The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Hart gaped at her. “You’re not actually serious? I told you I hadn’t spoken to Arnott in years. Why on earth would I have done something like that?”

  “I thought you might tell us.”

  He shook his head. “That’s absurd and you know it. You’re simply fishing because you don’t have anyone else in the frame and you’re being pressured to come up with a suspect. I have had some experience with the police, as you’ve reminded me. I know how these things work.”

  “Then you won’t mind telling us where you went when you left the AA meeting on Friday night.”

  “I can’t. It’s—” Hart hesitated. With a manicured fingernail, he pulled at the neck of his sweater as if it felt tight. “Look. If I tell you, you’ll have to treat it as confidential. It has nothing to do with your investigation.”

  “You know I can’t promise that. But if that’s the truth, I’ll do what I can.”

  Hart nodded. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for. You know that drug and alcohol abuse is rampant in the music business. When I got sober, I had a choice—either get out and give up the only thing I’d ever been any good at, or try to contribute something that would help other people who were struggling with the same demons. For a number of years, I’ve made myself available to anyone in crisis. That’s what the phone call was on Friday night.” He named a popular singer who had been much featured in the press, including Melody’s father’s paper, for her struggles with alcohol addiction. “She needed help. I met her at her flat, made coffee, talked her through the bad patch. I’m sure she’ll confirm that if it’s necessary, but in telling you I feel I’ve betrayed her trust. And I certainly don’t want it getting out to the media.”

  It made sense, Melody thought. More sense than the scenario they’d constructed. Why would Hart kill Arnott after ten years, when he would have had easy access to the man on plenty of other occasions? And why kill him in that way, as revenge for a girl who committed suicide? Nor did Hart seem to have any connection with the second murder. “Did you know Shaun Francis, Mr. Hart?” she asked.

  He shook his head again. “No. Was he the other lawyer that was killed? Tam told me there’d been another murder.”

  Apparently Tam had failed to mention Andy’s connection with Shaun Francis.

  Taking up Melody’s lead, Gemma asked, “Where were you on Sunday night, Mr. Hart?”

  “I was at home, tweaking the video, then uploading it to the Internet.”

  The activity would be logged. They could check it if they needed, and he would know that. They could check his story about Friday night as well, but Melody sensed they’d reached a dead end. His involvement seemed even less likely considering that his arrest meant his prints and DNA would be in the system, but there had been no flag on any of the physical evidence from either crime scene.

  Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Gemma stood. “Mr. Hart, if we need to talk to you again, I would remind you not to be obstructive. You don’t know how much damage you could do by withholding something that you think isn’t relevant. You don’t have all the pieces.”

  Gemma had turned to go when he said, frowning, “There was something . . . In the pub on Friday night. It was just before I left, and I’d forgotten. I told you Arnott was drinking at the bar. But there was a woman, alone as well, watching him. At first I thought she might be scoping him out as a prospect for a Friday night hook-up. But her expression . . . It was . . . I don’t know. Cold. Made me glad she wasn’t looking at me.”

  “Can you describe her?” Melody asked, feeling a flare of excitement. Could it have been the woman in the CCTV?

  “Early to midforties, maybe.” Hart shrugged. “It’s hard to tell these days. Slender. Very chic. Chin-length dark hair. More striking than pretty, if you know what I mean. But there was . . . ” He hesitated, frowning. “This may sound daft. But if you’ve been in a very dark place, it leaves a mark. You learn to recognize it in other people. And that’s what I saw in her face.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Some of the original remains that can still be seen today are classed as Grade II* listed. They include terraces, sphinxes and the huge bust of Sir Joseph Paxton . . . Other fascinating features include sets of stairs, remains of the aquarium and the base of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s south water tower.

  —www.bbc.co.uk

  When Melody and Gemma came out of the recording studio, the afternoon had faded to an early twilight. West London, rolling away down the hill below them, was a soft violet beneath the lowering cloud.

  A glance at Gemma’s face as they got in the car told Melody that her partner felt as dispirited as she did.

  “Dead in the water on that one, I think,” said Melody.

