The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “And”—Melody found she hated to ask—“Nadine?”

  Gemma pushed her chair back and stretched. “You speak a bit of French, don’t you? I should have let you take that one. I managed to get the shop owner on the phone at his home, first thing this morning. He’s a very excitable Frenchman named Guy, who said—at least I think that’s what he said—that we were a bunch of English idiots who couldn’t be trusted to find our own arses.

  “He found Nadine living on the streets in Paris a year or so after we think she left England. She never talked about what had happened to her, but he saw something in her . . . He said”—Gemma paused, as if trying to remember the conversation word for word—“he said that even in her desperation, she had not lost her kindness. Then he said that if we didn’t find her and make certain she was all right, he would personally come to London and twist our heads off. And something in French that I didn’t understand but I don’t think it was complimentary.”

  Melody was too busy thinking to smile. “That’s what Andy said. That Nadine was kind. The kindest person he’d ever known. Does that sound like a person who would drug and strangle two people for revenge?”

  “People change.”

  “If losing her husband, then being accused of a crime she didn’t commit, then losing her job and her home and living rough on the streets in Paris didn’t change her, why now? And where the bloody hell is she?”

  Gemma’s phone rang. “It’s Maura,” she said as she looked at the ID. “I asked her to track down Joe Peterson’s girlfriend.”

  When she answered, Melody listened to the one-sided conversation and watched Gemma look more and more unhappy. “You’re sure?” asked Gemma. She listened for another moment, then added, “Right. Thanks, Maura. We’ll get on it.”

  “What?” said Melody as soon as Gemma had rung off, her stomach lurching.

  “Joe Peterson. Maura talked to his girlfriend. Make that ex-girlfriend. She said that Joe’s father cut him off completely a few months ago and that Joe had just got worse and worse since then, even on his medication. Temper flare-ups, rows. Apparently they had a bugger of one on Friday and he hit her. She left, told him she was finished, and she hasn’t been back since. She’s afraid to get her things.”

  “Friday night?”

  “No. That’s the thing. Friday afternoon.”

  Melody and Gemma looked at each other across the desk. “He lied,” said Melody. “Andy said he was a liar, even as a kid, and we know he lied about what happened with Nadine Drake. Why did we assume he was telling the truth about Friday night?”

  She saw again the flat—the mess, the possessions half thrown in boxes. And then it clicked, the thing that had been nagging at her subconscious. “The poster,” she said. “In Joe’s flat.”

  “So?” Gemma looked at her blankly. “What of it?”

  “It was the Crystal Palace football team. In their home colors. Navy and maroon. Don’t you see? Joe follows Crystal Palace. The scarf.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened in understanding. “The unidentified fibers found at both scenes. Fuzzy navy and maroon. And not only that, but the girlfriend said ‘anxiety medication.’ Xanax? We wondered where that came from. Bloody hell and damnation.”

  “And the blood,” said Melody. “Oh my God, the blood. On the sheet in the hotel room. Who did we know who bled that night, besides Andy from a cut on his thumb? Joe. Andy punched Joe in the face, hard enough to make his nose bleed. You could still see the bruise on the side of his nose as well as under his eye.”

  “Christ.” Gemma jumped up from her desk and ran for the CID room, Melody right behind her.

  “Shara,” called Gemma, “get me the CCTV from Friday night. Biggest monitor.”

  “Right, guv.” Changing workstations, Shara typed in the file number, and a moment later they were all looking at the grainy footage.

  “I want Arnott leaving the pub.”

  Shara jumped the film forward, then there he was. The smaller figure beside him was half hidden from the camera by his body, and yet there was something indefinably female about it.

  “Nadine,” whispered Melody. “It has to be.”

  Then they saw him, the hooded figure, appearing in the frame as Arnott left it, going in the same direction. No. Following.

  “That’s Joe Peterson,” said Gemma with certainty. “Right size, right build, and something about the posture. But what the hell happened in that hotel room? Were Peterson and Drake working together? Her friend in Paris said he found her living on the streets. I suspect that means she knew how to pick men up. And maybe tie them up as well, if that was what they fancied.”

