The Sound of Broken Glass (24 page)

“Roxy says you're a friend of Tam's,” said Caleb Hart, shaking his hand. “You've just missed him by an hour.”

“Actually, I've just had lunch with him. That's why I'm here.” Kincaid glanced round as Hart offered him a chair, not in front of his desk, but in a very retro-contemporary conversation grouping on the other side of the room. Gold CDs and posters of bands—some of whom Kincaid recognized—were mounted on the walls and shelves, but like Hart's clothing, the display was tastefully done.

Wondering if he had taken Tam's excitement seriously enough, Kincaid's interest rose a notch. “Tam asked me if I'd have a word with you,” he continued. “He told me about the video with Andy Monahan and your singer.”

“Her name is Poppy. Poppy Jones,” said Hart, looking puzzled and a little impatient. “But I'm not sure how I can—”

“Mr. Hart, just so there's no misunderstanding. I'm Tam's friend, and I know Andy. But I'm also a police officer. I wanted to make it clear, however, that I'm here in an entirely unofficial capacity.”

Blanching, Hart said, “If Monahan is in some sort of trouble and Tam hasn't told me—”

Kincaid held up his hands. “No, it's not that. As far as I'm aware, Andy Monahan hasn't done anything wrong. But Tam said the police questioned Andy about a man who was verbally abusive to him in the pub on Friday night.”

“The man who was murdered? Or at least I'm assuming he was murdered—the detective who came to the studio was a bit cagey.”

“Exactly. His name was Vincent Arnott. Tam took Andy back to London immediately after the band finished their second set that night, so Andy can't have been involved in Arnott's death. But as Andy was the last person known to have spoken to the victim that night, Tam's anxious to clear up anything that might potentially cause him adverse publicity.”

“As am I,” Hart said fervently. “But I still don't see how I can help you.”

“When Tam was telling me what happened, he said that the pub in Crystal Palace—the White Stag, I think?—was your regular. So I thought perhaps you'd seen Arnott before. If he'd behaved that way on previous occasions, it would make his encounter with Andy Monahan less . . .  notable.”

“Ah.” Hart looked thoughtful. “I didn't recognize the name, and the detective didn't show me the photo. Tam didn't describe him to me.”

Kincaid couldn't very well pull up the photo Gemma had sent him on his phone, so he said, “According to Tam, sixtyish, handsome, very striking silver hair.”

“Tam would notice that he was good looking,” Hart said with a grin. “But the description doesn't ring a bell. I haven't been to the Stag in a while, but the manager will let me book bands in on short notice, and I wanted a look at the guitarist before I put him in the studio.”

“Is that what you usually do?” Kincaid asked.

“No, although generally I do like to hear session musicians before I use them. But this all came together in a bit of a last-minute rush. I'd booked the studio for Poppy, but she'd had an open-mic gig at the Troubadour the week before. Tam was there and he told me he had a guitarist that he thought would suit her perfectly.”

“But you didn't trust Tam's judgment? He said you'd been friends for a long time.”

Hart looked uncomfortable. “It's not that I didn't trust his judgment. But Poppy is . . .  special. She's also young, and I feel a bit in loco parentis. Poppy's father is an old friend—and a vicar. I know I can't shield her from everything, but I'd like to keep her out of the drugs and alcohol scene as much as possible. Not that I actually think Poppy needs much shielding,” he added a little ruefully. “She's a strong-minded girl and as dedicated a musician as any I've ever worked with. Still, I never expected what happened in the studio last Saturday.”

Kincaid waited, knowing that silence was often more encouraging than a question, and after a moment, Hart went on. “In this business, you come across something like this once or twice in a lifetime, if you're very lucky. They are both exceptionally good musicians. But together, they become something more. Bigger than the parts. Unique.”

“You mean like Lennon and McCartney?”

“Oh, God.” Hart laughed. “No one dares make those sort of comparisons. But there is a . . .  chemistry.”

“Did you intend to film them?” Kincaid asked. He was genuinely curious now.

“No. Not until halfway through the first improvised jam. And then I knew I'd better capture it while I could. They will get more polished, but there will never be the same raw joy of discovery as there was that day.”

