The Sound of Broken Glass (15 page)

“Oh, God.” Doug hobbled out of the way so that Kincaid could come in. “I'm starving. There's no food in the house. Melody offered to get something this morning, but I knew she'd already gone out of her way to fetch me from hospital and I didn't want to hold her up any longer.”

Kincaid followed him into the sitting room, where Doug levered himself back into his armchair and propped his booted ankle on the ottoman. An old episode of
Top Gear
was playing soundlessly on the telly, and Kincaid suspected Doug had been napping. Then he took in the tipped ladder and the spilled paint. “Bloody hell!”

Doug gave a disgruntled sigh. “I think I'm going to be apologizing for my stupidity for the rest of my life. At least, as Melody reminded me, I was going to tear the carpet out anyway. I thought you were minding the kids, with Gemma on a big case,” he added as Kincaid pulled up another chair and unwrapped the burgers.

“Betty invited us all for Sunday lunch. I took advantage. Told her I was sure you needed some TLC. Although Melody seems to have done pretty well in the caretaking department, I must say.”

“She feels sorry for me.” Doug shrugged, but he looked pleased nonetheless.

Glancing at the front window, Kincaid saw a bright blue Renault Clio pull up to the curb. “Speak of the devil.” He grinned.

“Melody? Here?” Doug looked round for someplace to set his burger and began to push himself out of the chair. “She said she was coming back but I didn't think she'd manage it.”

“Stay put. I'll go,” Kincaid told him.

“I see we have a party,” said Melody when he greeted her at the door. She held a bag identical to the one Kincaid had brought, and when she came into the sitting room and saw their burgers, she laughed. Holding up her bag, she said to Doug, “I brought you the Gardeners' Sunday roast chicken. I thought you could save half for your dinner, but now you can have the whole thing tonight.”

“Thanks,” Doug called out as she went to the kitchen and popped the bag in the fridge. “But what about you? No lunch?”

Melody came back into the sitting room and perched on the edge of a chair. “Sandwich at the station. And I can't stay long. Just wanted to make sure you were coping.”

“How'd you get away?” Doug asked.

“Skiving.” Melody gave a dimpled smile. “No, really, I've got interviews, and Putney wasn't that far out of my way.”

“Interviews? Where?” Doug, obviously more interested in keeping Melody there than in eating, managed to find a spot for his half-eaten burger. He nibbled absently on a chip.

“Well, the thing is,” answered Melody, “I'm not exactly sure.” She outlined the morning's developments, then added, “Gemma has Shara going round the pub in Crystal Palace again—her reward for having to watch the porn videos this morning—just in case any of the Sunday patrons were there on Friday night and might remember seeing Arnott talking to, or leaving with, a woman who might possibly fit the description of the person on the CCTV. And, of course, it's always possible that someone might admit to having had a previous liaison with him.”

“Of course?” said Doug. “Is it really all that likely?”

Melody shrugged. “You never know. A lonely woman, she might see it as a chance at a little attention. Maybe even an inch in the
Evening Standard
:
My Encounter with the Victim
.”

“Cynic,” said Doug. He looked much more chipper than when Kincaid had come in.

“What about Gemma?” asked Kincaid, wishing she had rung him with an update.

“Still slaving away at the station. The results of the search of Arnott's car should be coming in, and she's hoping the computer techs will have something from his home computer. Oh, and I think she's tracked down the clerk from Arnott's chambers. Someplace in Battersea. The clerk, I mean, not the chambers.”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Obviously. And you still haven't told us where Putney was on the way to.” He frowned at his garbled sentence, and Kincaid thought he was tiring. “I mean—Well, you know what I mean.”

For the first time, Melody seemed a little hesitant. “I've already spoken to the guitarist—the one that Arnott shouted at—but I want to talk to the other guys who were playing in the band on Friday night. There was something going on with them—they seemed to be arguing after the gig. It may not have any connection with the case, but I want to know what the row was about. I rang the manager, Tam, and confirmed that it was his Mini we saw on the CCTV picking up the guitarist. And I got phone numbers and home addresses for the bass player and the drummer. The bass player, Nick, lives in Earl's Court, and Tam said if I wanted to catch him I'd better go toot suite. His term, not mine. So I should be on my—”

“Melody,” Kincaid broke in. “The band's manager is named Tam? And he drives a Mini?”