  “What if . . . ” Melody stared at the frozen picture, trying to imagine the scene in the pub. “What if she went to see Andy at the White Stag that night? It wouldn’t have been that difficult to learn where the band was playing, even if the gig was scheduled at short notice. And she recognized Arnott. I doubt he’d have realized who she was after fifteen years—she would have just been another case to him, not someone who ruined his life. And he was drunk.”

  “That makes an argument for her luring him to the hotel and killing him, but it doesn’t explain where Peterson comes into it.” Gemma turned to Shara. “Can we see the footage from Kennington?”

  They all watched carefully, first the film from Kennington Park Road, near the tube station, then the film from Kennington Road, the main thoroughfare on the opposite side of Cleaver Square.

  “Look.” Shara froze the frame. “There. Coming from the bus stop. It’s him.” The hooded figure appeared for an instant, in between other pedestrians, then vanished as the footage jumped forwards. But there had been the suggestion of a bulge beneath his jacket that might have been a scarf knotted round his neck. The time stamp showed 7:35.

  “He took the bus from Crystal Palace,” said Melody. “And he knew exactly where he was going. He must have known where Shaun lived and which pub he frequented. Maybe Arnott was spur of the moment, but Shaun’s murder was planned. Why didn’t we see him before?”

  “Because we weren’t looking for him,” answered Gemma. She straightened. “If Nadine Drake wasn’t involved in killing Arnott, she could be in serious danger. Shara, get uniform to double the watch on her flat and the shop.”

  “And Andy.” Melody’s voice caught in her throat. “The headmaster said that after Nadine was fired, Joe Peterson was ostracized at school. Shaun, his only real friend, cut him off. His marks fell. He had to leave the school, and it sounds like he’s been going steadily downhill ever since. Who would he blame?”

  “Shaun,” said Gemma slowly, thinking it through. “Arnott, possibly as a substitute for his father, who he may not dare to confront even now. And . . . ” She looked at Melody, concern in her eyes. “Do you know where Andy is?”

  Melody felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. “He said he was recording with Poppy today. I assumed he meant the studio in Crystal Palace.”

  She woke, so cold and cramped that her limbs were paralyzed. No light yet filtered through the windows of the nave, but her body told her it was near daybreak. Her stomach cramped with emptiness. Carefully, she moved her fingers, then her toes, until she could stretch. Something was digging into her hip, a lump in her coat pocket. She remembered the chestnuts.

  When she could lever herself into a sitting position on the pew, she took the package from her pocket and ate the tough, cold, mealy nuts, one at a time, sucking at bits to get enough saliva into her mouth so that she could swallow.

  The windows began to appear, faint gray outlines that seemed to shift in shape as she watched.

  Nadine felt the city coming to life outside the walls of the church. That, too, was something she had learned in Paris, to catch that hum, the vibration of trains beginning to run and people all around, waking, thinking, moving, talking. Each city had its own particular pulse.

  And last night, London had taken her into its arms and given her shelter. With that thought came the realization t
hat her panic had vanished while she slept. Perhaps the city—or this church—had given her more than sanctuary.

  As light filled the great windows, her course came to her with sudden clarity. No more running. No more hiding. She would go to the police and tell them what she had done that night in the Belvedere Hotel.

  But first, she had to find Andy.

  For the third time, Andy flubbed the intro to the number they were working on and swore.

  From the control booth, Caleb said, “Five-minute break, okay? In fact, why don’t I go fetch us some sandwiches from the pub while you two compose yourselves?” he added, dripping sarcasm, and Andy suspected he was nipping out to call Tam and ask him what the hell was wrong with his guitarist.

  Poppy waited until Caleb disappeared from the booth window, then turned off her mic and reached across to switch Andy’s off as well. Wearing a knitted reindeer sweater and an orange Peruvian cap with the earflaps turned up, she looked like an elf that had wandered in from the wrong hemisphere. Fortunately, she’d taken off her bright-pink puffy jacket and draped it over her instrument case.