  “For Andy Monahan’s sake, I hope so. If Caleb Hart was our murderer, that would be the end of Andy’s recording deal. God, I hate winter,” Gemma added, glancing up at the sky. “It’s not even midafternoon and it’s already dark. Not to mention we’ve missed lunch.”

  Melody’s phone beeped with a text message. She read it, then translated for Gemma. “Doug says he has some new information, and that Duncan is on the way to his house. He wants us to come there, too.”

  After a moment’s thought, Gemma said, “It’s that or back to Brixton, and nothing new’s come in from the station. I’d just as soon avoid telling the super we’ve got nowhere. Text Doug back and ask him if he has anything to eat around the place.”

  Melody did as she was asked. Then, as they traveled north in already heavy afternoon traffic, she tried to curb her impatience. Why had Doug texted rather than ringing her? And why did Duncan want to meet them there? Had he learned something from Andy? Her stomach churned, and she was suddenly glad it was empty.

  By the time they reached Putney, the cloud that had hovered over Crystal Palace had descended upon the city, hugging the streets near the river like a great gray beast.

  Kincaid’s elderly Astra was parked in front of Doug’s house, and the little light remaining in the sky was eclipsed by the green-gold beacon of Doug’s front door.

  By the time Melody and Gemma got out of the car, Kincaid had come out to greet them. He must have been watching for them, thought Melody, and her gut clenched with anxiety. When she reached him, she touched his arm to hold him back for a moment. “Is it Andy?” she said quietly. “Is he all—”

  “He’s fine.” Kincaid gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Come in and we’ll have a powwow.”

  Inside, Doug was propped in the sitting room armchair like royalty holding an audience, the fire was going, and the coffee table held platters of freshly made sandwiches and fruit.

  “The kettle’s on,” Kincaid said. “I’ll just fetch cups.”

  Melody nodded at the sandwiches. “Your doing?”

  “Doug said you needed feeding, so I picked up a few things.”

  “You’re getting to be quite handy to have around,” Melody said, still not certain she could do the feast justice.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Gemma put in. “He’s already put my pitiful attempts in the kitchen completely to shame.” Picking up a sandwich triangle, she took a nibble and added, “Mmmm, roast beef and horseradish. I could eat the horse.”

  Doug already had an empty plate beside him and was tapping the arm of his chair impatiently. As Kincaid brought in a tray with mugs and a pot of tea, Doug said, “How did you get on with Caleb Hart?”

  “No joy there, I don’t think.” Gemma’s answer was slightly muffled by sandwich. “We found him at the studio in Crystal Palace,” she added, swallowing and taking a cup of tea from Kincaid. “Although he admitted to recognizing Arnott in the pub, Poppy and her family know all about his trial and the aftermath. It was Poppy’s father who helped him get sober. And we’ll check them, of course, but he seems to have reasonable alibis for the times of both deaths.”

  “I think we’ll have to do round-robin,” said Kincaid, filling Melody’s cup, then topping up Doug’s and his own. “Gemma, wh
at about your interview with the head at the boys’ college?”

  Gemma gave them a rather more concise version of Wayne Carstairs’s story, then added, “Which gives us a connection between Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis, but I still don’t see what any of that has to do with Shaun meeting Andy in the park that summer. Are we chasing phantoms, here?”

  “No, unfortunately, I don’t think you are.” Kincaid sat on the edge of the sofa, rotating his cup in his hands. “I spoke to Andy earlier this afternoon, at Tam’s. Your Mrs. Drake was Andy Monahan’s next-door neighbor.

  “Andy was a latchkey kid. Worse than a latchkey kid, because his single mother was an alcoholic and he was her caretaker. He and Mrs. Drake—Nadine—became friends. It seems to have been the first time an adult had ever taken any interest in him or shown any concern for his welfare. And I think, from what Andy told me, that Nadine Drake was just as lonely.” He shot a concerned glance at Melody. “It was Nadine who encouraged him to play the guitar, but he said they never talked about personal things. He knew that her husband had died, but he had no idea what she did for a job.”

