As neither Melody nor Amanda Francis had arrived when Gemma reached the visitors’ lounge at the Royal London, she went down to the basement and searched out Rashid in his subterranean den. She always found Rashid’s office a wonder—its mass of clutter and graffiti-art-covered walls seemed so at odds with the perfection of his accent—and yet it suited him.
“Gemma!” he said, looking up from a pile of papers. “Lovely to see you.” When he smiled, his teeth were blindingly white against his olive skin. Today he wore a T-shirt which bore the slogan PATHOLOGY: LIVE THE DREAM, and she couldn’t help grinning back at him.
“Rashid, you sound as if you’ve invited me for afternoon tea in the mortuary.”
He pointed to a shelf behind his desk. “Kettle. Cups. Why not?”
“No, really.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’ve had in those. Eye of newt?”
“Gemma, I’m hurt. I put them through the instrument sterilizer every day.”
“Now I really will pass.” Gemma sat in the gray plastic chair—probably filched from the visitors’ lounge—in front of Rashid’s desk. “What have you got for us?”
He put his papers, and his teasing, aside. “I’ve zipped him up already, but do you want to have a look?”
“Not unless it will be useful.” Gemma had never succumbed to the fascination of the postmortem.
“Well, he was developing a nice layer of fat round his organs, and some blockage in his arteries. Not good for someone so young. He certainly needed to take up squash and watch his diet, although that’s a bit irrelevant now.”
“Yes.”
“And he was certainly strangled, and with the scarf we found round his neck. But it might not have been necessary, if you look at what I found in the tox results.”
“Did he take an overdose of the Valium we found?” asked Gemma.
“Not an overdose, no, although I’d certainly say he was liberal with the prescribed dosage. But it was the combination of things that could very well have killed him without the manual assist. He was loaded with Xanax as well as the Valium, and his blood alcohol was sky high.”
“Xanax? But the SOCOs didn’t find any in his flat.”
“No. Which means either he bought it or took it from someone, or—”
“Could someone have slipped it to him?”
“My thought exactly, unless the guy was a complete idiot who didn’t realize you shouldn’t mix the two drugs, and especially not with alcohol. My guess would be that it was in the gin and tonics. The bitterness of the tonic would have disguised the taste. And that the gins were doubles. Even if he’d been drinking all day, he’d have metabolized some of the alcohol, so I’d think it was administered over a fairly short time period.”
“No wonder he was sick,” Gemma said.
“Yes. And that might have been enough to save him, if someone hadn’t throttled him.”
“Were there any signs that he struggled?”
“No. There was no tissue under his nails, or any bruising to indicate that he tried to fight at the last minute. Although if he was already turned over on his stomach with his hands bound behind him, and his feet bound, there wouldn’t have been a whole lot he could do.”
“Did he trust whoever tied him up, or would he have been so out of it from the drugs and the alcohol that he didn’t know what was happening?”
“Hard to say. He might have been slipping in and out of consciousness.”
Gemma tried to visualize the scene. “Could a woman have done this?”
“The strangling, certainly. And the tying up, if he was either willing or too out of it to struggle. My question would be whether a woman could have helped him back from the pub, then got him undressed and onto the bed. He was a fairly big bloke. Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”
“Thanks, Rashid. That really narrows things down,” said Gemma.
“Glad to be of service,” he answered with a grin.
“The barman at the Prince of Wales didn’t remember serving Shaun Francis more than one drink. I wonder if any of the other staff will remember someone ordering double G and Ts? We’ll have to get someone—” Gemma’s phone rang.
It was Melody. “Boss, I’m upstairs, and Amanda Francis is here.”
“Hang on a sec.” Gemma looked at Rashid. “The sister’s here for the ID. Is he ready?”
“I’ll have the attendants put him in the viewing room,” Rashid answered, already slipping out of the office to take care of it.
“Melody,” Gemma said into the phone. “I’ll be right up.”
Amanda Francis viewed her brother’s body in tight-lipped misery. She looked exhausted, her face still puffy and swollen, but her eyes were dry. Gemma suspected she had cried herself out.
