The Sound of Broken Glass (33 page)

“I was bored.” Doug gave her a challenging glare. “And anyway, if you were his alibi for the second murder, and Tam was his alibi for the first, what's the problem?”

Melody rubbed her hands together, a nervous gesture she thought she'd learned to control in boarding school. “I found out that he knew the second victim, Shaun Francis, although he said he hadn't seen him in years. So, that's weird, but maybe just coincidence. Francis lived in Dulwich then, not far from Crystal Palace, where Andy grew up. Andy said he met him in Crystal Palace Park one summer, and Shaun Francis's sister confirmed that. She also said that there was some sort of trouble at Shaun's school that autumn, but she doesn't know that the two things were connected.”

“Have you talked to the school?”

“Gemma's made an appointment to see the headmaster in the morning.”

“So your guitar bloke—Andy,” Doug conceded, “had a connection with Crystal Palace besides the fact that the band was booked to play in the pub there?”

“Yes. But he didn't know Arnott. And we haven't been able to find a direct connection between Arnott and Francis, although there must be one. I don't for one minute believe we've got some deranged killer randomly targeting lawyers.”

“Your father would run with that.” Doug still couldn't resist the occasional dig about her dad.

“Then we have to hope he doesn't find out. So far we've managed to keep the details of Francis's death from the press, but they're bound to leak at some point.”

“Sooner rather than later. Which will mean hell for your team. And you.”

Clasping her hands together to keep them still, Melody met Doug's eyes. “It's worse than that. Today I found out Andy lied to me about something. And I had to tell Gemma.”

Doug simply waited. Melody thought his interview technique was improving considerably.

“Before Vincent Arnott shouted at Andy in the pub on Friday night, Andy had a row with a punter. Or at least that's what he said—that the guy was drunk and was harassing him about the band's music. He said the guy tried to touch his guitar and he lost his temper and punched him. His hand was bruised—that was one of the reasons he rode home with Tam.”

“What do you mean, ‘At least that's what he said'?”

“I talked to the band's bass player today. He was standing right behind Andy when it happened. He said that Andy knew the guy, and that whatever they were arguing about, it was definitely personal.”

“Okay.” Doug shrugged. “So Andy lied to you. What's the big deal? Maybe he was shagging the guy's girlfriend.”

That made Melody wonder how much Doug had guessed, or if he was just trying to get a rise out of her. “The big deal is that if he lied about that, he could have lied about anything.”

“But you're absolutely sure he couldn't have killed Shaun Francis?”

“Absolutely,” she said, hoping he didn't ask her for a minute-by-minute accounting of Andy's alibi. “But— What if Tam lied about Friday night? He has a lot at stake, maybe enough to make him protect Andy . . . ” She came to a halt, staring down at her hands.

“What makes you think that? You're making a big jump there, from saying maybe Andy lied to suggesting that Tam lied, too. Duncan trusts Tam. There's something else, isn't there?”

Her mouth felt dry. She wished Doug had offered her a cup of tea. “In the hotel room where Arnott was killed, there was a spot of blood on the sheet that didn't belong to him. And Andy—I didn't think anything of it until today . . .  but on Monday, when I went back to talk to Andy about Shaun Francis, I noticed he had a healing cut on his hand . . . ”

“Well, if he hit somebody—”

“His other hand.”

Doug stared at her. “Did you tell Gemma?”

“No. I just . . .  I was . . . ” Melody fell silent.

Leaning forward, Doug adjusted his ankle on the ottoman. The firelight flashed off the lenses of his glasses and she couldn't read his expression. When he'd settled himself again, he said, “So. Why are you telling me?”

“Because I want you to help me get to the truth.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you're my best friend. And because you are the best person I know at finding things.”

“Flattery will get you—”

“Everywhere,” she finished for him, and got a reluctant grin.

“I can't exactly do footwork.”

“You don't need feet.” Melody nodded at his computer. “You can log into the case file on HOLMES from here. And—” She frowned, thinking. “What about court records? Could you access Arnott's cases? That seems the most logical place to start.”

