The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  “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.”

  Gemma lifted her head and sniffed. “You’re cooking. It smells delicious.”

  “A Moroccan veggie stew.” The corners of Hazel’s mouth curved in a little smile.

  “Hazel,” said Gemma, twigging, “is Tim by any chance staying for dinner?”

  “Well, it only makes sense, really. There will be plenty, and Holly likes us to eat together.”

  “Protesting a bit much, are we?” Studying her friend, Gemma realized that Hazel was looking very well. She’d gained some much-needed weight, her dark curls were lustrous, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t suppose it’s made sense for Tim to stay the night when he comes for these dinners?”

  Lifting her mug to her lips with both hands, Haz
el blew on the surface of the tea. She shrugged, her eyes crinkling mischievously. “Once or twice. When we’ve had a glass or two of wine. But he’s slept on the sofa.”

  Laughing, Gemma said, “Hazel, you are married, in case you’d forgotten.”

  Hazel quickly grew serious. “I haven’t forgotten. But it’s . . . delicate. Almost like dating, in a weird way, and I don’t think either of us want to make any false steps. Or give Holly false hope that things will be the way they used to be.”

  “But there is hope?” Gemma asked carefully, not wanting to push her friend.

  “Oh. I think so, yes. But things will never be exactly as they were, for either of us. And I’ve discovered that there are things I quite like about my new life. I’ve realized that I was always looking after other people and never myself, and that’s something I need to learn to balance. Now,” she said, with a deft change of subject, “what about you? Big case on, I take it? And Duncan and the kids are occupying themselves for the weekend? Duncan seems to be managing well.”

  “Too well, I’m beginning to think,” said Gemma, finishing a biscuit. “I know he must be worried about getting Charlotte settled and getting back to work, but he doesn’t talk about it. He’s relentlessly cheerful, and I swear he’s turning into bloody Nigella. The dinner menus get more complicated by the day and he turns his nose up at the suggestion of takeaway.”

  Hazel added a little tea to her cup and stirred it, wearing what Gemma thought of as her “therapist’s face.”

  “Yes, I know, I know,” said Gemma with a sigh. “He’s a very intelligent man who’s used to a stimulating, high-powered job where he’s in charge of everything. Signing Charlotte up for every play group in Notting Hill and taking on gourmet cooking is his way of coping with the situation. I didn’t expect him to sit home and watch daytime telly. But, still, there’s something . . . ” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” When Hazel raised an eyebrow, Gemma added, “I will talk to him. Promise. But this case is worrying enough for the moment. In fact, I’m just as glad Holly isn’t here. Maybe you could give me an opinion. Unofficially.”

  Nodding, Hazel said, “I’ll do my best.”

  Gemma described the murder, then told her what they’d learned about Vincent Arnott. “I can’t make sense of the contradictions. The man was apparently very solicitous of his wife. Obviously fastidious in the extreme.” Gemma paused, frowning, and set her empty cup on the tray. “Oh, I suppose I can understand the picking-up-women thing . . . But the bondage seems an aberration for a man who controlled everything in his life with such precision.”

  “Actually, that’s not uncommon. That was probably the only time he felt he didn’t have to be in control. His wife’s illness may have precipitated a long-harbored fantasy into active behavior.”

  Gemma watched the gas fire for a moment, contemplating that, then turned back to Hazel. “Okay. I can see that, too. But his chambers’ clerk told me that Arnott didn’t like women. How do you square that with his care of his wife?”

  “You described her as ‘childlike.’ Is it possible that she was always something of an innocent, and that the dementia has only made it more apparent? It could be that they never had much of a sexual relationship, even before her illness. Or possibly not at all.”

  “Tom—his clerk—did say that Arnott had been having affairs as long as he’d known him, and from what I gathered, they’d worked together nearly twenty years. So what you’re suggesting,” Gemma added slowly, “is that Arnott saw his wife as the virgin and other women as whores?”

  “That’s not uncommon, either,” said Hazel. “It would be interesting to know what sort of relationship your Mr. Arnott had with his mother.”

  “Interesting, yes,” agreed Gemma. “Helpful, maybe, if he were the murderer and not the victim. But as it is, I’m not sure it would get me any closer to figuring out who killed him. Or why.”

  Before picking up Charlotte and Toby, Kincaid had taken Kit on a shopping trip to Whole Foods Market and let him pick out ingredients for dinner. Now, banned from the kitchen while Kit prepared a surprise, Kincaid was helping Toby and Charlotte make a pillow fort in the sitting room when he heard the click of the front-door lock and Geordie’s excited yip.

  “Mummy’s home!” Toby shouted, sending their carefully constructed edifice slithering to the floor. Charlotte began to cry.

  Scooping her up, Kincaid kissed her and said, “Never mind. We’ll build it again. You can show Mummy.”

  When Gemma came into the room, she looked more chipper than he’d expected after her long day. “What have we here?” she said. “Do I see the remains of a castle?”

