The Sound of Broken Glass (19 page)

“I'm sure you can, goody boy.” Shaun and Joe shared a sly look, some communication passing between them that Andy didn't understand. “See you around, goody boy,” said Shaun. He flipped up his skateboard, jerked his head towards Joe in a gesture of command, and they walked away, whispering.

The next afternoon they sauntered up to him, minus the boards, Shaun with a packet of cigarettes in his hand.

“Want one?” Shaun shook one from the pack with passable expertise.

“No. My mum smokes. I hate it.” A flash of the fire dream made Andy feel cold even in the afternoon's heat. Only night before last, he'd found his mum asleep on the sofa with a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. “Where you'd get those, anyway?” he asked. “You can't buy them.”

“Yes, we can.” Shaun handed a fag to Joe, then lit them both with a bright yellow Bic. “There's a Paki guy works in one of the shops along the Parade. He'll sell us anything.” Andy wondered how much money they gave the shopkeeper on the side.

Joe looked green as he drew on the cigarette and tried hard not to cough. Andy felt a little sorry for him, but he knew better than to say anything.

It was early closing day at the library, so he was off his usual schedule and he realized he'd spent longer at the park than he'd intended. Nadine would be home soon, and he had a surprise for her. He didn't want to be late. “Look,” he said, “I've got to go.”

“Meeting someone?” asked Shaun. “A girlfriend?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Snapping the guitar into its case, Andy walked away, rather pleased with his rejoinder. Stuck-up prigs, the both of them, and the last people he'd want to tell about his friendship with Nadine.

Once home, he put the Höfner away and went out into the weedy back garden. Last week, he'd scraped together the money to buy two wilted pots of geraniums the greengrocer had set out in front of his shop. He'd placed them in a little sunny spot round the side of the back steps, hoping his mum wouldn't notice them, and had watered and tended them until they'd filled out and burst into full, crimson bloom.

Now, with one last pinch of a brown leaf, he carried them through the flat and placed them carefully on either side of Nadine's front steps. Then he sat down on his own steps to wait.

Soon, her little car came chugging up the hill. When she got out, her head was bowed, her shoulders curved. She looked sad, and he suddenly hoped quite fiercely that his surprise would please her.

When she looked up and saw him, she smiled, and the feeling that washed through him was like the sun coming out. “What?” she said. “No guitar today?” Then she saw the flowers and her face went perfectly still. “Geraniums,” she whispered. “And red. My favorite color.” She met his eyes. “Did you do this for me?”

All he could do was nod. He was suddenly frightened, although he couldn't have said why.

“It's my birthday. Did you know that?” She clutched her bag against her chest like a shield.

Andy shook his head. “No.”

“Well. Then you must have extraordinary perception. Thank you, Andy Monahan.” She knelt and rubbed a deep green leaf between her fingers, releasing the spicy scent. For a moment, he thought she was going to cry, and felt as speechless as he had the day he'd met her.

Then, straightening, she gave him a too-bright grin and said, “This calls for a celebration, don't you think? When it cools off a bit, I'll bring us out some tea and biscuits, and we can gaze upon the glory of geraniums.”

She went in, and Andy put his hands in his pockets, wondering if he had made her happy or sad.

A shrill whistle made him look up towards the top of the street. Shaun and Joe stood there, watching him. Shaun made a rude gesture and they fell against each other, laughing, then gave him jaunty waves before turning away.

The bastards had followed him home. And they had seen Nadine.

“I wanna see Oliver,” said Charlotte for the sixth time.

Kincaid had got them settled towards the back of Kitchen and Pantry, far enough away from the damp, frigid blast of air that came in every time someone opened the front door, but still positioned where they could see anyone coming in.

When he'd told Gemma last night that he'd have a word with Tam today, he hadn't mentioned that there was someone else he wanted to talk to first. Although he'd developed a camaraderie with a number of the mothers who brought their toddlers and preschoolers in for morning coffee, he'd become closest to MacKenzie Williams. She was the only one to whom he'd confided anything about Charlotte's inability to adjust to school or his worries about getting back to work. And Oliver was Charlotte's favorite of the children they met on a regular basis.

