The Sound of Broken Glass

by Deborah Crombie

  Andy shook his head. “She had burdens enough.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died when I was sixteen. Her liver gave out, they said, but I always thought she just couldn’t find a reason to go on.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The nuns at my school found me a place to stay until I finished my year. I was playing gigs by then. Some of the old-time musicians in Crystal Palace got me jobs, gave me sofas to doss on. Then I met Nick and George in a club, and we put together our band. They both lived at home and their parents let me stay when I needed a place. Then I met Tam and he started getting me enough session work to get by. Eventually I got the flat in Hanway Place.” He sighed. “I owe Nick and George. And I owe Tam. I never thought I’d have to choose between the two.”

  “And the boys, Shaun and Joe? You never saw them again?”

  “Not until Friday night. But I didn’t lie to Melody. It wasn’t Shaun. It was Joe. I didn’t recognize him at first, when he came up to me in the White Stag. I really thought he was just some drunk punter, until he asked me if I remembered old times. He wanted”—Andy’s voice was tight—“he wanted to know why we couldn’t be friends.”

  “So you hit him.”

  “I lost it. I just lost it. But it didn’t make me feel any better.” He took his hands from his pockets and rubbed at his knuckles again. “Not worth risking my picking hand. But Shaun, Jesus. I always thought nothing was too bad for him, but—When Melody told me Shaun was dead, like that other guy, I thought I’d gone completely round the bend. I never knew their last names, Shaun or Joe. But I knew it had to be him, and when she showed me the photo, I was certain.” Glancing at Kincaid, he added, “You know I don’t blame Melody for going to her guv’nor. Your Gemma.” He frowned, as if he still hadn’t quite managed to get his head round that. “But I can’t very well ring her up and say, ‘Oh, sorry.’”

  “Better if you don’t just now,” Kincaid agreed. “What about Nadine? You never saw her again, either?”

  Andy pulled his coat tighter and shivered. “You’ll think I really am bonkers. Not until Friday night, although I swear I looked for her everywhere I went for years. And that night—maybe it was because I’d seen Joe and that brought it all back—but I thought I caught a glimpse of her, in the back of the room at the White Stag. It was during the second set. Then the crowd shifted and she was gone. I thought I’d imagined it . . . ”

  Kincaid caught the hesitation. “Until—”

  “Until Sunday night. When I was with Melody in the Twelve Bar. She looked different, of course, and it was just an instant as she turned back from the stairs. But it was Nadine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The two high water towers that had been erected were still standing but soon after they were dismantled.

  —Betty Carew, www.helium.com

  “What happened to Mrs. Drake?” Gemma asked Wayne Carstairs, resisting the urge to fan herself. It was warm in the headmaster’s office, and while he wore a long-sleeved navy polo shirt with the school crest embossed on the breast, she and Melody were still in their coats.

  “The head dismissed her without references.” Carstairs leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “It was cruel. Not only would such an action have kept her from getting a job at another public school, but it would have ruined her prospects at even the lowliest comprehensive.”

  “You didn’t approve?”

  “I did not. But Joe Peterson’s father, Gary, was on the school’s board of governors and he liked to wield his power.”

  “Joe Peterson? That was the name of the boy involved?”

  Carstairs nodded. “A little sycophant, was Joe. Bullied by his father and by Shaun Francis—in fact, I always thought that was what cemented the rather unlikely relationship between the two boys. Joe was already comfortable in the role of toady.”

  Melody had been following the conversation with a frown. “Did Peterson go to the police?”

  “Yes. But after they interviewed the boys and Mrs. Drake, and some of the other members of staff, the police declined to bring charges. I remember the detective was quite sharp, and I doubt he was any more taken in by the story than I was. But Peterson was livid. He hired some City barrister to file a civil suit against the poor woman, claiming she had caused his son ‘emotional trauma.’ Apparently, there had been some question into the nature of her husband’s death, although no charges were brought, and I’m sure Peterson thought he could use that in a civil suit to blacken her character.”

  “What could he possibly have hoped to gain?” asked Gemma.

