“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.
“Oh, yes.” The woman smiled, apparently unfazed by a visit from Met CID. “He’s with a pupil at the moment, but I’ll let him know you’re here.”
While she spoke quietly into an intercom, Gemma looked round the reception area. The building had obviously undergone some architectural renovation, and glass panels in the ceiling gave the space a light and airy feel.
The door to the headmaster’s office opened and a boy about Kit’s age came out. He was mixed race and, like the receptionist, gave Gemma and Melody an easy, friendly smile. Considering what Gemma had learned about Shaun Francis, it seemed he would have been the odd one out in this place.
“The headmaster will see you now.” The receptionist nodded towards the open door.
“Ooh, called on the carpet,” Melody whispered in Gemma’s ear, and then they were inside and the man at the desk was rising to greet them.
“I’m Wayne Carstairs.” He held out a hand to Gemma. “Inspector James? And—”
“Detective Sergeant Talbot,” said Melody as he shook her hand in turn.
Gemma realized she’d been expecting a tweedy-elbowed academic. But Wayne Carstairs, a fair, broad-shouldered man in his late forties or early fifties, looked more like a rugby player than a headmaster, and his accent was closer to her own than it was to Melody’s.
He gestured them into chairs, then took his own. “I understand you’re here about a former student, Shaun Francis.” He tapped a file on his desk. “I’ve pulled his records for you.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Carstairs,” said Gemma. “As I said over the phone, Shaun Francis has died in unexplained circumstances.”
“I was sorry to hear that.” Carstairs did not sound particularly sorry. “I’ve seen the papers. I would certainly call murder ‘unfortunate.’ But I’m not sure how his old school records can help you. It’s been more than a decade since he left Norwood.”
“Did you know Shaun Francis, Mr. Carstairs?”
“I remember him, yes,” Carstairs said, with apparent reluctance.
“Sometimes, when there’s no obvious motive in the present, it helps us to look at the victim’s history. And his sister mentioned a particular incident, something that happened when Shaun was in perhaps year seven. Do you recall it? It was the beginning of the autumn term, and involved another student here.”
“Ah. Well.” Carstairs frowned. “You won’t find anything in his academic records about that. I wasn’t headmaster then, you understand. I was the physics master, and had been here only two years.”
“But you do remember the incident,” Gemma prompted when he didn’t go on.
Carstairs shuffled some papers on his desktop, obviously debating, then said with a slight sigh, “You have to understand that Norwood College was not then what it is now. We were known, not for our academic excellence, but as the school for boys who weren’t quite gifted or diligent enough to get into the other college, but whose parents had money and social ambitions.”
Gemma assumed he meant Dulwich College, the school’s illustrious neighbor. “What you mean is that you got some bad apples, and I’d assume that Shaun Francis was one of them.”
“I taught him. And I would say ‘bad apple’ was a considerable understatement. Shaun Francis was as nasty a piece of work as I’ve seen in all my years of teaching. No apologies for speaking ill of the dead. But in this case, he wasn’t responsible for what happened—at least not directly.”
Gemma waited.
“There was another new teacher who had joined the staff the previous term, taking over the upper school French classes for a teacher who had retired suddenly,” Carstairs continued after a moment. “Her name was Nadine Drake and she was a young widow.” His expression had softened as he said her name.
“A young female teacher in a boys’ school?” Melody looked askance.
“Not the best idea,” admitted Carstairs. “Nadine Drake was not only young but very attractive. But she had a certain . . . reserve about her. She kept discipline in her classes, and she didn’t encourage familiarity with the students. Nor did she make friends with other members of staff, which I think may have been to her detriment in the end.” He paused, then went on with a grimace of distaste. “Not long after term started, whispers began going round the school that Mrs. Drake had had . . . inappropriate . . . relations with one of the boys. When the story reached the head, he questioned the boy, who said that over summer hols, Mrs. Drake had invited him into her home, where she had undressed in front of him and asked him to touch her. This, of course, set him up admirably with the other lads.”
“Did you believe it?” asked Gemma.
“Not for a moment. I thought the entire story was preposterous, and that the rumor had been started by Shaun Francis.”
“Why would Shaun have done something like that?”
“Because he was t
he sort of boy who held grudges. I can only assume he’d taken against Mrs. Drake for some reason, and that what happened to his friend was collateral damage.”