  “What is up with you today, guitar boy?” she asked, with a glance at the now-empty control booth. “You got sausages for fingers?”

  Andy flexed his uncooperative hands. “It’s the cold, maybe.” A lame excuse if he’d ever heard one, and Poppy rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, right. Not cold in here, is it? Buck up, will you?” She took off her cap, leaving her hair standing on end from the static, like Bert the cat when he’d had a fright. “Have you looked at the video today? We’ve got like a gazillion more views.”

  He had no doubt she knew exactly how many—she’d been tracking them like a stock analyst. Poppy Jones had brains as well as phenomenal talent, and just now he could see the third ingredient necessary for success, steely determination, glinting in her wide blue eyes. Today he felt far short of the mark.

  “Sorry, Poppy. The next take will be better.”

  This time the look she gave him could have come from someone twice her age. “You all right, Andy? Really?”

  “Yeah.” He summoned a grin. “Dandy.”

  “Okay. Just don’t blow this. I’ll carve up your liver if you do,” she added sweetly, going to her jacket and pulling out the water bottle stuffed in a pocket.

  “My, you do sound just like a preacher’s daughter.”

  Poppy straightened up, holding a piece of paper crumpled in her hand. “That I may be, but I’m not a very good messenger, apparently. I found this stuck under the door when I got here this morning. I meant to give it to you. It has your name on it.”

  “What? Let me see.” Frowning, he took it from her. It was a piece of cheap notepaper, folded in quarters, with his name printed on one side in black marker. “What the fu—” He caught himself, even though Poppy swore like a trooper. That seemed to be her bit of rebellion, if you didn’t count the clothes and the hair. Unfolding the sheet, he peered at the scrawl inside. The paper seemed to have got wet at some point and the marker had run.

  “NEED TO TAL—,” it said, then something he couldn’t make out. Then there was another illegible word, followed by “KNOW WHERE.” And then— He tilted the paper one way and then the other, trying to be certain. Was that scrawl running off the bottom of the page an N?

  “What is it?” said Poppy. “You look like someone walked over your grave. Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, let me see.” She grabbed for the paper, as if he were one of her brothers, playing keep-away.

  “No, Poppy, really—”

  But she’d snatched at it again and got a glimpse before he yanked it back, half ripping it.

  “Ooh, what are you doing? Passing secret messages like the Famous Five or something?”

  “No. But you probably still read Enid Blyton,” he said, trying to make light of it even as he stuffed the torn note into his jeans pocket. “Leave it alone, Poppy.”

  His heart was pounding in his ears. Was it— Could it be Nadine? But how had she known where to find him? Then he remembered that he’d seen her—or thought he’d seen her—at the White Stag and at the 12 Bar. People knew they were recording—it wasn’t impossible someone would have told her he’d be here.

  Then he thought of Melody. She’d asked him to promise to be careful. Well, he would be careful. But he didn’t for a moment believe those things she’d said, and if the note was from Nadine, there was no way he could refuse.

  “Poppy, I have to go out for a bit. Tell Caleb I won’t be long.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I’ll make it up to you. Tell him it’s a family emergency.”

  Ignoring the disapproval on Poppy’s face, he slipped on his jacket and turned towards the door.

  Then he stopped. He never left his guitar. Not anywhere. Ever. He put the Strat in its case and slipped the strap over his shoulder.

  “You’re mad,” said Poppy.

  “I know.” He touched her cheek. “Thanks.”

  Now there was only one place he could go.

  Nadine slipped from the church before full light, hoping that the first person who arrived to prepare for morning service wouldn’t be too panicked by the unlocked door. The church, surely, would be safe enough, daybreak on a Thursday morning not being a prime time for vandals.

