The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “Bugger off.” Andy squirmed out of his grasp and shoved at him. “Don’t talk about her that way. And shut up. She’ll hear you.”

  “Yeah, lay off, Shaun,” said Joe, coming unexpectedly to Andy’s defense. “She’s nice. She spoke to me once, in the hall.”

  “Ooh, lucky you.” Shaun’s voice was suddenly vicious as he turned to Joe. “Fancy the French teacher, do you, Joe?”

  The music stopped. They all looked back to the windows, and Andy realized he was holding his breath. Nadine disappeared from view for a moment; then, as she came back into the kitchen, the record began again.

  “She likes that old crap, doesn’t she?” said Shaun. “I wonder why.”

  Andy suddenly knew, without being quite sure how. The song reminded her of Marshall, her dead husband. She was dancing for him.

  They watched, mesmerized, as she moved from the kitchen into the bathroom, becoming an indistinct silhouette behind the frosted glass of the bathroom window. She bent, and they heard the splash and gurgle in the garden pipe as she turned on the taps in the bath. Then she reappeared in the murky glass, a dark shape, and lifted her arms in a fluid movement.

  “She’s taken off her dress,” breathed Joe.

  “Well, go on, then.” Shaun took the cider bottle from Joe and gave him a shove. “You want to see bathing beauty? The door’s open. Just walk in and have a peek. If she sees you, you can say you were visiting Andy here and you just came in for a glass of water.”

  “You’re crazy.” Joe’s voice was high. “No way I’m doing that.”

  “You leave her alone,” said Andy, but he had trouble forming the words. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive.

  Shaun turned on him, the glint of malice in his eyes visible even in the dimness. “And you shut up. This is none of your business now.” He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and squeezed until Joe grimaced with pain. “I want to see you go in.”

  “Shaun, please, I don’t want to.”

  Stepping back, Shaun studied him as if he were a specimen on a lab table. “I said, I want to see you go in. If you don’t, I’ll tell everyone at school what your dad does to you.”

  “No! You promised.” Joe was crying now. “You can’t—”

  “Leave him the fuck alone,” Andy tried to shout, but his words came out in a croak. The effects of the pot seemed to be getting stronger now.

  “You going to make me?” With his free hand, Shaun grabbed the front of Andy’s T-shirt and swung him hard into the fence. The back of Andy’s head hit the boards with a smack and his knees buckled.

  He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he saw was Joe, moving as stiffly as a man going to his execution, walking in Nadine’s open door. The music had stopped.

  Then there was a scream, and the shattering of glass.

  It was dark by the time Melody reached Putney. She pulled up and sat for a moment, watching the green-gold light spilling through the glass panes in Doug’s front door. The colors made her think of the way she’d imagined Lothlórien, the enchanted wood in Tolkien’s novels. Not that she’d tell Doug that. Not at the moment, anyway.

  What was she going to say?

  She’d talked to Gemma as they’d ridden from Whitechapel back to Brixton on the tube, telling her about her interview with Nick at the Seven Stars. “It wasn’t just an omission, what Andy told me about the bloke he hit in the pub,” she’d finished miserably. “It was an outright lie. He knew him.”

  “That doesn’t mean it has any connection with these murders,” Gemma had said. “We’ve ruled Andy out, and partly on your own evidence. I’ve a copy of Rashid’s report right here”—she’d tapped her bag—“and he’s quite definite about the time of Shaun Francis’s death. Not only were you with Andy at the Twelve Bar, there were dozens of other witnesses.”

  “Yes, but—he’s involved in all this somehow, and I—I think I’ve made a huge fool of myself.” She’d shaken her head as Gemma started to speak. “It’s not just hurt pride. I’m worried about him. I think something is terribly wrong, and I can’t talk to him about it.”

  “No,” Gemma had said firmly. “You can’t. You’ve already gone over the line interviewing Nick. I don’t want you speaking to anyone else who has a personal connection with Andy Monahan until we’ve got this sorted out.”