“What happened to his friend?” repeated Melody, sounding puzzled. “Was he sent down?”
“Oh, no, but it might have gone better for him if he had been. It was Mrs. Drake who paid the price.”
After the night in the garden, it took Andy two days to get up the courage to ring Nadine’s bell. He’d been too ashamed to face her, and yet he knew he couldn’t go on without telling her that he was sorry, that none of what had happened had been his idea, whether she believed him or not.
He rang and rang again. But there was no answer, that day or the next or the next, although her car was parked in front of the flat.
He watched, then, hoping to see her coming or going, and rang her bell at regular intervals, but there was no sound or movement in the flat. She didn’t leave or return on her usual schedule—had Shaun and Joe been telling the truth about the French lessons? And did she really teach at their school? Why had she never told him what she did? He didn’t know what to think, except that he had lost the only real friend he had ever known.
If she went out at all, it must have been during the times he walked his mum to and from work. His worry for Nadine grew until he felt ill with it, but there was no one he could talk to or ask for help.
Nor did he see Joe or Shaun. They seemed to have disappeared as mysteriously as they had appeared that hot day in the park, and he didn’t know their last names or where they lived. What he would have done if he’d found them he didn’t know, only that he wanted to hurt them, to somehow make them pay.
But in the end he knew that what had happened had been his fault. Nadine had been unhappy and he’d been too selfish to see it. And instead of helping her, he had betrayed her.
And then the school term began, and with it the weather broke with a vengeance. The rain came down as if it would wash away the sins of the world, but nothing could erase the stain of Andy’s guilt.
Nadine’s car disappeared. He wondered if she had gone to stay with someone else—perhaps her parents? But he knew only that she’d grown up in Hampstead, and nothing else about her family. He’d never asked.
Then, a few weeks before Christmas, he came home from school to find a to let sign next door. The flat was empty, Nadine was gone, and nothing in his life would ever be the same.
The nursery school interview turned out to be not nearly as intimidating as Kincaid had expected.
MacKenzie had met him and Charlotte, as promised, in front of the white Victorian villa near Pembridge Gardens. The only thing identifying the building as a school was a small brass plaque beside the blue door. When MacKenzie rang the buzzer, they were admitted immediately.
Charlotte, having been told she could visit Oliver’s class, went willingly with MacKenzie while Kincaid was ushered into the head’s office. “I’m Jane,” the woman said, gesturing him to a seat. Middle aged and pleasantly attractive, she wore silver-framed glasses and a long, colorful skirt that looked as if it might have come from one of the stalls in Portobello Road.
He’d expected a long list of questions about Charlotte’s background and emotional issues, her level of academic progress, even the state of her toilet training. Instead, Jane scanned a few notes on her desk, then looked up and smiled. “I understand your little girl has had some difficulties. Well, we’ll see what we can do for her.”
He stared at her for a moment, not certain he’d heard correctly. “You mean—You can take her?”
“It so happens that one of our families is making an unexpected move to New York for business reasons, so there will be an opening in Oliver’s class. She could start, um”—she consulted her notes again—“next Monday, I believe, if that would suit you. Although we do provide wraparound care, I’d suggest we begin with mornings only for the first few weeks and see how she does.”
Gobsmacked, Kincaid nodded. “Yes. Yes, thanks very much. But what about the—”
“The secretary will give you the admission form and the information on uniforms and fees.”
“You don’t need to meet Charlotte?”
“I’m sure we’ll get well acquainted soon enough, Mr. Kincaid. I like to participate in the children’s routine as much as possible. If you think she might need a little help adjusting, you’re welcome to sit in with her for a day or two. So I’ll expect to see you on Monday as well?”
“Yes, of course. I’m certain I can arrange that.” He stood and reached across the desk to pump her hand. “Thanks again,” he said with what he felt was great inadequacy.
“Oh, there is one thing, Mr. Kincaid.” Jane stopped him as he reached the door, for the first time sounding like his expectation of a headmistress. “Just so there is no misunderstanding. We are not a glamorous school—merely a good one. We don’t put children on a waiting list before they are conceived. We don’t do celebrity raffles. We don’t care if you spent your holiday in Barbados, or if your child’s godmother has an Oscar, or what kind of car you drive. In fact, we rather discourage that sort of thing.” Her stern expression dissolved into a smile. “Although we do make an exception in MacKenzie’s case.”