  “And the walls came tumbling down,” Toby intoned. “But you can help fix it, Mummy.”

  She tousled his hair and gave Charlotte a hug. “Where’s Kit? And what is that heavenly smell?”

  “You’ll have to ask Kit,” said Kincaid. “It’s his production and I am totally, completely in the dark.”

  “Okay, kitchen first,” Gemma told Toby. “You and Charlotte start building again, and I’ll come supervise in a bit.”

  Kincaid followed her into the kitchen, where they found Kit, pink cheeked from the heat of the Aga.

  “I hear you’re the chef du jour,” Gemma told him, giving him a hug as well. “Whatever it is, you could bottle the smell and sell it.”

  “It’s mac cheese,” said Kit. He grinned at their startled looks. “Gourmet mac cheese. I made up the recipe myself.”

  “Wow.” Gemma sank into a kitchen chair with a sigh of contentment. “Gordon Ramsay couldn’t do better.” Then she gave Kit a steely look. “Just promise me, if you decide to be a chef, that you won’t swear like him.”

  “All chefs swear,” said Kit, unconcerned. Turning back to the work top, he lifted a vase and set it carefully in the center of the table. “And these are for you.”

  “Tulips! And red. My favorite. Thank you, Kit.” Then she added, laughing, “But that still doesn’t mean you can swear. Or maybe only a little.”

  He smiled back, then glanced at the kitchen timer. “The mac cheese has got fifteen more minutes. Okay if I go check my e-mail?” When they nodded, he added, “No tasting, though.” A moment later they heard him galloping up the stairs.

  “I think his feet have grown a size since Christmas,” Kincaid said. Then, studying Gemma, he asked, “Tea? I suspect you could use a bit of fortifying.”

  “I’m full up with tea. And biscuits, actually. I stopped to see Hazel on my way home.”

  “Wine, then?” Kincaid headed for the fridge rather than the kettle.

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  He poured her a glass from the bottle they’d opened the night before. “Personal or professional, this visit to Hazel?”

  “Bit of both.” After an appreciative sip of the wine, she quietly filled him in on what they’d learned that day about Vincent Arnott, then set her glass down and rubbed at her cheekbones. “We’re nearing the end of the crucial first forty-eight hours, and we still don’t have any really viable leads. This could turn into a monster of a case when the media get hold of the details and we haven’t made any progress.”

  “The Mad Strangler of Crystal Palace.”

  Gemma grimaced. “Or worse. Sex, Bondage, and Murder.”

  Sid, their black cat, jumped up on the kitchen table. Kincaid scooped him off and set him on the floor, where the cat rubbed round Gemma’s ankles until she reached down to stroke him.

  “I saw Melody today,” Kincaid told her, trying to work out how to approach this delicately. He didn’t want Gemma to feel he was interfering in her case, but he couldn’t withhold what he knew, either. “She came by to check on Doug while I was there.”

  “Really? How’s he doing?”

  “I suspect by tomorrow he’ll be pulling his hair out from boredom. Or hacking into the MoD. But the thing is, Melody was trying to track down the members of the band who were playing in the pub on Friday night, and she said she got their deta
ils from their manager.”

  “Well, that seems logical.” Gemma looked puzzled.

  “She didn’t tell you the manager’s name?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m sure it’s in her case notes.”

  “You’d remember if she’d told you,” he said. “It’s Tam. Our Tam. Louise’s Tam.”

  Gemma just stared at him blankly for a moment. “As in Tam and Michael?” she said at last.

  “The same.”

  “Bloody hell.” She lifted her wineglass and this time took a gulp.

  “It gets better.” Kincaid sat down across from her. “The guitarist who got in a row with your victim in the pub on Friday night? It was Andy Monahan.”

  “Andy . . . ” Gemma frowned; then her eyes widened in recognition. “Andy. Blondish. Bit cheeky. Always gives me a wave and a smile when I see him coming and going at Louise’s. He’s usually carrying his guitar case.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What on earth was he doing arguing with Vincent Arnott? And that means it was Tam who gave him an alibi for the time of Arnott’s murder.”

  “Bit awkward, isn’t it? I wondered . . . ” Kincaid hesitated, thinking of all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he should have mentioned to Gemma—Louise’s illness, the possibilities he was exploring for Charlotte . . . and his worries about the job. The bloody, bloody job.

  He shrugged. He’d find the right time.

  “What, love?” Gemma reached across the table to touch his hand. “Are you all right?”

  He took her hand in his. “I’m fine. But . . . I wondered if you might like me to have a word with Tam. Just in case he knows anything he’d not have thought to mention to the police.”

  Melody had spent the afternoon shuttling between Earl’s Court, Hackney, and Bethnal Green, with no success anywhere.

  She had found Nick’s mother at home at the family’s flat on the respectable Fulham edge of Earl’s Court. Nick, said his mum, was off at a coffeehouse, studying for an accountancy exam, but she wasn’t sure where. Melody had left her card. She’d also tried Nick’s mobile, leaving a message on his voice mail.