The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “What time did you and Andy leave the Twelve Bar?”

  Melody flushed, realizing that she’d been paying no attention whatsoever to the time that night. “I’m not sure. His was the early set. Maybe somewhere between half past nine and ten.”

  “It could be done,” said Gemma as Kincaid navigated Trafalgar Square. “Northern line from Tottenham Court Road straight to Kennington.”

  “But from what Rashid said, it sounded like someone had been plying Francis with drugged double gins for a good part of the evening.” Melody wondered why she was arguing against Nadine Drake as their murderer. Was it because it terrified her to think that Andy might have been her target that night, and that it was only her presence that had protected him? “And besides,” she added, “if Andy thought he recognized her, wouldn’t Shaun Francis have recognized her, too?”

  “Andy knew her much better,” said Kincaid. “He saw her every day for several months. And even if Shaun had recognized her, why would he have been afraid of her? He wouldn’t have known anything about Arnott’s death, and even if he had, he would have been unlikely to make a connection.”

  “From Caleb Hart’s description, she’s very attractive,” put in Gemma. “He might have been flattered.”

  “We don’t even know if it was Drake that Caleb Hart saw looking at Arnott,” Melody protested.

  “It’s a logical assumption, if Andy thought he saw her. We have CCTV of Arnott leaving the pub with a woman, and every reason to think that he had a woman with him when he checked into the Belvedere.”

  Melody sat back, watching the traffic lights change, trying to imagine what could make a woman murder two men so brutally, and trying not to picture Andy the way she’d seen Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis. Feeling sick, she punched his number into her phone again, and once more it went to voice mail.

  Having inched his way up Charing Cross Road, Kincaid swore as he turned into the one-way system on Longacre. The road was single lane, with widened, pedestrianized pavements on the right and no parking at all. “There’s no way I’ll be able to leave the car. I’ll get as close as I can to the shop and keep you in sight.”

  But when they reached Le Perdu, the shop was dark and shuttered.

  “Bloody hell,” said Gemma as Kincaid nosed the car up onto the pavement.

  Gemma jumped out with Melody right behind her, and together they banged on the shop door. There was no answer, and no movement within.

  The neighboring shops still blazed with light, so at a nod from Gemma, Melody took one side and Gemma the other.

  The girl at the sales desk of Melody’s boutique looked at her blankly when she asked if she’d seen the woman who managed the shop next door.

  “The French shop? Le Perdu?” Melody added.

  “Oh. Is that how you say it?” The girl shrugged. “Don’t know her. Not very friendly, is she?”

  Melody bit back the temptation to say she wouldn’t know. “Did you know the shop had closed early?”

  “No. Can’t leave the shop, can I?”

  Melody gave it up and thanked her, hoping Gemma had had better luck, but when she met Gemma outside, Gemma shook her head.

  “Call Doug,” said Gemma. “See if he’s got the home address.”

  Doug answered on the first ring. “She’s closed the shop,” Melody told him.

  “I was just going to phone you,” he said. “She lives right round the corner, a flat in Floral Street.” He gave her the address. “Be careful, will you?” he added.

  “Somehow I don’t think we’re going to find her at home.”

  Kincaid swore when they returned to the car and passed the information along. “Bloody one-way system. I’ll have to go round the mulberry bush to get down Floral Street.”

  “We’ll walk and you can meet us there,” suggested Gemma.

  His lips tightened. “I don’t think so. Hop in. I don’t think another five minutes are going to matter.”

  It took longer than five minutes. Melody tried Andy again with no luck. When at last they managed to circle round the right way into Floral Street, they found the address, not far from the back entrance of the Royal Opera House. There was no name beside the bell for the flat number Doug had given them, and when they rang, there was no answer. The windows on the front of the building were dark.

  “Try the other bells,” suggested Kincaid, who had pulled the car up on the double yellows and got out with them.