  It was a mild enough bollocking, but Melody had known she’d better pay attention. And that she needed help. Now, taking a deep breath, she got out of the car.

  The light from the television flickered through a chink in the sitting room curtains, but when she rang the bell there was no response. After a second ring, she rapped on the glass, then, bending down, she pushed open the letter flap and said into it, “I know you’re there, Doug. Answer the damned door.”

  After a moment, she heard the regular thump of Doug’s boot cast striking the floor, and the door swung open.

  She looked up at his scowl. “Not only do you sound like Frankenstein’s monster, your expression would do him proud. Are you going to let me in?”

  “I’m busy.”

  Melody rolled her eyes. “I can see that. Come on, Doug. Don’t pout.”

  “Me, pout? Whatever gave you that impression? Could it be the fact that I’m laid up here with a broken ankle and you haven’t even rung since Sunday?”

  “Please. Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

  He shuffled back enough to let her in, then led the way to the sitting room, but his scowl was still in place. He’d obviously been settled in the sitting room armchair with his foot propped on the ottoman. The telly was on but muted, and his laptop sat open on the side table.

  When Doug had bought the house, the original fireplaces in the sitting and dining rooms had been boarded up. She’d helped him find good-quality gas fires, and similar antique mirrors to hang over both mantels. Tonight the sitting room fire was lit, and the flames sparked off the crystals of the refurbished chandelier she’d helped Doug choose at an auction house in Chelsea.

  But spilled paint still stained the carpet. He’d been counting on her, and she was being a bitch. She owed him an apology.

  “I am sorry, Doug,” she said as he eased back into his chair and lifted his foot to the ottoman. “Really. It was inexcusable, deserting you like that. How are you?”

  He sniffed. “The doctors said I did too much the first couple of days. The swelling’s up, and I’ve got to give the ankle a complete rest.”

  Melody refrained from saying that perhaps he shouldn’t have gone chasing round the East End with Duncan. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  Grudgingly, Doug nodded towards the sofa.

  “Thanks.” She sat on its edge, still wearing her coat even though the room was toasty. “I was going to come on Sunday. But I went to do an interview on Sunday evening, and it ended up being . . . late. Then, on Monday morning we found out there’d been a second murder—I’m sure Duncan must have told you—and things just went to hell in a handbasket after that.” She swallowed. “The thing is, I screwed up. That interview—I provided the alibi for a person involved in the investigation.”

  “That guitarist.”

  “His name is Andy Monahan, as you know perfectly well,” she said, exasperation momentarily getting the better of her, “since you went with Duncan to talk to his manager on Monday.”

  “I was bored.” Doug gave her a challenging glare. “And anyway, if you were his alibi for the second murder, and Tam was his alibi for the first, what’s the problem?”

  Melody rubbed her hands together, a nervous gesture she thought she’d learned to control in boarding school. “I found out that he knew the second victim, Shaun Francis, although he said he hadn’t seen him in years. So, that’s weird, but maybe just coincidence. Francis lived in Dulwich then, not far from Crystal Palace, where Andy grew up. Andy said he met him in Crystal Palace Park one summer, and Shaun Francis’s sister confirmed that. She also said that there was some sort of trouble at Shaun’s school that autumn, but sh
e doesn’t know that the two things were connected.”

  “Have you talked to the school?”

  “Gemma’s made an appointment to see the headmaster in the morning.”

  “So your guitar bloke—Andy,” Doug conceded, “had a connection with Crystal Palace besides the fact that the band was booked to play in the pub there?”

  “Yes. But he didn’t know Arnott. And we haven’t been able to find a direct connection between Arnott and Francis, although there must be one. I don’t for one minute believe we’ve got some deranged killer randomly targeting lawyers.”

  “Your father would run with that.” Doug still couldn’t resist the occasional dig about her dad.

  “Then we have to hope he doesn’t find out. So far we’ve managed to keep the details of Francis’s death from the press, but they’re bound to leak at some point.”

  “Sooner rather than later. Which will mean hell for your team. And you.”

