Andy not tell you?”

  “He was blathering something about that dark-haired lass, the constable that came to the studio.”

  “Melody. And you know perfectly well she’s a detective sergeant. She told Andy about the second murder, um, in passing, and Andy recognized the name. Simple enough.”

  There was silence on the other end. “In passing?” Tam said at last. “Are you telling me that the lad has gone and got himself involved with a lady copper? I thought he was a wee bit smitten, but not that he’d gone right off his haid.”

  “You should be glad, for his sake. It looks as though she’s his alibi for the time of the second murder.”

  “And why would he need an alibi, Duncan, tell me that? I should never have spoken to you about him.”

  Kincaid was still standing at the front window. The sky had grown darker, and now the first fat drops of rain splashed against the pavement. “Tam—”

  “Och, I’m sorry.” Tam sighed. “It’s not your fault. But I don’t understand what’s going on here. If the lad cannae have had anything to do with either of these . . . incidents, then why is he in such a lather? He’s even saying he’s not sure he wants to sign the contract with Caleb. I’ve told him he’s lost all sense but I cannae seem to get through to him.”

  Crystal Palace, thought Kincaid. That was the common factor. The first murder had taken place there. Andy Monahan had grown up there. Andy had met the second victim there. “Tam, what do you know about Andy’s background? You said he hadn’t any family when you first met him, and that he was not long out of school. Has he ever talked about his childhood? Or about what happened to his family?”

  “No. Not to speak of. But”—Tam sounded reluctant—“he might have said a few things over the years that gave me the impression his mum was a bit overfond of the drink. He gets a bit shirty with the lads—and sometimes the punters—if they’re over the limit.”

  Kincaid was certain that was not quite all. “And?”

  “And . . . I might have mentioned that to Caleb . . . I didn’t say that the lad was teetotal, mind you, just that he’s not one to overindulge. I wanted to give a good impression, seeing as how—”

  “Caleb is a recovering alcoholic.”

  “He told you?”

  “He makes no secret of it. I believe that’s common in the AA program. So, you thought Caleb and Andy might have a common bond. Fair enough. Did Andy ever tell you he grew up in Crystal Palace?”

  “What? No. No, he didn’t.” Tam sounded surprised and a little hurt. “When I met him, he was dossing on sofas in Central London and the East End. It was only when I started getting him session work that he was able to get his own place. I just assumed . . . ”

  Kincaid was beginning to think that it wasn’t wise to make assumptions about Andy Monahan. “That’s how he knew the second victim. From Crystal Palace.”

  “But he never said, when Caleb chose that pub . . . ” Tam was silent for so long that Kincaid walked into the sitting room to check on Charlotte. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, both dogs sprawled on her lap, perfectly happy with the extended telly time.

  “Duncan,” Tam said at last, “I don’t know what to think, except that he’s a good lad, and I’d not want to see him come to any harm, regardless of all this business with Caleb and the video. I’ve seen these sand castles wash away before, and I will again. It’s a nice little dream, but my life will go on as it is, one way or anither, and I’m lucky with it. But Andy . . . I fear the lad is in some sort of real trouble, and I don’t think he’ll confide in me. Do you think he might talk to you?”

  It was early evening before Andy realized they’d run out of milk. If there was anything that would make his mum more cross than usual, it was not having milk for her morning tea. She said milk made the tea easier on her stomach, which he could well believe considering the amount of cheap gin she’d been pouring down in the evenings.

  She’d been worse the past few weeks, the heat, she said, getting on her nerves. And it seemed there was no relief in sight from that. The sky stayed bleached as bone, and the occasional menacing rumble of thunder in the distance came to nothing.

  Surely the weather would break soon, Andy thought, trudging back from the shop with the pint of milk—bought with pennies scrounged from the last of the week’s grocery money—sweating in his hand. It was almost term time—but that thought made him clench the bottle more tightly. As much as his mum was drinking, he couldn’t believe she’d get herself up and to the pub for work if he wasn’t there to make sure of it. And if she lost her job . . .

  Although the blistering sun was sinking in the west, the heat still radiating off the pavement made him feel woozy and he stumbled slightly. He’d not been sleeping well, or eating much, for that matter.

  And even though he’d stopped going to the library and reading the books on Crystal Palace, the fire dream had come back. Sometimes he woke in the dark, sure he’d heard the crackle of flames. And just last night, restless in his stuffy room, he’d come down and found his mum asleep on the sofa with a cigarette burning in her hand. Again.