  No one answered in the other two flats. “Either no one’s home from work yet, or these are lease properties that are empty.”

  Gemma gave the bell one last frustrated push, then turned away. “I’m requesting a warrant to bring Nadine Drake in for questioning. And I want a constable on the shop and on the flat in case she comes back. I wish I had more to give them than Caleb Hart’s description.” She turned to Melody. “Still no answer from Andy?”

  When Melody shook her head, Gemma hesitated, then said, “Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you. No offense,” she added quickly. “But he may feel . . . awkward. Duncan, could you try?”

  Melody read out the number to Kincaid, who dialed from his phone. “No joy,” he said after listening for a long moment, then clicking off.

  Gemma took a breath and straightened her shoulders in the way that meant she’d made a decision. “Could you ring Tam and have him try? In the meantime, I think we should go to Crystal Palace. Maybe Joe Peterson saw something that night. And in any case, he needs to be warned.”

  Melody had suffered from car sickness as a child. Although Kincaid drove deftly, recrossing the river and winding south and upwards, the patchy fog that curled round the car windows like sinuous ghosts made Melody feel disoriented and queasy.

  She thought of a long-ago summer drive with her parents. She had been perhaps nine, and it had been late in the summer hols. They were traveling from the Kensington town house to their country place in Buckinghamshire. The car was too warm, and her father had recently taken up smoking cigars. The smell, combined with the motion, had made her so ill that she’d made her dad stop and let her out so that she could vomit on the verge. He’d never smoked another cigar—at least not in her presence.

  She certainly hoped she wasn’t going to have to ask the same of Kincaid.

  The summer hols . . . something niggled at her. She realized it was the story she’d told Gemma at the beginning of this case, about visiting Crystal Palace Park with her school class. It had been very early in the autumn term, she was certain, because the heat had made it still feel like summer. She and Andy were near the same age—was it possible they had unknowingly passed each other in the park that day?

  Romantic rubbish, she chided herself. Yet she found the thought comforting, and she felt a bit better for the rest of the drive.

  By the time they neared the summit of Gipsy Hill, they were driving through dense cloud. Cars loomed at them as they went round the triangle, yellow lights glaring, and the red and green traffic lights seemingly winked from out of nowhere.

  “Bugger driving in this,” Kincaid said. “Are we close?”

  Gemma consulted the map and her directions. “There’s a turning to the right just past the White Stag.”

  The road appeared out of the fog so suddenly that Kincaid almost missed it. Slowing into the turn, he crept round the corner and down into a loop of road. Blocks of council flats were barely visible, set in amongst the trees on the steep hillside.

  “Not bad for council flats,” said Gemma as she looked round. “Maybe we should try living on benefits.”

  When Kincaid had found a parking spot and they climbed from the car, Melody drew her coat collar tight about her throat. The fog might look soft as cotton wool, but it seared the lungs and chilled to the bone.

  Gemma consulted the building numbers, then pointed. “Up there. First floor.”

  They followed her up the slick open staircase with care, then along a concrete walkway until they reached a battered door with no name beside the bell. Wh
en Gemma pushed it, there was no sound, so she knocked loudly. They could hear a television blaring through the thin door. The curtains in the front window were torn and sagged at the top.

  “Not prepossessing, in spite of the view this place must have in daylight,” Kincaid murmured as Gemma knocked again.

  The television went quiet and a man’s voice said suspiciously, “Who is it?”

  “DI James. Metropolitan Police. We’d like a word.”

  There was no reply. Gemma had lifted her hand to knock again when the door opened on the chain and a man peered out at them.

  “I want to see some ID,” he said.

  Obligingly, Gemma held up her warrant card.

  The man jerked his head towards Melody and Kincaid.

  Melody showed her ID. “DS Talbot.”

  Kincaid, who stood behind them, merely flashed his and said, “Kincaid,” deliberately omitting his rank.

  The chain stayed fastened. “What do you want?”