  Reaching across him to pour herself more tea, Gemma said, “That seems odd.”

  “Not really.” Kincaid shrugged. “Andy said they talked about books and music and history, the things that interested them both. It’s only as adults that we immediately peg people by what they do and who they know. Andy was just thirteen. And as for Nadine Drake, I’d guess it was a way of removing their relationship from reality.”

  Melody felt cold. “Oh, God, was the story true then? Did she molest the boy from the college? And was Andy—”

  “No, no.” Kincaid shook his head. “Your headmaster was right. According to Andy, their whole story was a tissue of lies. They didn’t just happen to meet Nadine Drake outside school. It was Andy they met in the park, and they attached themselves to him. Bullying him, following him, finding out where he lived. I suppose it might have been envy in a weird sort of way. They had privilege, but he had something they couldn’t begin to fathom. An aura of self-sufficiency, maybe.

  “Andy said he avoided them as much as possible, but one night he was angry at Nadine because she was drinking and behaving strangely. He let the boys into his house, and from his garden they found a way into hers. It was hot; her doors and windows were open. They could see her, and when she went to have a bath, Shaun Francis dared his friend Joe to go in and surprise her. When he did, she threw the boy out and threatened to call the police. She certainly never touched him. And she never spoke to Andy again.”

  “But—” Melody tried to fit it all together. “Why did the boys lie about her at the school?”

  “I suspect Joe Peterson was humiliated. It might have started as something whispered to another boy to make himself feel better. And then it snowballed.”

  “Or it might have been Shaun,” said Gemma. “Mr. Carstairs said he was a grudge holder. Maybe he was offended for his friend’s sake, or maybe she said something that angered him.”

  “Could Nadine have thought that Andy countenanced their story?” asked Melody, horrified.

  “Possibly,” Kincaid answered. “But Andy knew nothing except that she disappeared. He still doesn’t.”

  “Surely the boy’s father didn’t win the civil suit?”

  “It was never resolved,” broke in Doug. “Nadine Drake is easy enough to trace before that. Born Nadine Summers, grew up in Hampstead, took a first-class degree in French at Cambridge. Met Marshall Drake, who had a job in advertising. They moved into an upmarket flat in Canary Wharf; then Marshall fell down the stairs in their building and died as the result of a head injury. The neighbors had heard them having a row shortly beforehand. But his blood alcohol was high, and his death was ruled an accident. Apparently, however, he had run up massive debts. Perhaps that was why they were arguing. She lost the Canary Wharf flat, took a job teaching French at Norwood College, and moved into the rented flat in Crystal Palace.

  “But that autumn, after she was let go from the college, she simply disappeared. No social security records, no benefits. But speaking of benefits, however, I did track down your Joe Peterson.” Doug looked pleased with himself. “He’s on the dole and lives in a council flat in Crystal Palace. It’s just off Church Road.”

  “Which is why it makes sense that he was at the White Stag last Friday night,” put in Kincaid.

  “What?” Melody and Gemma said in unison.

  “It was Joe Peterson that Andy punched. He said Joe came up to him and wanted to be mates. He hadn’t seen him in fifteen years.”

  “No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it. But why did he tell you?” Melody couldn’t help feeling hurt.

  “I think he’d carried it for a long time, along with a lorryload of guilt. He thought everything that happened was his fault. I imagine it would be the last thing he’d want to tell a woman he fancied.” Kincaid flashed Melody a quick smile, then went on. “But there’s more. It seems Nadine Drake may not have vanished from the face of the earth. Andy thought he saw Nadine in the pub that night. And again, on Sunday, when he and Melody were at the Twelve Bar.”

  Gemma had abandoned her sandwich and was sitting hunched over her tea mug in concentration. “Caleb Hart said he saw a woman watching Arnott in the pub on Friday night. Could it have been . . . good God, she had reason enough to hate Arnott.”

  “And Shaun Francis,” Kincaid said. “And Peterson, you would think, more than any of them.”