“Is Tam right?” Kincaid felt a frisson of excitement. Perhaps he should have taken Tam's enthusiasm more seriously. “Could this be something really big?”

“It's a fickle business,” Hart said, drumming his fingers on his knee. His thumb and forefinger bore nicotine stains, Kincaid saw, but he had not noticed the smell of cigarettes. “All you can do is trust your instincts and jump on your opportunities,” Hart went on. His phone dinged, signaling a text, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket. “And I'd better be doing just th—”

Kincaid stood, shaking Hart's hand as he rose. “I've taken enough of your time. Best of luck, for all of you.”

“Oh, Mr. Hart.” Kincaid turned back as he reached the door. Hart was already replying to the text. “Tam said you left before the end of the first set. Why the rush, when you'd booked the band in specifically?”

“I had a meeting,” Hart answered easily. “I don't miss them for anything, even work. I'm an alcoholic, Mr. Kincaid.”

When Melody came out of the pub and started back across Cleaver Square, the mortuary van was driving away and Rashid's car was gone. Gemma was standing at the curb in front of the flat, conferring with Maura Bell. While Melody had been inside, the sky had gone steely gray again, and Bell had turned her trench coat collar up against the damp chill of the wind. It made her look like a Cold War spy, which, thought Melody, quite suited her.

Melody had had the barman pack up sandwiches for her and Gemma, figuring they could eat them on the fly, but she hadn't thought of Maura. Hastily, she stopped and tucked the package in her car.

When she reached them, Gemma said, “I've sent Amanda Francis home in one of the panda cars. She says Vincent Arnott didn't work in the same chambers as her brother, and as far as she knows, her brother wasn't acquainted with him.”

“Dead end there, then?”

“No obvious lead, at any rate.”

Melody glanced at her watch. “We were supposed to be meeting Mrs. Arnott's sister at the morgue for the formal identification.”

“So much for best-laid plans.”

“Aye. I was going to have my toenails done.” Maura Bell's delivery was so deadpan that Melody wasn't sure she was joking until she saw Gemma smile.

The two senior officers seemed to have established a rapport, and Melody felt a twinge of jealousy that surprised her.

“I've sent Shara,” Gemma told Melody. “From there she can go on to Arnott's chambers. We'll see if anyone there knew Shaun Francis. Any luck at the pub?” she asked.

“Francis was a regular, and apparently considerably more of one than Vincent Arnott was at the White Stag. According to the barman, he came in almost every night and took most of his meals there, but he didn't seem to have any particular friends.”

“That seems to have been true of Arnott as well—the friend bit,” Gemma said thoughtfully. “I wonder if that made them potential targets?”

“What about last night?” asked Maura.

“Francis was there. Arrived about half-past seven, had a salad and a G and T, but the barman says the place was packed and he didn't see him after that.”

Gemma turned to Maura. “Any CCTV coverage?”

“Not on the square itself, no. Not exactly your usual high-crime area. I'll pull up whatever footage I can find leading in and out of the square, though.”

Gazing across at the pub and its now-deserted forecourt, Gemma said, “A salad and a gin and tonic. Sounds a bit girly, doesn't it? But his sister said he was trying to lose weight, and that he'd hurt his back playing squash. That might explain the Valium.”

“And if he was only eating a salad, the gin and the drug might have hit him harder than he expected.” Maura shrugged. “But hard enough to let someone strip him, tie him up, and strangle him? Did you ask the sister if he had a taste for kinky sex?”

“No. She was still very shocked. And there was something . . .  not quite right there. Between them, I mean. She seemed bitterly jealous of him, but at the same time, weirdly emotionally dependent.”

“One for Hazel,” murmured Melody. When Maura gave a questioning look, she added, “A therapist friend.”

“Bitter and jealous enough to kill him?” asked Maura. “If he was really feeling ill, he might have trusted his sister to undress him and put him to bed. Or even tie him up, for all we know. And then what would be easier than to sound the alarm this morning and have an excuse to find the body?”

“Maybe.” Melody was unconvinced. “But unless she has some connection with Vincent Arnott, we have two unrelated murders in forty-eight hours, committed using the same method.” Doug, she thought, would be quoting handy probability statistics. “Unless she picked up Arnott at the pub in Crystal Palace,” she added as it occurred to her.