After a full minute, she nodded, then reached out as if she might touch his face but pulled her hand back. “I’ve never seen anyone dead,” she said. “My father—not even my mother saw him. They had my uncle make the identification. It’s—weird. It’s Shaun, but . . . empty. Even the wax figures at Madame Tussauds have more life in them.”
“I know,” said Gemma, touching her gently on the shoulder. “Are you ready to go upstairs now?” She’d left Melody to organize some tea from the hospital café. When Amanda nodded, Gemma signaled the mortuary attendant that they were finished, then led Amanda from the room.
As they went up in the lift, she asked, “How’s your mother doing?”
“The liaison officer you sent has been good with her. He’s young and good looking, and she’s fawning over him. Disgusting, but at least it’s off me. She asks his opinion on the arrangements every five minutes, and his patience is downright saintly.”
When they reached the lounge, Melody was waiting with cardboard cups of tea. They found chairs in a quiet corner, and Amanda took her cup. Her hands trembled slightly.
“I’ve been to your chambers this morning,” said Melody. “Everyone is asking after you.”
“They’ve been really kind. They’ve sent flowers and cards, and Mr. Spencer rang me.”
“I can see they think very highly of you,” Melody told her. “Will you go back soon?”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know what’s appropriate. And once the liaison officer goes, I don’t know how I’ll manage my mother. I’ll go barking mad if I stay at home with her all day.” She went pale at the prospect, looking more distressed than she had at the sight of her brother’s body.
“Are you Shaun’s executor?” Gemma asked.
“Yes. Thank God he had enough sense not to put that on mother. From what I’ve seen, his affairs are a mess. Debt, and the flat is mortgaged to the hilt, so the sale of it won’t begin to cover what he owed. And this time, there’s no life insurance. This”—she looked at Gemma—“what happened to Shaun—it wasn’t a convenient . . . accident?”
Like her father’s, thought Gemma. “No. We’re certain that Shaun was murdered.” She caught Melody’s quick glance—she hadn’t had a chance to tell her Rashid’s findings. “Amanda, do you know if Shaun ever used recreational drugs? Nonprescription stuff?”
“He dabbled a bit in his teens, I think, but never very seriously. Why?”
“We have to ask,” Gemma said. “And was he in the habit of drinking a lot?”
“That’s the lawyer’s drug of choice, isn’t it?” Amanda had regained a bit of her tartness. “And Shaun liked to drink. But it wasn’t in his nature to get really drunk. He liked to be in control of things.” She took a sip of her tea and grimaced, then frowned at Gemma. “But if you’re sure Shaun was murdered, why are you asking me about drink and drugs? Do you think he was in some sort of trouble? Oh, God, if he was into something illegal and it comes out—”
“We don’t know that,” soothed Gemma. “We don’t know why someone would have killed your brother, so we have to cover every possibility.”
Melody leaned forward, cradling her cup in both hands. “Mr. Spencer at your chambers says he doesn’t know of any connection Shaun might have had wit
h the other barrister who was killed, Vincent Arnott. Is there any legal matter you might have handled that Mr. Spencer wouldn’t have seen?”
“No.” Amanda’s eyes widened. “This Arnott. You asked me if Shaun knew him. You didn’t say he’d been killed. Who was he? What happened?”
“We really can’t discuss an ongoing investigation at this time,” said Gemma. If it hadn’t been for Shaun’s death, Amanda would surely have seen the papers. Someone was bound to tell her, however, and it was better that she be prepared. “Mr. Arnott was found in circumstances similar to your brother’s. We—”
“You think the same person killed them?” Amanda’s voice rose. “Then why aren’t you—”
“We don’t know that,” Gemma broke in. “We’re exploring all the possibilities. But in the meantime, I’m sure you don’t want the tabloids splashing the details of your brother’s death all over the front pages. So, please, Amanda, don’t discuss this with anyone. Not even your mother.” Especially not your mother, she added to herself. Mrs. Francis would likely be shouting from the rooftops that her son was the victim of a serial killer. A quick change of subject was in order. “Amanda, did Shaun know a man called Caleb Hart?”