  “Can we come in, Mr. Peterson?” asked Gemma. “I’m sure you’d prefer we didn’t discuss your business in front of your neighbors.”

  “Why should it matter with that lot?” he said dismissively, but he flicked the chain off and stepped back to let them in. He didn’t deny that he was Joe Peterson.

  If he was Andy’s age, he’d seen some wear and tear, thought Melody. He was thin, with short brown hair and a scruffy bit of facial hair that couldn’t quite be called a beard. He also had a faint, yellowing bruise below his right eye.

  The flat looked no better kept, and it smelled of damp and stale smoke. Half-filled boxes lay strewn about the sitting room, empty beer cans littered the tables, and the stained back wall held a Crystal Palace football poster, its top corner curling down like a drooping flag.

  “Are you going somewhere, Mr. Peterson?” asked Gemma.

  “Nah. Girlfriend’s moving out. You know women and their stuff.”

  Melody pegged his accent as public-school-trying-for-working-class, and it was grating. “Did she give you that, your girlfriend?” asked Melody, touching her own cheekbone.

  She saw him hesitate, contemplating a lie, and in that still moment the faint bruising on his nose was visible as well. Then he shrugged. “Nah. I had a bit too much to drink on the weekend. Had a little argy-bargy in the pub.”

  “That would have been the White Stag, on Church Street?” said Gemma.

  Peterson’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been expecting that. “So happens, yeah. What of it?”

  “It was, in fact, your old friend who hit you. Andy Monahan.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. But I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. I should’ve pressed charges. Assault, that’s what it was.”

  “You and Andy go way back, as I understand it.”

  Peterson stepped back, definitely wary now. “I knew him a little when we were kids. Snotty-nosed little bastard, didn’t even own a decent pair of shoes, and now he doesn’t want to be seen talking to me.” Gemma gave a very pointed look round the flat and Peterson flushed. “He had no right to bloody hit me.”

  “Andy didn’t remember you too fondly, either, Joe,” put in Melody. “And he doesn’t even know what you really did to his neighbor, Mrs. Drake.”

  His face closed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure you do,” said Gemma. “You accused her of assault, and your father legally persecuted her. He hired a lawyer named Vincent Arnott to file a civil suit against her when the police refused to charge her. Did you happen to see Mr. Arnott in the White Stag on Friday night?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Peterson said again, his accent slipping into public school vowels.

  Melody held out her phone, showing him Arnott’s photo. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

  He looked, shook his head. “Nah. Don’t remember him. That was years ago, anyway.”

  “And you hadn’t seen him in the pub before?”

  “Not my regular, the White Stag. Bit too smarmy yuppie. I only went in ’cause I saw Andy’s picture on the flyer in the window. Thought it would be a laugh.”

  Kincaid stepped up behind Gemma, and Melody was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of the look he gave Joe Peterson. “You thought Andy would want to have a laugh over your breaking into his neighbor’s house and scaring her half to death?”

  “That’s not what happened.” Peterson shifted on the balls of his feet as he glanced at Kincaid, who suddenly seemed to fill the doorway.

  “We know what you said happened. Andy says it’s not true.”

  “Little butter-wouldn’t-melt Catholic boy? He’s the one had been spying on her for months.” Peterson glared at them. “What’s this all about, anyway? You’ve no right to harass me like this. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Did you see anyone else you recognized in the pub Friday night?” asked Gemma.

  “No. I’ve told you. Look, I’ve had enough of—”

  “Vincent Arnott—the lawyer your father hired—was in the White Stag on Friday night. We found him dead on Saturday morning.” Gemma waited for this to sink in. Peterson shot another glance at Kincaid. The bruise on his cheekbone stood out starkly now.

  “So why should I care?” he said finally. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.

  “Your old mate Shaun Francis was found dead on Monday morning,” said Kincaid. “Bit of a coincidence, you see.”

