The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Louise frowned, and Kincaid noticed that there were rough, dry patches on her dark skin. “You know,” she said slowly, “Charlotte might have had a difficult time with school under any circumstances. She was always with Sandra or Naz or the nanny, and she had very little interaction with other children. Quite a protected environment.”

  Was there, Kincaid wondered, a note of censure in Louise’s voice? But she went on. “Still, you have to deal with things as they are. Have you considered options? A nanny?”

  “We’ve talked about it. But it would mean starting from scratch with a stranger.” Alia Hakim, who had been Charlotte’s nanny before she came to them, was now enrolled full time at college, hoping to train as a lawyer. “I’ve wondered if we could find someone to come part-time, then perhaps try a few hours a week in a different school. A friend”—he set down his cup and aligned the handle neatly—“a friend has suggested a school where Charlotte would have extra attention in a less stressful environment. Charlotte’s made friends with her little boy, who would be in the same class, so that might help. But it’s considerably more expensive, even if the school would agree to take her.” He had discovered that shark feeding frenzies were tame compared with the competition involved in trying to get one’s children into elite schools in Notting Hill. “Not to mention the cost of even a part-time nanny.”

  “But your friend might be able to pull strings with the school?”

  “Possibly.” He was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable, and would have been glad for one of Louise’s regular cigarette breaks, but she sat quietly, her barely touched coffee cooling in its cup. “The thing is,” he went on, “I could sell the Hampstead flat, which would certainly give us the funds to pay for a few years of school fees. But it would take time.”

  With a lawyer’s directness, Louise got straight to the point. “You want to know if the estate can fund a more expensive school?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Kincaid shook his head and pushed away from the table. “Christ, Louise, I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager asking my dad for pocket money. I don’t want to come begging for cash. But I’m at my wit’s end. If we can’t keep Charlotte in some sort of day care, and we can’t convince social services that she’s in the best possible situation . . . And if I can’t go back to work . . . ”

  Louise held up a hand. “Duncan, stop. It’s all right. I was going to ring you, but I was waiting for the contract to be finalized. The Fournier Street house has sold.”

  “What?” He felt a rush of relief, followed instantly by a profound sense of regret. Louise had organized the disposition of the contents and put the beautifully restored Georgian house on the market in the autumn. But it was not just a house—it was the home Charlotte’s parents had made for her, where she had spent most of the first three years of her life. Gone now.

  Would she remember it, when she was grown, except in dreams?

  “You know I intended to set up a trust for Charlotte’s education,” Louise continued. “Naz and Sandra bought the house when the market was at rock bottom in the East End, and they did most of the restoration themselves. There should certainly be enough capital from the sale to provide what she needs now. So while we’re waiting for completion of the sale, talk to the school. Find a nanny. Give me a written proposal with the costs set out for both school and home care. We’ll go from there. And, Duncan,” she went on before he could speak, “when she’s settled, I think we should start the formal adoption proceedings.”

  “But—” He stared at her. “You said it was best to wait.”

  “I’ve been looking into things. It seems that family courts have recently become more inclined to agree to the adoption of mixed-race children by white families. We should take advantage of the trend—it may not last. Nor”—Louise shook her head and seemed to sag in her chair—“may I.”

  Suddenly Michael’s caution, Louise’s obvious exhaustion, and the fact that he’d never seen her go so long without a cigarette clicked together in his mind. His alarm bells went off full force. “Louise, what are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  She sighed. “If I don’t tell you, Michael or Tam will. I’ve a spot on my lung.”

  Gemma could never decide which was worse in the suddenly bereaved—paroxysms of grief or the stunned silence of shock. At least with hysteria you felt there was something you could do, some comfort you could offer, some calming gesture you could make. But the paralyzed ones . . . She shook her head, gazing at the blank face of Vincent Arnott’s wife.

  “Mrs. Arnott, is there someone you can call to be with you?”

  The woman just stared, apparently unable to comprehend Gemma’s question.