“No, not that I’m aware.” Amanda was getting the glazed look of someone trying to follow a tennis match. “Who—”
“What about Andy Monahan?” put in Melody, her voice very tight and deliberately neutral.
“No, I don’t—” Amanda frowned. “Wait. There was a kid named Andy, I think. One summer in the park. But it was years ago, and I don’t think I ever knew his last name.” When Gemma and Melody waited, she went on slowly. “He played the guitar. Shaun can’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen that summer. I saw them a few times when I went to the park with my own friends, and I asked Shaun who he was. Blond. A pretty boy. I think Shaun was jealous.” Her lips twisted. “He thought he was slumming it, my little brother, hanging out with a kid from Crystal Palace. He was a right shit, even then.”
“Did they keep in touch?” asked Gemma, watching for Melody’s reaction as much as Amanda’s.
“No, I don’t think so. But there was some kind of trouble that autumn, after term started, at Shaun’s school. I’m not even sure the two things were connected, except in my memory. No one told me what it was about—I just remember grown-ups talking in hushed voices, and Dad having meetings with the headmaster.”
“The school—where was it?” asked Gemma.
“It’s called Norwood College. It’s an exclusive boys’ prep school. In Dulwich.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Seventy-five years later, the sphinxes and statues adorning the terraces have been transformed from archaeological pastiche to real ruins, but that sense of spectacle is still apparent.
—www.sarahjyoung.com
As soon as Shaun and Joe were inside the flat, Andy knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He felt stifled, as if their physical presence had sucked the air from the space.
And he felt, as he watched them look round the dreary sitting room, ashamed. He did his best to keep things clean and tidy, but the furniture was old and tattered, the walls blotchy and damp stained. He knew from the other boys’ clothes and accents that their homes must be very different.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” smirked Shaun, while Joe pulled two large bottles of cheap cider from his paper bag.
Joe unscrewed the cap on one and put the other on the sitting room table. “You’ll have to share. We only got two.”
“I don’t want any,” said Andy, wondering how he could get them out again without bodily shoving them, and they were both bigger than he was. “How’d you get that stuff, anyway?”
“Told you we could get anything we wanted from the shop on the Parade.” Shaun was wandering round the sitting room, peering into the kitchen. “Where’s that electric guitar?” he asked. “The red one. We’ve seen you playing it out front.”
“Not here. It was . . . borrowed.” Thank God he’d left the Strat upstairs in his room, thought Andy. But what if one of them wanted to use the loo? Or Shaun just went upstairs? How would he stop him? “Hey, I changed my mind about the cider,” he said, desperate for a diversion.
“All right, man.” Joe handed him the open bottle and he took a swig. It was sweet and made him want to gag.
“What do you watch on this thing?” Shaun had picked up the remote for the shoddy old television. “Blue Peter? Doctor Who? Does it even have color?”
“Leave it—”
But Shaun had already put the remote down and was pulling a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got something way better than cider.”
“You can’t smoke in here,” protested Andy.
“Why ever not? The place reeks of smoke. Your mum will never know.”
Andy knew Shaun was right, although the first thing he did when his mum had gone to work every day was empty and wash the ashtrays. “Because I don’t like it, that’s why.”
“You’ll like this.” From between the packet and its clear wrapper, Shaun pulled a fat joint. Andy hadn’t smoked pot but he’d seen kids at his school do it, walking home after class, and he knew what it smelled like.
“No. You really can’t smoke that in here. My mum would smell it.”
“I’ll bet she’s an old doper, your mum,” put in Joe with a snigger. “She looks like it.”
Andy was past responding to insults. He just wanted them out of his house. “Look, take it in the garden, then. You can smoke anything you want out there.”
“Okay,” said Shaun, his capitulation easier than Andy had expected. “Let’s see this garden, then. Give us the grand tour.”