  “Shaun? Dead?” Peterson licked his lips. “You’re having me on, right?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” Gemma sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  “But—I don’t understand. I hadn’t seen Shaun in years. What has any of this got to do with me?”

  “We think there was someone else in the pub that night. Someone who had very good reason to hate Arnott, and your old friend Shaun, and you. Nadine Drake.”

  Peterson stared at her, then gave a bark of laughter. “Now I know you’re having me on. She must be some kind of a hag by now. And besides, I didn’t hang around after—” His hand strayed towards his face.

  “What did you do?” asked Kincaid.

  “Came home. I was bloody pissed off. Had a row with my girlfriend.” He gestured at the boxes. “Bitch.”

  Melody was beginning to think they should leave Joe Peterson to his fate, but Gemma handed him a card. “Mr. Peterson, we should warn you that you could be a target. Please be aware of this if Nadine Drake should approach you. And call the police.”

  “I think I could handle her.” Peterson’s expression made Melody wonder just what he had done to his girlfriend when they’d argued on Friday night.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Gemma, and Melody knew she was seeing Arnott and Francis, naked and strangled. “You might not recognize her, but I’d stay away from strange women in bars. Oh, and we’ll need to have a word with your ex-girlfriend. Routine. If you could give us contact information?”

  With bad grace, he scribbled a name and a mobile number on a shred of torn-off pizza box. “She’s gone to stay with her sister in Streatham. Don’t know the address.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Peterson. You’ve been most helpful.” Gemma gave him her most officious smile, and they left him standing in his sitting room, Gemma’s card clutched in his fingers.

  “Nasty piece of work,” Kincaid said when they reached the car. “I think I can see why Andy punched him.”

  Gemma glanced back at the flat. “Is he really in danger, do you think? I could have patrol keep an eye on him.”

  Kincaid frowned as he keyed open the car. “I’d concentrate on Drake. The other two were attacked after they’d been to their locals. And they were fairly high-profile figures, lawyers who could be traced easily enough. How would she find Joe Peterson unless she had access to social security rolls?”

  Melody could only think of Andy, whose name and gig dates were on flyers at the 12 Bar, and probably other local clubs as well.

  “I think I won’t ride back with you
,” she said, her fingers on the handle of the Astra’s back door. Gemma and Kincaid turned to stare at her. “I’ll get the train from Gipsy Hill into Victoria. Then it’s easy enough to get the tube to Putney. That way, the two of you can go straight home, and I can run Gemma by to pick up her car on the way into the station in the morning.”

  She didn’t want to say that she couldn’t bear another hour in the back of the car in evening traffic. Or that she had no intention of going straight to Putney. From Victoria, it was just as easy to get the tube to Tottenham Court Road, and the flat in Hanway Place. She was not going home until she’d made certain Andy was all right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In 1963 Regent Sounds Studio was set up at 4 Denmark Street. With the Rolling Stones recording their first album here, the studio took off as the place to be seen to be making music.

  —www.covent-garden.co.uk

  “Do you think Melody is all right?” Kincaid asked Gemma, taking his eyes from the road to glance at her face.

  “I don’t know. I can’t blame her for being worried. You could ring Tam again when we get home, ask him if Andy was playing anywhere tonight and if he could check on him.”

  He was crossing the Thames at the Albert Bridge, which would always now make him think of the walk he and Gemma had taken along the Chelsea Embankment after they signed the marriage register in the Chelsea Town Hall.

  This seemed as good a time as any, and perhaps the setting would serve as a good omen for what he had to say. “Before we get home, there’s something I need to tell you, love.”

  “What?” Gemma’s face was a white blur as she turned towards him. “What’s happened? The children—my mum—”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s good news, actually.” He reached over and patted her knee through the thick wool of her coat. “But it is about Charlotte. The thing is . . . I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for certain. But I think I’ve found her a place in a good school. It’s Miss Jane’s. I spoke to the headmistress this morning and she said Charlotte could start half days next week.”