  “Mrs. Arnott?”

  A slight shudder went through Mrs. Arnott’s body and she gave the same odd blink Gemma had noticed before. “I don’t understand. Vincent will be home soon.”

  “Okay,” said Gemma, catching Melody’s eye and giving a little shake of her head before turning back to Mrs. Arnott. “Let’s make some tea, shall we? And then we’ll have a little chat.”

  Melody rose with her and they stepped into the work area of the kitchen. “I’ll try to find out if there’s a relative, and if so, get a number,” Gemma said quietly. “You ring headquarters, tell them we’ve got a positive ID. And get an FLO here as soon as possible.” She thought for a moment. Both male and female family liaison officers worked regularly with her team, but in this case she thought a woman was definitely the best option. “See if we can get Marie Daeley.”

  While Melody excused herself, phone already to her ear, Gemma filled the kettle and quickly found tea bags and mugs, milk and sugar. There was a shopping list fixed to the shiny stainless steel door of the fridge with a magnet. The handwriting looked masculine, but a few things had been added in the margins in an almost illegible scrawl. Peering, she decided one said “birds,” another “boots.” Odd items for a grocery list.

  The tea bags were plain-Jane Tetley’s. When Gemma poured the boiling water into the mugs, the liquid turned instantly orange and smelled comfortingly malty. When the tea had steeped, she carried the three mugs to the table with the milk and sugar, and sat down across from Mrs. Arnott.

  Although she hated sweetened tea herself, she added milk and a generous helping of sugar to Mrs. Arnott’s. “This’ll perk you up a bit,” she said as she slid the mug across. When Mrs. Arnott made no move to take it, Gemma leaned over and lifted her limp hand from the tabletop. It was icy cold, and Gemma chafed it between her own for a moment, then wrapped it round the warm cup. “Have a sip now,” she encouraged gently, and slowly Mrs. Arnott gripped the mug with both hands and raised it to her lips.

  “That’s better,” said Gemma. “Do you have children, Mrs. Arnott?”

  The woman seemed to make an effort to focus on Gemma’s face. “No.” Her voice was a whisper. “No,” she said again, more strongly. “We wanted them, but . . . ”

  “Do you have sisters or brothers?”

  “My sister. Sara. She lives in Florida.” More animation now, as if this was an often repeated source of pride.

  Gemma, however, controlled a grimace. The sister would be no help any time soon. “Do you have her phone number?” she asked.

  “Vincent keeps a book for me. It’s in the drawer.” Mrs. Arnott glanced towards the work area in the kitchen; then her face creased in distress. “But I don’t—Vincent rings for me. The codes—I can’t remember—”

  “Not to worry,” said Gemma quickly. “I’ll ring her for you, in just a bit. You drink some more of that tea.” She waited until Mrs. Arnott had complied and her color seemed a bit better. Then she added, “I’ll bet you remember which pub Vincent goes to on his Friday evenings.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Arnott looked at her as if she were daft. “The White Stag, at the top of the hill. Where else would he go?”

  “Does he always go the same time, on Fridays?”

  “When Emmerdale comes on.”

  �
��That’s your favorite program, is it?” Gemma was trying to visualize the telly schedule, difficult when they rarely watched at home except for the news or something special for the kids. Her mum liked Emmerdale, though, and she thought it came on at seven.

  Now that she had a rough idea of a time and place to begin following Vincent Arnott’s movements, she breathed a sigh of relief when Melody appeared in the hall doorway and motioned to her.

  “You have some more tea, Mrs. Arnott. I’ll be back in a tick,” she said, patting the woman’s arm as she slid from her chair and went to join Melody in the hall.

  “Marie Daeley’s on her way,” Melody said quietly, “and I’ve got Incident pulling up whatever they can find on Mr. Arnott. I spoke to the next-door neighbor—a Mrs. Bates. According to her, Mrs. A is suffering from early-stage Alzheimer’s, and the husband took care of organizing everything around the house. Mrs. Bates has the contact number for the sister. She’s ringing her now, then she’ll be over to help out.”