Andy let them through the kitchen and down the cracked concrete steps. Light from the kitchen window spilled out onto the barren expanse of seared ground. There was an old push mower in the shed at the bottom of the garden, which Andy had used since he was old enough to manage it, but with the end-of-summer heat there was no grass left to cut. Some broken bricks marked out a little patio area, where he’d placed the plastic stacker chairs his mum had brought home from the pub. And in a corner by the steps, a trowel and the bag of potting soil he’d used to plant Nadine’s geraniums.
Shaun lit the joint with a Bic, the sudden flare of light reflected in his flat, dark eyes. The distinctively sweet smoke filled the air as Shaun took a puff and handed the joint to Joe.
The thought of Nadine had made Andy feel reckless again. Why shouldn’t he try it, if there was no one to care what he did?
When Joe handed him the joint, he took it and drew the smoke in carefully, not wanting to cough.
“You have to inhale and then hold it, baby boy,” said Shaun, watching him.
Andy counted to himself, as if he was holding his breath in the swimming pool. Finally, he released the smoke and let it billow away from him. “Nothing to it. I don’t believe there’s really anything in this.” He took another puff and held it, then another. The boys watched him, grinning. “What?” said Andy. “I don’t feel any—” Suddenly, the top of his head went all odd and buzzy, and the world seemed to recede to a distance. He heard Shaun and Joe laughing, but his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Some shit, yeah?” said Joe. “This didn’t come from the shop on the Parade.” He took the joint and drew on it, then held it out to Andy again with a giggle. “Here. Take another hit.”
Andy managed to shake his head and back away. “No, man. I feel—I don’t want—”
“What’s that?” Taking the joint from Joe’s fingers, Shaun wandered towards the dilapidated fence that separated Andy’s garden from Nadine’s. “Someone having a party?”
Andy heard it then, music, coming from next door. They all moved towards the sound, as if drawn by magnets.
“No, it’s just my neigh—” Andy stopped, trying to place the song. The slight breeze that had come up with the sunset shifted, bringing the honeyed vocal to them. Sinatra. “Fly Me to the Moon.” H
is dad had had an old Best of Sinatra album. Buried now, under the rock and pop, but Andy had liked it when he was little. Sometimes his mum had played it when he had trouble sleeping.
“Some party,” said Joe. “Wonder who she’s got over for that.” There was a familiarity in the way he said “she” that made the hair rise on Andy’s neck.
“What do you—”
“Let’s see, why don’t we?” Shaun had found the loose board in the fence, the one Andy had been meaning to repair. It creaked as Shaun pulled on it and the nails gave way. The board came free, taking the next one with it.
They could see through the gap now. Nadine’s flat, unlike Andy and his mum’s, was one bedroom rather than two, and all on one level. Both kitchen and bath were on the back of the house, overlooking the garden. The curtains were pulled wide on the kitchen windows, the door to the garden propped open to let in any breath of air.
Nadine stood in the kitchen, illuminated as if she were on a screen, still wearing the poppy-splashed dress. She held a full glass of wine in her hand, and slowly she began to dance, twirling and swaying as Sinatra sang. Her voice, sweet and clear, drifted out to them as she joined in on the chorus.
“Fuck me,” said Shaun. “If it isn’t our bloody French mistress. I thought she looked familiar.” He elbowed Joe in the ribs. “Are my eyes deceiving me, mate?”
“It’s her.” Joe sounded a little uneasy. “But look, man, we should go. I don’t want to get in any tr—”
“French mistress?” Andy hissed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“She’s the upper-form French teacher at our school.” Shaun was almost crowing. “She started last term. Mrs. Drake, the merry widow. We haven’t had her class yet, but we’ve heard about her. She’s hot, hot, hot—much too hot to be an old bag of a teacher.” He stepped through the gap in the fence into Nadine’s garden, and they followed as if tethered.
“No, you’re lying,” said Andy. He felt very strange. The joint had gone out and he smelled burning paper.
“We heard she was giving French lessons to morons over the summer.” Shaun put his arm round Andy’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “What’s she been up to with you, eh, Andrew? Tutoring you in the finer French arts?”
The Sound of Broken Glass Page 24