“You don't want much, do you? And what do I get in return?”

Melody tried to disguise her sigh of relief. “How about beer and pizza, for a start?

Andy pushed himself up and staggered across the garden towards Nadine's door, but the ground seemed to heave beneath him and his feet felt as if they were mired in treacle.

Before he reached the steps, he saw Joe backing out of the kitchen, babbling, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I was at Andy's next door and he said—he said I could—I didn't know—”

Andy saw Nadine then, behind Joe. She was clutching a pale blue silk dressing gown together at her neck. Her feet were bare, her hair disheveled, and the hem and skirt of the dressing gown were stained with ugly deep red splotches.

“Get out,” she said to Joe. There was no slurring to her voice now. “Get out, or I'll call the police.”

“I'm sorry,” Joe said again, backing down the steps. “I didn't—”

She saw Andy. “You.”

He glanced round, not believing that the cold and unfamiliar voice could be directed at him. But Shaun had disappeared through the gap in the fence.

“No, I didn't tell him—”

“You, Andy? You put this—this little creep, up to this?” She was shaking now, her voice rising in rage and shock. Joe stumbled away, and then he, too, had crossed the garden and slipped through the fence.

“How could you? How could you?” Nadine's eyes never left Andy, and when she spoke again, he wished she had kept shouting. “You, Andy. Of all people. I thought you were my friend.”

Turning away, she slammed her door, and an instant later the kitchen lights went out.

Andy stood alone in the dark.

The immensity of the crowd destroyed the possibility of evacuating the area around the tower. Anerley Hill, where the tower was most likely to fall, was one solid, seething mass of people. Mounted and foot police struggled to force the crowd back. Even the fire engines were hemmed in.
[ . . .  ]

—www.sarahjyoung.com

Gemma couldn't remember ever feeling so uncomfortable with Melody. They'd taken Gemma's Escort for their appointment with the headmaster of Norwood College in Dulwich, Gemma hoping that the time in the car would give them an opportunity to reconnect after yesterday afternoon's discussion. So far, however, Melody had been uncharacteristically silent.

It had been late the previous evening before Gemma had had a chance to fill Kincaid in on the case developments, including Melody's revelation about her interview with Nick the bassist.

“That's a bugger,” Kincaid had said as they finished the last of the washing up in the kitchen. “Tam rang me this morning, after you talked to Andy. Apparently you put the poor bloke in a panic. What did you do, use thumbscrews?”

“Very funny,” she'd said. “I thought I was exceedingly gentle.”

“Tam said he was even threatening to back out of playing with the girl, Poppy.”

“That's odd. He seemed more annoyed than panicked, but the last thing I asked him about was Caleb Hart. Interesting.”

“I must say you got on better with Hart's secretary than I did.” He'd flicked the tea towel at her.

“It was my overwhelming charm.”

“Evidently. She wasn't susceptible to my pretty face.”

She'd glanced at him to see if he was really bothered, but he was concentrating on his drying. He'd been in an odd mood all evening, joking and teasing the children more than usual, and she'd had the feeling that he was avoiding her, although she couldn't imagine why. “Tam wanted me to talk to Andy, see if I could find out what's put the wind up him,” he went on. “I said I couldn't agree without speaking to you first.”

Gemma thought about it before replying. “Well, I obviously am not going to get anything out of him, and I can't let Melody talk to him. Maybe you'll have better luck. Although I still can't see where it will get us. Maybe the punch-up in the pub was a row over a girlfriend—not the sort of thing he'd have wanted to tell Melody if he was trying to impress her.”

“Tomorrow, then, I'll see if I can set something up. But I'll need to make arrangements for Charlotte. I'll just give Betty a ring, shall I?”

Gemma had worried over the conversation the rest of the evening, finally deciding not to share Tam's concern over Andy with Melody. She would wait and see what Duncan learned, and in the meantime, she would move Caleb Hart further up her action list.