  “That’s a relief.” Gemma glanced in the kitchen, where Mrs. Arnott still sat, her back to them. “Poor woman. Anything else from the neighbor?”

  “You were right. He was a barrister, but she didn’t remember the name of his chambers. She had contact numbers for him, though. One looked like his mobile, the other is probably the chambers. I’ve put Incident on that, too.”

  Gemma nodded. “Any personal comments?”

  “Only that they didn’t socialize much, because of her condition. Mrs. Arnott—her name’s Kathy, by the way—was still okay on her own during the day as long as nothing disturbed her routine, but Mrs. Bates said she knew he was worried about how much longer they could go on as they were. He’d asked several of the neighbors if they could recommend someone who could come in at least for a few hours on weekdays.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound likely he planned to be out more than a few hours last night. That would explain why the hotel expected his room to be empty this morning, if he made a practice of taking women there on his evening out.”

  “Bastard,” said Melody. “He certainly didn’t have to worry about his wife finding out.”

  “No,” Gemma answered, but thoughtfully. “You remember she said they slept separately?” She looked back into the kitchen and gave a little internal shiver. “He can’t have—with his wife . . . it would have been like violating a child.”

  “But the bondage?” Melody shook her head.

  “God knows a psychologist would have a field day with that,” Gemma agreed. “But I think that in the meantime we should start with the pub.”

  “Let’s walk,” said Gemma as she and Melody left the Arnotts’ house. “I don’t remember there being much in the way of parking spots at the top of the hill.”

  They’d left Mrs. Arnott with her neighbor, Mrs. Bates, who seemed both kind and sensible. “Are you sure it’s Vincent?” she’d whispered, taking them aside. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “As sure as we can be without a formal identification,” Gemma told her.

  Mrs. Bates blanched. “Oh, you can’t expect—Kathy can’t possibly—”

  “No,” Gemma had agreed. “But perhaps someone from his work. Or another family member. Is there anyone, do you know?”

  “I don’t think so. I remember his mother passed away a few years back, and I never heard him speak of any siblings.” She frowned at them. “You’re detectives. I thought at first a traffic accident or a heart attack, but—”

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell you anything more at the moment,” Gemma had said, and thanked her.

  “You just want to test my legs,” Melody said now as they trudged up Belvedere Road.

  “You’re the runner. I’ll bet your legs are better than mine.”

  “You have the advantage—yours are longer,” Melody shot back.

  Gemma stopped for a moment when they reached the top of the hill, surveying the pub they had passed earlier that morning. It was orange-red brick, Victorian Gothic, with a bank of mullioned windows on the ground floor. She imagined it would be pleasant in the summer with hanging baskets of flowers, and the tables on the pavement in front filled with patrons. Now, it looked a welcome shelter from the cold.

  The wind had picked up as the rain tailed off, and when Gemma opened the front door, a gust pushed them inside. They were met by tantalizing odors of food, the buzz of conversation, and the clink of cutlery on plates.

  A curved bar partially divided the large front room. Behind it, a young woman with curly blond hair tied back with a red bandanna drew pints with cheerful efficiency.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked, smiling, as they reached the bar.

  “Just some information,” said Gemma, returning the smile and holding up her warrant card.

  The girl’s eyes widened. She glanced to either side, checking that the other customers at the bar were occupied. “Is there a problem?”

  “Do you know a man who comes in here named Vincent Arnott? Early sixties, trim, white hair?” asked Melody, showing her the driving license photo on her phone.

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, but then we serve a lot of people.”

  “We think he came in regularly on Friday nights,” said Gemma. “We were wondering if he came in last night.”

  “Oh.” The girl looked relieved. “You’ll want Reg, then. I only fill in lunchtimes on the weekends when I’m not at uni.”

  “Could we have a word with Reg?”