“There he is!” Charlotte bounced up and down on her bench and waved.

MacKenzie Williams waved back from the door, keeping a firm hand on three-year-old Oliver while maneuvering a folding buggy through the narrow entrance.

Heads—male and female—turned as MacKenzie walked past. She was tall and slender, with a mass of dark, curling hair that fell almost to her waist, and olive skin that belied her Scottish name. Little Oliver had inherited his mother's dark, curly hair and coloring, and together they made perfect candidates for a well-heeled-London fashion advert.

But in spite of her looks, Kincaid had found MacKenzie to be funny, down to earth, and completely unself-conscious.

Reaching them, she boosted Oliver up next to Charlotte and said to Kincaid, “You cheated. You look fresh as the proverbial daisy. I can tell you didn't run this morning.”

“Couldn't deal with a wet cocker spaniel. And we can't leave him at home or he goes into a sulk that lasts for days. Get you a coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'll go if you'll keep an eye on the boy. He'll want whatever Charlotte's having.”

“Mango juice.”

“Mango juice it is.”

When MacKenzie came back from the counter with her order, she pulled a clean notepad and a new box of crayons from her bag and settled the children with them.

“How was your weekend?” she asked, sipping a latte as the children began to draw. Oliver was a gentle child, and Kincaid wondered, as he often did, what Kit had been like at that age.

“It didn't exactly go according to plan. Gemma had to work, and my sergeant—my
friend
,” he corrected, reminding himself once again that Doug was not actually his sergeant at the moment, “fell off a ladder and broke his ankle. Stupid git,” he added, but fondly. “Doing DIY.”

“Ouch. Well, I'm glad it was no worse. But poor you. I'm tempted to commit hari-kari if Bill is gone at the weekend, and I only have the one to look after.”

“A friend took the boys for part of Saturday, and another friend took all the kids yesterday so that I could go and give Doug a hand.”

MacKenzie studied him with the frank gaze that was one of the things he liked. “You're very lucky, you know.” She stirred a tiny bit of sugar into her coffee. “In my circles, friends only do favors if they know there's a payback.”

“Ouch.” Kincaid grimaced. “Now I feel a complete rotter, because I came this morning specifically to ask a favor of you. And I doubt I have anything to offer in return.”

“Then it's a good thing I'm not like them, isn't it?” said MacKenzie, instantly grave. “What is it? Do you need me to look after Charlotte?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that.” He was reluctant now to broach the request that had seemed so simple when it had occurred to him after his visit to Louise. “It's about Oliver's school.”

Kincaid had learned that parents put their children on the waiting list for exclusive Notting Hill schools when their offspring were still in utero, if not before. And that until his discussion with Louise on Saturday, he'd had no hope of paying the fees. “You know things haven't worked out for Charlotte at her current school,” he continued, “and we've been a bit . . .  it's been difficult.”

He'd not revealed the details of Charlotte's history to MacKenzie. “The school has made it clear they're not prepared to work with what they referred to as a ‘special needs' child.”

MacKenzie gave Charlotte a startled glance. Turning back to Kincaid, she said quietly, although the children were now deep into an animated discussion about the proper color for chickens, “That's absurd.”

“Not exactly the most flexible of environments, I admit.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice. “What I was wondering was if there might be any chance of a placement in Oliver's class. I think just having a friend would be a big help.”

MacKenzie chewed on her lip. “But—”

“If it's the fees,” he put in quickly, “there's been a development. We may have help from Charlotte's estate.” He was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. “Look, MacKenzie, I'm sorry to impose on you like this. I didn't mean to take advantage of your friendship or put you in an awkward position. And I realize I have absolutely no social clout.”

She smiled suddenly. “Oh, but
I
do. And I'd certainly be happy to see if I can help you get a toe in the door. But”—she waggled a finger at him before he could respond—”I will expect something in return. And I don't mean I want you to get me out of a parking ticket.”