  Head down, she walked into Oxford Street, taking refuge in the McDonald’s sandwiched between Tottenham Court Road and Hanway Place. She ordered coffee and a roll, not because she wanted them, but because she knew her body needed fuel if she was to keep going, and because the food and drink provided camouflage. When someone left a newspaper behind, she slid it over to her table and hid behind it, staring unseeing at photos of celebrities she didn’t recognize.

  When enough time had passed, she left the restaurant and walked back into Charing Cross Road. The air felt dense, and the sky seemed darker than it had at dawn. She went into Foyle’s and discreetly freshened up in the ladies’ toilet, another skill learned long ago.

  Then, when the guitar shops began to open their doors, she wandered back into Denmark Street. She’d perfected the art of aimless browsing as a way to keep warm and kill time, and it served her well. All the salesclerks were men, and after the first—sometimes appreciative—glance they ignored her, as if they knew instantly that she wasn’t a serious customer. When they got comfortable with her presence, she asked each, oh so casually, if they happened to know her old friend she’d been meaning to look up since she’d arrived in London.

  The luthier in the last shop, a middle-aged man with a ponytail, looked up and smiled. “Andy? Yeah, I hear he’s got a good gig going. Some girl singer that’s maybe the next big thing. He was in here the other day—had some work done on his Martin. Said he was going to be recording.”

  “Oh. How smashing for him.” Nadine gave him her best smile. “Did he happen to say where?”

  “Um, Crystal Palace. That little place tucked away behind Westow Street. Can’t remember the name of the lane. You want me to give him a message if he comes in?”

  “No, but thanks. I’m sure I’ll run into him sooner or later.”

  She climbed up from Gipsy Hill Railway Station, stopping every few minutes to let the wooziness in her head clear and to ease the pain in her calves. The strange darkness grew. Something icy bit at her cheek and the gray wind funneled down the hill, bringing a swirl of sleety snow with it.

  Nadine came to a halt, unable to see above or below as the visibility decreased even further. She felt as though she were suspended in space and in time, a no-man’s-land between memory and reality in which she might wander forever.

  But she had to finish what she’d begun, had to make things right. Taking a searing breath, she went on. Her feet began to slip as the freezing mixture coated the pavement.

  Then, just as she neared the summit, she saw Andy turning into Westow Hill, his guitar case over his shoulder, hurrying.

  She followed.

  His feet
had almost gone out from under him as he clattered out of the studio and started down the metal stairs. “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing the rail to steady himself and proceeding the rest of the way down much more carefully. He could see the ice sheen on the steps now, but everything beyond the small parking area below the studio was a gray blur.

  A cold drop of moisture touched his cheek, like a tear, then another and another. Freezing rain, turning to snow. For a moment, he was tempted to return the guitar, but he knew he couldn’t go back. He hoped he could reach his destination.

  Managing to get up the steep lane, he walked as fast as he dared the length of Westow Street, then turned into Westow Hill.

  When he reached Woodland Road he stopped, suddenly afraid to go on. Where else could she have meant but the old flats? They had never met in any other place.

  And if he was right . . . What would it be like to see her, to talk to her again? Could he face her? But if she needed him, he must go. He’d call Melody when he found out if Nadine was all right.

  He half slid down Woodland Road, banging his guitar case more than once. Even returning to Crystal Palace for the gig at the White Stag and the recording sessions, he’d avoided coming this way, and now the sight of the house shocked him.

  There was a rubbish skip on the pavement in front, and the windows were partially boarded over. Someone was renovating the place. The thought made him feel violated.

  Next door, Nadine’s old flat looked freshly painted and well kept. Moving a few steps closer, he saw that the door to his former home stood very slightly ajar. Careful of his footing, he climbed the steps where he had spent so many hours, and stepped inside.

  The dimness in the flat was disorienting. Lumber and builder’s tools lay everywhere, some on a worktable near the right-hand side of the sitting room. The wall between the kitchen and the sitting room had been pulled down. And there, near the worktable, a flicker of flame. Someone had lit a portable gas heater left behind by the builders.

  “Nadine?” he said softly. The room seemed to swallow his words, and the hair on the back of his neck rose.