  Clasping her hands together to keep them still, Melody met Doug’s eyes. “It’s worse than that. Today I found out Andy lied to me about something. And I had to tell Gemma.”

  Doug simply waited. Melody thought his interview technique was improving considerably.

  “Before Vincent Arnott shouted at Andy in the pub on Friday night, Andy had a row with a punter. Or at least that’s what he said—that the guy was drunk and was harassing him about the band’s music. He said the guy tried to touch his guitar and he lost his temper and punched him. His hand was bruised—that was one of the reasons he rode home with Tam.”

  “What do you mean, ‘At least that’s what he said’?”

  “I talked to the band’s bass player today. He was standing right behind Andy when it happened. He said that Andy knew the guy, and that whatever they were arguing about, it was definitely personal.”

  “Okay.” Doug shrugged. “So Andy lied to you. What’s the big deal? Maybe he was shagging the guy’s girlfriend.”

  That made Melody wonder how much Doug had guessed, or if he was just trying to get a rise out of her. “The big deal is that if he lied about that, he could have lied about anything.”

  “But you’re absolutely sure he couldn’t have killed Shaun Francis?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask her for a minute-by-minute accounting of Andy’s alibi. “But— What if Tam lied about Friday night? He has a lot at stake, maybe enough to make him protect Andy . . . ” She came to a halt, staring down at her hands.

  “What makes you think that? You’re making a big jump there, from saying maybe Andy lied to suggesting that Tam lied, too. Duncan trusts Tam. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Her mouth felt dry. She wished Doug had offered her a cup of tea. “In the hotel room where Arnott was killed, there was a spot of blood on the sheet that didn’t belong to him. And Andy—I didn’t think anything of it until today . . . but on Monday, when I went back to talk to Andy about Shaun Francis, I noticed he had a healing cut on his hand . . . ”

  “Well, if he hit somebody—”

  “His other hand.”

  Doug stared at her. “Did you tell Gemma?”

  “No. I just . . . I was . . . ” Melody fell silent.

  Leaning forward, Doug adjusted his ankle on the ottoman. The firelight flashed off the lenses of his glasses and she couldn’t read his expression. When he’d settled himself again, he said, “So. Why are you telling me?”

  “Because I want you to help me get to the truth.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you’re my best friend. And because you are the best person I know at finding things.”

  “Flattery will get you—”

  “Everywhere,” she finished for him, and got a reluctant grin.

  “I can’t exactly do footwork.”

  “You don’t need feet.” Melody nodded at his computer. “You can log into the case file on HOLMES from here. And—” She frowned, thinking. “What about court records? Could you access Arnott’s cases? That seems the most logical place to start.”

  “You don’t want much, do you? And what do I get in return?”

  Melody tried to disguise her sigh of relief. “How about beer and pizza, for a start?

  Andy pushed himself up and staggered across the garden towards Nadine’s door, but the ground seemed to heave beneath him and his feet felt as if they were mired in treacle.

  Before he reached the steps, he saw Joe backing out of the kitchen, babbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was at Andy’s next door and he said—he said I could—I didn’t know—”

  Andy saw Nadine then, behind Joe. She was clutching a pale blue silk dressing gown together at her neck. Her feet were bare, her hair disheveled, and the hem and skirt of the dressing gown were stained with ugly deep red splotches.

  “Get out,” she said to Joe. There was no slurring to her voice now. “Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said again, backing down the steps. “I didn’t—”

  She saw Andy. “You.”

  He glanced round, not believing that the cold and unfamiliar voice could be directed at him. But Shaun had disappeared through the gap in the fence.

  “No, I didn’t tell him—”

  “You, Andy? You put this—this little creep, up to this?” She was shaking now, her voice rising in rage and shock. Joe stumbled away, and then he, too, had crossed the garden and slipped through the fence.

  “How could you? How could you?” Nadine’s eyes never left Andy, and when she spoke again, he wished she had kept shouting. “You, Andy. Of all people. I thought you were my friend.”