“Yeah. Funny little guy, but nice. He said his name is really Michael, but he wears this ratty old Scots tam—”

“Jesus.” Kincaid shook his head. “I should have realized—I would have realized, if Gemma had told me . . . ” He frowned at Melody. “This guitarist—what's his name?”

“Andy. Andy Monahan.” Now Melody was looking puzzled. “Why?”

“Because,” said Kincaid. “I know Tam Moran. And I know your guitarist, too.”

Recording studios started setting up in the 1960s, and it was then that Denmark Street's name was etched into the archives. Denmark Street's impact on the contemporary music scene is widely regarded as far greater than the more populist location of Abbey Road.

—www.covent-garden.co.uk

“I still can't believe it,” said Tom Kershaw when he opened the door of his Battersea flat to Gemma. It was the same thing he'd said to her over the phone when she'd finally reached him an hour earlier and had informed him of Vincent Arnott's death.

She'd had no trouble finding the flat by his directions. It was a relatively new gated community with its own communal garden flanking the river.

Kershaw was a thin, balding man in his forties, with a pleasant face. Now, he hesitated for a moment, glancing back into the flat, then said, “Do you mind if we talk outside? It's just that it's Sunday, and all the kids are at home.” Gemma heard the sound of a piano being laboriously practiced, then a woman hushing a childish shriek. The lingering aroma of a Sunday roast wafted out.

“Not at all.” Gemma smiled, wishing she'd worn a warmer coat. “It's not exactly a suitable discussion for the family.”

“Won't be a tic.” Kershaw shut the door, reappearing a moment later, slipping a heavy anorak over his cable-knit pullover. “We can walk round the garden.” He led the way along a path through the low buildings. When they reached the riverfront garden, the wind hit Gemma full force.

“How many children do you have, Mr. Kershaw?” she asked, suppressing a shiver.

“Three. In nursery, primary, and secondary.”

“Oh, really? We have three as well. Quite a handful, aren't they?”

He smiled. “Three separate school runs, but thankfully they're all quite close together. My wife's a barrister, so it's a bit of a juggling act in the mornings.”

“A little conflict of interest there?” asked Gemma.

“What?” He seemed to realize she was joking. “Oh. No. Different chambers. We did work in the same set of chambers years ago, when we were both juniors, but once we started going out, Margie took the opportunity to move to another set.” They'd reached a bench that faced the river, but Kershaw kept walking.

“About Mr. Arnott,” said Gemma. “Had you worked with him long?”

“More than twenty years. Since I came into the chambers on a work-experience scheme.” He shook his head. “You're certain he's dead?”

“Barring the formal identification, yes. His sister-in-law is arriving from the States tomorrow. I'm afraid his wife's not up to it.”

“No. She wouldn't be.”

“Did you know about his wife's condition, Mr. Kershaw?”

“Well, we'd all suspected for some time. Not that he ever talked about it. Vincent wasn't one to invite sympathy or advice.”

It occurred to Gemma that although Kershaw had been shocked, he'd expressed no grief at the news. “You didn't like Mr. Arnott, did you?”

“No. I didn't,” answered Kershaw, with apparent regret. “He wasn't what I would call a likable man. But he was a good barrister, and part of a clerk's job is to match their chambers' barristers with the right solicitors and clients. I never put Vincent with a client who needed hand-holding. He was, in fact, much better at prosecuting.”

“From what I gather, he was quite solicitous of his wife.”

“She was a nice woman, Mrs. Arnott. Always little presents for the staff at Christmas, cards on birthdays. Never could imagine what she saw in him.” He stopped, hands in his anorak pockets, staring out at the late-afternoon sun glinting on the river. “I suppose I shouldn't say she
was
, as if it were she who had died. But it's been a couple of years since I've seen her. The last time Vincent brought her to a chambers function, she was obviously not well.”