  Since the first time that had happened, he’d been hiding them from her when he could, but it made her furious. One night she’d actually struck him. The next morning, grumbling under her breath as she absently searched drawers for the packet, then the ashtrays for fag ends, she obviously had no recollection of what she’d done. Andy wasn’t sure if he’d been glad or sorry.

  As he started down the incline of Woodland Road, he saw that Nadine was sitting on her steps. He waved, but she didn’t seem to see him. As he got closer, he saw that she was wearing a white dress again, this time with poppy-red splashes. She was wearing makeup as well, the slash of red lipstick making her look alien, unfamiliar. And she was drinking.

  She held a glass of red wine in her hand, a half-empty bottle on the step beside her. Her pots of geraniums, he realized, were withering, the leaves yellowed.

  “It has legs, you know,” she said when he reached her, holding up the glass and tilting it so that the liquid made thick trails on the inside of the glass. Her own legs were brown and bare, and in spite of the dress and the makeup, she wore no shoes.

  Frowning, he stared down at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Celebrating. Wedding. Anniversary.” She struggled a bit with the syllables. “White, and red.” Tilting her glass even further, she let a few drops of the wine fall onto the step, then rubbed at it with her finger. “Red as blood. We were arguing about where to go for our anni— You know.” She smiled, but when she looked up at him her eyes were frighteningly blank, and her voice was thick and slurring a bit.

  Feeling sick, Andy said, “Nadine, you shouldn’t be sitting out here.”

  “And where should I be, Andy love?” She took another sip of the wine. “No party to go to. No dancing. That’s what Marshall wanted to do, did you know that? Take me out for champagne and dancing. I said it was too expensive. He said I was a stupid cow who didn’t know how to have a good time. So who’s sorry now, eh?” she added in a singsong, swaying with it.

  Andy fought the urge to put his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to know this. Didn’t want to think about Nadine fighting with her husband. Being with her husband. Dressing up for him, even though he was dead.

  And he didn’t want her sounding like someone he didn’t know. Or someone he knew all too well.

  “Stop it,” he said. “Stop it. You’re just like my mum.”

  “You know, maybe I am,” Nadine said slowly. She frowned up at him, then looked away and sloshed more wine from the bottle into her glass, spilling drops on her dress. “I’m sure she has her reasons. And I never said I was perfect. I never promised you anything, did I, Andy?”

  Sudden shame made his eyes burn with tears, blinding him. He’d thought he was special. He’d thought she cared about him.

  Then fury washed over him, leaving him dizzy and shaking. “No!” he shouted at her. �
��No. You bloody well didn’t.”

  He turned away from her and slammed into the flat.

  The light grew dim as Andy sat hunched against the wall in the sitting room. He wasn’t sure how he’d got there, or how much time had passed. The pint of milk, warm now, was on the floor beside him.

  His chest ached from the heaving sobs that had finally subsided into hiccups. His eyes felt raw, scoured, his face flushed and chapped. But not even the bout of tears had eased the knot of anger inside him. He wanted to do something, anything, to make the hurt go away.

  When the bell rang, he jerked to his feet, breathing hard. Was it Nadine, come to say she was sorry?

  He didn’t want her to see he’d been sitting in the dark. Switching a lamp on low, he walked slowly to the door, his heart thumping, and pulled it open.

  But it wasn’t Nadine who stood waiting. Andy stared at Shaun and Joe. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Friday night,” said Shaun. “You never go out. We thought you might be lonely. And we brought you a present.”

  Something clinked in the paper bag Joe held against his chest.

  “Go away.” Andy started to shut the door, but Shaun put a hand on it.

  “Hey, man, come on. We’re sorry about what happened in town. We’ve come to make amends. Let us in.”

  “Besides,” put in Joe, “we know you don’t have anything better to do.”

  No, thought Andy. He didn’t.

  The steps next door were empty. Nothing was what he’d thought. No one was what they seemed. And he didn’t have anything to do at all.

  He opened the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  What really struck me as I was looking for accounts and images of the fire is the extent to which it was and continues to be seen as a spectacle, comparable with all the palace’s previous performances.

  —www.sarahjyoung.com

  Shaun Francis’s chambers was a venerable establishment in the Middle Temple—meaning the offices were old, cramped, and filled to the gills with too much stuff and a very harried staff.