Melody had said it dismissively, but Gemma was staring at her, frowning. “She doesn't seem Arnott's type, from what we've heard about him, but—”

“No need to dance around it,” said Maura. “The woman's plain as a pikestaff, and I cannae see her acting the come-hither in a bar.”

“No, but the thing is, I've just sent her home to Dulwich, where she lives with her mum.”

“Dulwich?” said Maura, looking at them both as if they were crackers.

“A hop and a skip,” supplied Melody. “More or less. A couple of stops on the train or the number three bus to Crystal Palace, or hardly any time at all if you have a car. Worth seeing if she has an alibi for Friday night, and showing a photo round the White Stag.”

“I think another talk with Amanda Francis just moved up on our action list,” said Gemma. “But there's something else . . .  Melody, who else have we run across who lives in Dulwich?”

It took Melody a moment to bring it back, and then she had to drag the words out. “Caleb Hart. The record producer who booked An—the band—into the pub on Friday night. Reg at the Stag said he lived in Dulwich.”

In 1911 the building was used for marking the coronation of George V and Queen Mary but after this it fell into disrepair. Two years later the Earl of Plymouth purchased the Crystal Palace, to save it from future developers, but a public subscription re-purchased it for the nation.

—Betty Carew, www.helium.com

“God, I'm starving,” said Gemma as she buckled herself into Melody's passenger seat. They'd decided to leave Gemma's car at the square, as she would need to return. “But this has turned into the day from hell and I don't think lunch is an option. I want to talk to Shaun Francis's mother before the daughter's had too much time with her.”

Melody started the car, then reached into the back and held up a paper bag. “Ta da. From the pub. I got us both prawn and rocket. Seemed the safest—or at least the least messy—choice.”

Taking the bag, Gemma reached in and pulled out packets of crisps and two wrapped sandwiches. “Bless you. The barman must have fancied you to do them up like this. You'd better watch yourself, influencing the witnesses like that.”

Melody made a strangled sound, but when Gemma looked at her she was concentrating on reversing into the road.

“Want me to feed you bits?” Gemma continued as she opened her sandwich. “Looks delicious, but it is a bit splodgy.”

“I'll nibble at the traffic lights. And really, I'm not all that hungry.”

Gemma gave her a concerned glance. “Are you feeling okay? Post–crime scene queasies?”

“No, I'm fine. And that wasn't half as bad as the Belvedere in Crystal Palace. Thank God Shaun Francis kept his central heating turned down.”

Biting into her prawn and rocket sandwich, Gemma nodded agreement. She chewed for a moment, then said, “I can see why he ate his meals at the pub. Although maybe it wasn't the best plan for dieting.” Brushing a crumb from her lip, she added, “Maura Bell wasn't nearly as hard to deal with as I expected. Duncan worked with her on that arson case in Southwark, you remember? Made her sound a bit of a dragon.”

“Maybe she gets on better with women,” Melody suggested.

“Could be.” Gemma had left Bell in charge of the Cleaver Square scene, and felt confident in doing so. “Didn't Doug go out with her for a while?”

“Doug?” Melody shot her a shocked glance, then looked back at the road, both hands gripping the wheel. “Are you sure? He never said anything to me.”

“According to Duncan. It didn't work out. Doug never told him why.”

“But—” Melody shook her head. “I can't believe it. They're chalk and cheese. I mean, Doug's brilliant, and if you give him a problem to solve he's like a terrier with it. But this is the bloke who spent months trying to decide between two shades of cream for his sitting room ceiling. The bloke who actually went to the Doctor Who exhibition at Olympia and took photos of the TARDIS. He's a supergeek. And she's—I don't know. Sort of scarily efficient. And a bit snarky.”

“Melody.” Gemma rewrapped the second half of her sandwich. “Are you a little bit . . .  peeved?”

“No. No, it's just . . .  weird. And we're mates. I don't know why he didn't tell me.”

“Do you tell him about your dates?”

“I don't have dates,” said Melody, with unexpected emphasis, then changed the subject. “Boss, do you want to stop at the station?”