  “His son had a school football match this morning.” The girl glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. “I should think he’d be back any time now, if you want to wait. This bloke”—she nodded at the photo—“is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “You could say that.” Gemma’s eyes strayed to the menu on a chalkboard and her stomach rumbled. She realized she’d had no breakfast, and that Kincaid’s Friday-night pizza was but a distant memory. “Let’s get some lunch while we wait,” she suggested to Melody.

  “I thought you’d never ask. My knees were weak, and not from climbing the hill.”

  A few minutes later they were seated at a table in the front window with coffee and sandwiches.

  “Nice place,” said Melody as she bit into homemade fish fingers in a roll. “Upmarket shabby chic.”

  Gemma knew exactly what she meant. Mismatched furniture, scuffed wooden floorboards, quirky lamps, but the windows and glassware sparkled, and the food was delicious. She bit into one of the homemade chips that had come with her chicken, cheddar, and smoked bacon club. “I can see why Vincent Arnott liked to come here, but it seems a far cry from the Belvedere.”

  “If a stone’s throw.” Melody wiped a smear of tartar sauce from her lip with her pinky.

  Gemma nodded, wondering if there were CCTV cameras with a good view of the pub. When they had a better idea of the time frame for Arnott’s movements, she’d get the techies on it.

  While they were waiting for their food, she’d checked in with DC MacNicols. Now, she glanced at her phone again, just in case she’d missed a message from Kincaid, but there was nothing.

  “What were you going to do with your Saturday?” she asked Melody.

  “Help Doug paint his sitting room.”

  “The great DIY project?” Gemma asked, bemused. “How’s that coming?”

  “Very slowly.” Melody drew out the words. “He now knows which colors are authentic Victorian reproductions, and which brands have the least emissions.” She rolled her eyes. “‘Just pick a color you like’ obviously was not the proper way to approach something of such import with Detective Sergeant Cullen.”

  Doug Cullen had become Kincaid’s partner when Gemma had been promoted to inspector, and although Kincaid’s leave had left him assigned to a different murder team, Cullen and Melody had become cautious friends.

  “Well, it is his first house,” Gemma said, laughing. “You could cut him some slack.” Sobering, she nibbled a corner of her sandwich and regarded M
elody a little hesitantly. “We haven’t seen much of him. How are things at the Yard, do you have any idea?”

  “I know Doug despises working with Superintendent Slater, and the feeling seems to be mutual. I think Doug’s taking out his frustration on the paint.”

  “Has he said anything about Duncan? About the job, I mean?”

  “Only that he’s eager for him to come back. Why?” Melody looked concerned now. Gemma began to regret saying anything, but Melody was the only person she could talk to about this.

  “It’s just that—Look, you won’t say anything to Doug?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.” Melody put down her sandwich and gave Gemma her full attention.

  “I’m probably worrying over nothing. But when Duncan told Denis Childs he needed a bit more time at home, Denis went all hale and hearty and ‘Don’t bother your little head about it.’ Not like him at all.”

  “No,” Melody said slowly, frowning. “But surely he’s just being—”

  “All warm and fuzzy?” Gemma shook her head. “Definitely not the chief super’s style, however sympathetic he may be under that impassive exterior. But I—”

  She stopped as a shadow fell over their table. Looking up, she saw a large man with a shaved head and a neat brown beard, wrapping a bartender’s apron around his waist. “I’m Reg,” he said. “Kasey said you wanted a word?”

  Gemma pushed her chair back and showed him her ID. “It’s about Vincent Arnott. One of your regulars, I think?”

  “Sure, he comes in most Friday nights.” The man grinned. “Don’t tell me Vince has the law after him.”

  “He’s dead, actually,” said Gemma quietly.

  “What?” The smile left the bartender’s face. “You’re having me on, right?” When their expressions assured him that they weren’t, he pulled out a chair and sat, heavily. “I don’t believe it. He was just in last night. Was there an accident or something? Look, I’m careful not to overserve my customers,” he added, a defensive edge to his voice. “And besides, Vince never drives—”