Now, as they came into Dulwich, she glanced at the car clock. “We've plenty of time before our appointment. I want to make a stop first.”

The address of the community center Caleb Hart's assistant had given her was on the eastern side of the suburb, and from the outside, at least, the long, low, sixties-style building was not prepossessing.

“The AA meeting?” asked Melody.

Gemma nodded as she looked for a parking spot. “Damn. Busy place.”

“Why don't you circle and I'll go in,” Melody suggested.

“Okay. There's a spot where I can pull over on the double yellows if I stay with the car.”

As Gemma eased the Escort into a gap not quite big enough for it, Melody hopped out and walked briskly into the building.

Leaving the engine running, Gemma sat rubbing her cold hands and watching as the center's patrons came and went, mostly women wearing exercise gear under their coats. Didn't any of these women work? she wondered, trying to imagine a lifestyle that allowed morning Pilates classes. A few elderly women arrived together, perhaps for bridge or bingo—or power aerobics, for all Gemma knew.

She was glancing at the clock and beginning to worry about their appointment at the school by the time Melody came out.

“Busy indeed,” said Melody as she climbed back in the car, bringing with her a blast of frigid air. “Pilates, yoga, meditation. Oh, and a stained-glass-making class. And that's all before the afternoon activities start for older kids.”

“And?” Gemma pulled into the flow of traffic, but she'd seen Melody's triumphant grin.

“AA meetings, several times a week, including Friday nights at ten.”

“Damn,” Gemma muttered. “Hart's story holds up, then.”

“Not necessarily. It just so happens that the very helpful activities director attends the group. When I explained that we were verifying Mr. Hart's statement in the course of an investigation, she said that he did arrive at ten on Friday night. But that, unusually for him, he forgot to turn off his phone. He got a call not long after the meeting began, and left hurriedly.”

“He didn't say why?”

“No. Just apologized and excused himself. She said it was before half past the hour.”

“Ah. So if we know Arnott was alive around eleven, when he checked into the Belvedere, then Hart doesn't have an alibi for the time of Arnott's death.” Had Andy Monahan known that Hart had no alibi for Friday night? Gemma wondered. But, as far as they knew, Andy had not even met Hart until Saturday. It seemed that everything they learned complicated things even further.

Their route took them back into West Dulwich, and up the leafy hill between West Norwood Cemetery and Norwood Park. The school itself, so appropriately named, bordered on Norwood Park itself, and was, Gemma realized, just on the edge of Crystal Palace.

This time it was easy to find a parking space in the clearly marked visitors' area. Gemma looked at the complex of warm-colored brick buildings backed by manicured playing fields, and thought what a far cry the place was from the schools she'd gone to growing up in Leyton.

A few boys wearing blazers and carrying satchels scurried between buildings. She could easily imagine Kit in a place like this, with his poise and elegant looks. He had spent the first part of his childhood as the son of Cambridge dons, in an environment where learning and privilege went hand in hand.

But Toby? The thought made her sigh. Her son would racket around like a ball in a pinball machine. And Charlotte? Where did Charlotte fit?

“Boss?” said Melody. They'd reached the doors to the administration building.

“Sorry. Woolgathering. Did you go to a school like this, Melody?”

“Much more posh, I'm afraid. Although on the students' end, that meant turn-of-the-last-century dormitories with mildewed shared baths and a distinct lack of central heating. One pays for the status, not the luxury of the accommodations. I'd take this place in a heartbeat.”

“Would you send your own children to boarding school?”

“That's a bit hypothetical at the moment.” Melody gave her a quick glance as she held open the door. “But I honestly don't know. Ten years ago I'd have said no way. Now, I'm not so sure. The life does breed a certain self-reliance. And many girls—and boys—do form lifetime bonds. Unfortunately, I wasn't one of them.”

“I wonder,” said Gemma, “if Shaun Francis was?”

“May I help you?” asked a comfortably motherly woman at the reception desk.

Gemma produced her identification and explained that they had an appointment with the headmaster.