  In spite of the fire, Melody’s fingers had gone numb. “No, it’s Andy she would have hated the most. But why has she reappeared now, after all these years? And what if—”

  A phone rang. Melody recognized it as Gemma’s even as they all automatically checked pockets or bags.

  Retrieving her phone, Gemma stood and walked to the hallway door. She turned her back as if the separation helped her to concentrate. Melody heard her murmur something; then she came back into the room and picked up a pen and a scrap of paper from the coffee table.

  “Right,” Gemma said, writing. “Ta, Mike. I’ll let you know what we find out,” she added, and disconnected.

  “What is it?” asked Melody, her sense of dread stronger now.

  Gemma looked at her, concern in her glance. “I think I can tell you why Nadine Drake has suddenly reappeared on the scene. Forensics traced the scarf used to gag Arnott and strangle Shaun Francis. In England, it was sold only in a French boutique in Covent Garden called Le Perdu. The shop just opened six months ago, an offshoot of a boutique in Paris of the same name. The manager of the Paris shop came to London to get this one off the ground. Her name is Nadine Drake.”

  “Covent Garden?” Kincaid glanced at his watch. “It’s only just gone four. We should be able to get there well before closing, even in rush hour.”

  “We?” said Gemma, raising an eyebrow in an expression that looked remarkably like Kincaid’s.

  “If there is any possibility that this woman killed two men, you and Melody are not going to interview her on your own.” His tone brooked no argument. “You can either have me or uniformed backup. But I promise I’ll stay in the background.”

  For a moment, Melody thought Gemma was going to bridle at having her interview commandeered, but then Gemma nodded. “All right. The more the merrier, I suppose.”

  As Melody breathed an inner sigh of relief, Doug said, “I take it I’m going to be left behind again.”

  “I’ll have a hard enough time explaining Duncan if things go pear shaped,” Gemma told him. “Much less the presence of an officer who’s meant to be on medical leave. And you could be most helpful by seeing if you can find a home address for Drake.” Turning to Kincaid, she added, “What about Charlotte?”

  “I’ll just give Betty a ring and see if she can keep her a bit longer.”

  They were quick, bundling back into coats as Kincaid made his call. Melody spared a moment to look back at Doug, sitting forlornly in his chair, plates and cups and half-eaten sandwiches litt
ered across the room as if the house had suffered a brief invasion by an alien army. “I’ll come back,” she said. “Help you clear up, and fill you in.”

  She caught the instant of vulnerability on his face before he gave her a mocking smile. “I won’t hold my breath.”

  “No, really. I promise,” she said, and knew she couldn’t renege.

  Then they were out the door in a flurry of cold air and piling into Duncan’s Astra. Melody took the back, next to Charlotte’s safety seat, and was glad of the relative seclusion. Thoughts racketed through her mind as they crossed Putney Bridge and entered Chelsea, then drove steadily east along the river through a light mist.

  How had this woman found Andy at the White Stag in Crystal Palace? Melody asked herself. Or had Arnott been her target and it was only coincidence that Andy had been there, too? Where was Andy now? Was he safe?

  As if reading her mind, Gemma turned from the front seat. “Ring him, why don’t you?”

  “Right.” Melody pulled out her phone and dialed but the call went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. “No answer,” she told Gemma.

  “Well, keep trying, then.”

  The traffic grew heavier and heavier as they neared the city center, until they were crawling and Melody had to fight the urge to get out and walk.

  Kincaid glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It’s still early. I should think the shop would stay open until six.”

  “Maybe we should have called in uniform.”

  “We’re almost there,” said Gemma. “And I’d like a chance to talk to her first. Without identification from a witness, we don’t have anything concrete. Anyone could have bought that scarf.”

  Not bloody likely, thought Melody. Then she realized that however damning the evidence seemed against Nadine Drake, there was something that didn’t make sense. “Duncan, did Andy say what time he thought he saw Nadine at the Twelve Bar?”

  “No. Why?”

  “If it really was Nadine Drake, could she have got to Kennington Square in time to pick up Shaun Francis in the Prince of Wales, take him home, and kill him?”