  Turning away, she slammed her door, and an instant later the kitchen lights went out.

  Andy stood alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The immensity of the crowd destroyed the possibility of evacuating the area around the tower. Anerley Hill, where the tower was most likely to fall, was one solid, seething mass of people. Mounted and foot police struggled to force the crowd back. Even the fire engines were hemmed in. [ . . . ]

  —www.sarahjyoung.com

  Gemma couldn’t remember ever feeling so uncomfortable with Melody. They’d taken Gemma’s Escort for their appointment with the headmaster of Norwood College in Dulwich, Gemma hoping that the time in the car would give them an opportunity to reconnect after yesterday afternoon’s discussion. So far, however, Melody had been uncharacteristically silent.

  It had been late the previous evening before Gemma had had a chance to fill Kincaid in on the case developments, including Melody’s revelation about her interview with Nick the bassist.

  “That’s a bugger,” Kincaid had said as they finished the last of the washing up in the kitchen. “Tam rang me this morning, after you talked to Andy. Apparently you put the poor bloke in a panic. What did you do, use thumbscrews?”

  “Very funny,” she’d said. “I thought I was exceedingly gentle.”

  “Tam said he was even threatening to back out of playing with the girl, Poppy.”

  “That’s odd. He seemed more annoyed than panicked, but the last thing I asked him about was Caleb Hart. Interesting.”

  “I must say you got on better with Hart’s secretary than I did.” He’d flicked the tea towel at her.

  “It was my overwhelming charm.”

  “Evidently. She wasn’t susceptible to my pretty face.”

  She’d glanced at him to see if he was really bothered, but he was concentrating on his drying. He’d been in an odd mood all evening, joking and teasing the children more than usual, and she’d had the feeling that he was avoiding her, although she couldn’t imagine why. “Tam wanted me to talk to Andy, see if I could find out what’s put the wind up him,” he went on. “I said I couldn’t agree without speaking to you first.”

  Gemma thought about it before replying. “Well, I obviously am not going to get anything out of him, and I can’t let Melody talk to him. Maybe you’ll hav
e better luck. Although I still can’t see where it will get us. Maybe the punch-up in the pub was a row over a girlfriend—not the sort of thing he’d have wanted to tell Melody if he was trying to impress her.”

  “Tomorrow, then, I’ll see if I can set something up. But I’ll need to make arrangements for Charlotte. I’ll just give Betty a ring, shall I?”

  Gemma had worried over the conversation the rest of the evening, finally deciding not to share Tam’s concern over Andy with Melody. She would wait and see what Duncan learned, and in the meantime, she would move Caleb Hart further up her action list.

  Now, as they came into Dulwich, she glanced at the car clock. “We’ve plenty of time before our appointment. I want to make a stop first.”

  The address of the community center Caleb Hart’s assistant had given her was on the eastern side of the suburb, and from the outside, at least, the long, low, sixties-style building was not prepossessing.

  “The AA meeting?” asked Melody.

  Gemma nodded as she looked for a parking spot. “Damn. Busy place.”

  “Why don’t you circle and I’ll go in,” Melody suggested.

  “Okay. There’s a spot where I can pull over on the double yellows if I stay with the car.”

  As Gemma eased the Escort into a gap not quite big enough for it, Melody hopped out and walked briskly into the building.

  Leaving the engine running, Gemma sat rubbing her cold hands and watching as the center’s patrons came and went, mostly women wearing exercise gear under their coats. Didn’t any of these women work? she wondered, trying to imagine a lifestyle that allowed morning Pilates classes. A few elderly women arrived together, perhaps for bridge or bingo—or power aerobics, for all Gemma knew.

  She was glancing at the clock and beginning to worry about their appointment at the school by the time Melody came out.

  “Busy indeed,” said Melody as she climbed back in the car, bringing with her a blast of frigid air. “Pilates, yoga, meditation. Oh, and a stained-glass-making class. And that’s all before the afternoon activities start for older kids.”