“Okay,” he said warily, hoping it was something he could deliver. “If I can—”

“I'm giving a dinner party soon. I want you to come and bring Gemma. I think it's high time I met your mysterious wife.”

The atmosphere in the South London CID room was not a happy one that Monday morning.

Gemma had left home while Duncan was still getting the kids up for school, hoping an uninterrupted hour with the case file and the whiteboard would produce some much-needed inspiration, or that she would see something that they had all unaccountably missed.

Not long after Gemma arrived, Shara came in, yawning.

“You're in early,” said Gemma, resisting the impulse to yawn herself.

“Baby didn't sleep. It was a relief to drop the kids at day care. Seen the papers, guv?”

“God, yes,” Gemma answered with a groan. She gestured towards the stack of papers on the conference table. Not only had the story made last night's late-television news, all the papers had it this morning—complete with lurid details supplied by an “anonymous” witness, whom she strongly suspected was spotty Raymond, the hotel clerk.

The worst headline blared from Melody's father's paper:
Sicko Barrister Caught Dead in Hotel Hanky-Panky
. But at least the
Chronicle
hadn't accused the police of incompetence as had some of the other tabloids. Perhaps Ivan Talbot hadn't wanted to embarrass his daughter.

The broadsheets were a bit more circumspect, expressing dismay at the death of “an esteemed member of the law community in unfortunate circumstances.”

“
Unfortunate
is bloody right,” said Gemma, pushing the papers aside in disgust. She'd seen the journalists camped out in front of the station again this morning when she arrived. The super was not going to be a happy bunny.

Detective Superintendent Krueger had decided late yesterday that they might as well use the television news to make a plea for information from the public relating to Vincent Arnott, but so far nothing reliable had come in. Gemma had hoped a former girlfriend would come forward, or that someone would report having seen him leave the pub.

“What's on the slate for today, then?” asked Shara.

“The sister-in-law is arriving from Florida this morning. I'll talk to her once she's made the formal ID this afternoon. I've got a list of the other barristers in Arnott's chambers”—the promised e-mail from Tom Kershaw had been waiting in her in-box when she'd arrived—“but as it's Monday morning, most of them have cases on the docket. It'll be catch as catch can trying to get interviews. I'll try to be in Lincoln's Inn at lunchtime, see if anyone comes in on a break. What about your statements from the patrons at the White Stag yesterday?”

“I'll type up my notes, but there was nothing earthshaking. A couple of people remember Arnott shouting at the band, thought he'd had a bit too much to drink. If we had even a rough description of the woman, it might jog someone's memory.”

While Shara settled down at her computer, Gemma sat at another, watching the CCTV footage loop, going backwards and forwards, slowing it down, speeding it up. She saw the band arrive, the three musicians together. Now that Kincaid had jogged her memory, she recognized Andy Monahan, even from a brief glimpse in the grainy footage. The band unloaded their equipment; then Andy and the thin bloke went into the pub. The chubby bloke drove the van away and came back a few minutes later.

At a few minutes after the time Kathy Arnott had told them her television program began, she saw Vincent Arnott come into the frame and enter the pub. It made her feel odd, to see the victim alive, walking quickly and purposefully into the pub. Alone.

Alone. Was that the key? Would the woman he'd left with have come alone as well? It was possible that she'd come with a group and separated from them once she'd met a likely prospect, but in that case, why had no one reported it?

Slowing the tape again, Gemma watched as the punters ebbed and flowed from the pub's entrance, looking for a woman arriving on her own.

She'd begun to wonder about Melody when Melody came in, looking harried and slightly flushed. “Sorry, guv,” she said, hanging up her coat and dumping her bag on a chair. “Monday morning, dreadful traffic.”

Gemma pushed away from the computer, her eyes stinging from concentrating on the screen. “Must have been an accident since I came in, then, but I was early. How's Doug? Did you check in on him last night?”