“I’m very relieved to hear both,” he’d replied, although he had no idea what she meant about MacKenzie.
He would tell Gemma the good news as soon as she got home, but first he needed to talk to Louise and make certain Charlotte’s estate could handle the fees in the interim before the sale of the Fournier Street house was final.
Perhaps, he thought, considering his promise to Tam, he could kill two birds with one stone.
Having made arrangements the previous evening for Charlotte to spend the afternoon with their friend Betty Howard, Kincaid dropped her off and drove to Bethnal Green alone. Louise was resting when he arrived at her flat near Columbia Road, and when she ushered him into the sitting room, he thought she looked a bit better than she had on Saturday.
When he explained about the school, she laughed, and it occurred to him that that was a sound he’d seldom heard from her. “You are one for getting results,” she said. “And yes, it should be fine. Actually, I think it’s not unreasonable for a fee-paying school, especially in Notting Hill. And if Charlotte can adjust to the wraparound care, that will cost you considerably less than paying a nanny for half days. Although,” she added, with a return of her usual acerbity, “it sounds to me as if the place is being elitist by not being elitist.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected. And that, I take it, is a good thing. But I’m pleased for you. It looks as if one of us may be returning to work soon, at least.”
She offered coffee but he declined, saying he needed to have a word with Tam, and that he didn’t want to tire her. Both true enough, and saved him from confessing that the flat was hothouse temperature and he hadn’t the stamina for her coffee.
Next door, he found Michael out with the dogs, and Tam pacing. “He said he’d come, though I had to bloody threaten him. He’s always been such a reliable lad, Andy. That’s one of the reasons I convinced Caleb to give him a try. And now he’s acting like some prima donna. I can’t think what’s got into him. I havenae told Caleb he’s saying he’s not sure he wants to record with wee Poppy.”
Before Kincaid could reply, there was a light tap on the door. Kincaid opened it to find Andy Monahan, scowling at him. “Tam said you wanted to talk to me.”
“If you don’t mind,” Kincaid said easily. He thought that Andy looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes dark as bruises. “Do you want to come in?”
Andy threw a glower at Tam. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather sit outside. Just us.”
The day was gray and damp with a chill wind, but Kincaid wasn’t inclined to argue. With a quelling shake of his head at Tam, he stepped outside. The chairs were placed on either side of the small balcony, one in front of Tam and Michael’s flat and one in
front of Louise’s. He sensed that arranging them into a conversational grouping would convey an unwanted formality, so he led the way through the gate at the top of the stairs and sat down on the top step.
With obvious reluctance, Andy sat beside him, huddled in the depths of his peacoat. It was Andy, however, who spoke first. “I had no idea Charlotte’s mum was a copper. What are the two of you doing, tag-teaming?”
“I’m here strictly because Tam asked me to speak to you. He’s worried about you. But you know that if you tell me anything that is relevant to these cases, I’ll have to pass it along to Gemma.”
“No secrets of the confessional, then?” Andy asked, mocking.
“It looks to me as if you could use some help. I’d guess you haven’t slept—or eaten—in a couple of days.”
Andy rubbed at the now-fading bruises on the knuckles of his right hand. “Not much of either since Monday. Not since I heard”—he glanced at Kincaid, then looked away—“I guess you know about Melody.”
“I know that Melody interviewed you on Sunday night, and that she was with you during the time that someone drugged Shaun Francis at his local pub, took him home, stripped him, tied him up, and strangled him.”
“Oh, God.” Andy looked as if he might be sick.
“I also know that yesterday Melody spoke to Nick, your bass player, and that she knows you lied to her about the fight in the pub.” Kincaid nodded at Andy’s knuckles. “Want to start with that?”
Andy gave a choked laugh. “There’s no way to start with that.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. For a moment he gazed down into the quiet street and then his shoulders sagged. “I’m tired. I’m tired of keeping secrets. What happened on Friday night was the end, not the beginning. It started on a hot August day when I was thirteen years old.”
When Andy had finished his story, Kincaid sat, appalled. He thought of Kit, who had endured much in his young life, but had had someone to turn to, someone to care for him. After a moment, he said quietly, “You never spoke to your mother about any of this?”
The Sound of Broken Glass Page 26