“Mr. Kershaw, do you know if Vincent Arnott had started seeing other women after his wife became ill?”

Kershaw gave her a sharp look. “Vincent had been seeing other women for years. Not as in a mistress—at least not that I know of—but he had a knack for picking out a woman who looked lonely in a wine bar.”

“Prostitutes?”

“I don't think so. He was a bit too fastidious for that. But I'd say he was quite adept at the one-night stand.” Frowning, he said, “Does this have something to do with his death? You've never said what happened to him, but as you're investigating I assume it wasn't natural causes.”

“He was found in a hotel in Crystal Palace on Saturday morning, and yes, there was evidence of foul play. We have reason to believe he might have left a pub with a woman the previous evening. Did you ever see any indication that Mr. Arnott was into anything . . .  kinky?”

“Vincent?” Kershaw looked astonished. “Kinky? I'd say you couldn't have found anyone more sexually straight ahead than Vincent.” He walked on, and Gemma was glad of the movement. She'd buttoned her coat up to the collar, and like Kershaw, had stuffed her numb hands into her pockets. “But then again,” Kershaw went on thoughtfully, “I never thought he liked women.”

“You mean he liked men?” asked Gemma, wondering if they'd got the whole scenario wrong.

“No. I mean he didn't
like
women. When I said I tried not to assign him cases that required hand-holding, that was part of it. I learned years ago that he would never make a real effort to defend a woman. It was as if he made an automatic assumption of guilt.”

When Gemma left Tom Kershaw, both with assurances of his discretion and a promise that he would provide the team with contact information and schedules for the other members of Arnott's chambers first thing in the morning, the afternoon was beginning to slide into early winter dusk.

Getting into her car, she was glad of a little residual warmth from the heater. She checked her phone—there were no messages from either her team or Kincaid.

Gemma sat and thought for a moment. Then, on impulse, she started the car and drove east. Soon she was turning into Falcon Road, and then the little side street with the concrete block of a mosque on the corner. With a council estate at the street's far end, and the in-between bits filled with Victorian terraces in various stages of repair, it seemed unlikely that the high stone wall that occupied a section near the mosque would conceal anything other than scrap.

But if you looked closely, you saw that there was a wooden gate set into the stone wall. Gemma parked the Escort, waving at the Muslim boys who were, as usual, playing football at the street's end, and pushed the intercom buzzer set very discreetly beside the gate latch.

“It's Gemma,” she said when the intercom came on, and a moment later there was a buzz and the gate swung open. Her friend Hazel Cavendish hurried towards her across the patio that separated the gate from what Gemma referred to as The Secret Bungalow.

“Gemma!” Hazel crushed her in a hug. “I thought you were tied up for the weekend.”

“I was,” said Gemma as Hazel led her into the house. “I am. But I had an interview not far from here, and I couldn't resist the chance to see you. And to get warm,” she added, rubbing her hands together. Hazel had a gas fire going in the fireplace between the small bookcases on the far side of the room, and colorful rag rugs covered the stone floor.

“I was just making tea. You must have second sight. Go warm your hands while I bring it.”

In fact, Gemma was convinced that it was Hazel who had second sight. When Gemma had lived in Hazel's garage flat in Islington, Hazel had somehow always known when Gemma had needed a cuppa, a meal, a glass of wine, or a confidante. Now, even though both their lives had changed considerably, Hazel hadn't lost the gift.

Hazel returned from the small kitchen carrying a tray with a red teapot, two mugs, and a plate of biscuits. “Cranberry walnut.” She gestured at the biscuits as she put the tray on the table nearest the fire. “I made them for the café yesterday.”

Hazel was a licensed therapist, but after the troubles that had wreaked havoc in her own family, she'd given up her practice. Instead, she'd taken a job in a Kensington café. Hazel's husband, Tim, from whom she was separated, had stayed in the Islington house, and they shared custody of their daughter, Holly, who was Toby's age.

“Where's Holly?” Gemma asked as Hazel poured her a steaming cup of tea and added just the amount of milk she knew Gemma liked.

“Tim's bringing her at six. I'm doing the school run tomorrow as I've got the day off.”