  “Certainly nothing financially. I don’t believe she had two pennies to rub together. But Peterson had money to burn, and like Shaun Francis, he was a man to hold a grudge. I remember seeing him chatting up Mrs. Drake at Games Day, the end of summer term. She looked so cornered that my wife went to her rescue. I always wondered if he had . . . approached her . . . and she had rebuffed him. He certainly didn’t do his son any favors by pursuing the matter. Shaun Francis dropped Joe after the whole business, apparently considering him a social liability, and the rest of the school followed suit. Joe Peterson didn’t last the rest of the year here. I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

  “And Mrs. Drake?”

  Carstairs’s lips tightened. “I don’t know. She was here teaching one day and gone the next. I—none of the staff—ever had the chance to tell her we were sorry to see her go.”

  “Did you ever hear the outcome of the civil suit?”

  “No. Although I suspect if it had gone to Peterson’s advantage he’d have bragged about it at a parents’ evening.”

  A low rumble had begun outside Carstairs’s office—the sound of many feet on hard floors and the rising crescendo of children’s voices. The classrooms were letting out for lunch.

  The headmaster glanced at the clock on his desk. “I’m afraid lunchroom duty calls.”

  “You’ve been very generous with your time, Mr. Carstairs,” said Gemma with a smile. “One more thing. The barrister Mr. Peterson hired—do you happen to remember his name?”

  Standing, Carstairs took a tweedy jacket befitting a more traditional headmaster from a peg behind his desk. “Let’s see . . . He was a striking man with prematurely white hair, as I recall. He deposed all the staff, and I’m afraid he found us a bit uncooperative. In fact, the English master composed a rather rude limerick about him that made the rounds of the staff room.” Carstairs smiled, murmuring something under his breath that Gemma didn’t quite catch, then said, “His name was Arnott, the lawyer. I’ll leave the content of that literary masterpiece to your imaginations.”

  “So there was a connection between Shaun Francis and Arnott,” said Melody as she and Gemma left the school building and headed for the car. The clouds had come down, obscuring the great Crystal Palace radio transmitters, and a cold drop of moisture touched her cheek like a kiss. “But a bit tenuous, as well as years ago, and we still have no idea what any of that has to do with Andy. Or if it has anything to do with him at all.” Glancing at Gemma, she added, “Someone needs to speak to him again.”

  Melody expected to be chastised, but instead, Gemma looked up from reaching in her bag for the car keys, her expression surprisingly sheepish. “Duncan was going to have a word.”

  “What?”

  “Tam rang him last night in a state. He said Andy was threatening to pull out of this big recording deal and wanted Duncan to talk to him.”

  “So you’ve put him off-limits to me but agreed that Duncan could question him?” Melody realized how absurd that sounded as soon as the words left her mouth. “No, don’t tell me,” she said as she slipped into the car beside Gemma. “Duncan didn’t sleep with him.”

  Gemma’s lips quirked in a smile. “Well, I hope not. But you’re right—I have gone outside channels when I’ve told you not to do exactly that. But Duncan and Andy seem to have a rapport, and it certainly wasn’t there for me. I thought it couldn�
��t hurt for Duncan to give it a try.”

  “I’m worried about him,” admitted Melody. “I know it’s stupid and we hardly know each other, not really, but . . . ”

  “I thought . . . ” Gemma hesitated, then went on, “When I talked to him yesterday, I got the impression that the feeling was mutual. And he’s—Well, I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”

  “Thanks. I feel ever so much better,” Melody quipped, but in truth she found that she did. But she was no less worried. “But you haven’t heard anything from Dun—” Her phone, silenced for the interview with Mr. Carstairs, vibrated in her pocket.

  When she saw it was Doug, she gave Gemma an apologetic shrug and answered.

  “I’ve got something for you,” said Doug without preamble. “It’s taken me all day, but I’ve accessed Vincent Arnott’s criminal case records, and I came across a familiar name. Ten years ago, Arnott was the prosecutor in a drugs charge against Caleb Hart, your record producer.”

  “Hart?” repeated Melody. “But he said he didn’t know Arnott.”

  “Well, obviously, he lied. Hart and a young girl singer, his protégé, were found in possession of cocaine and heroin in a drugs bust. Hart had a good lawyer and the bust itself was a bit questionable, so he got off lightly.”

  “And the girl?”

  “A probationary sentence. But I did some research. The case made good fodder for the media—drugs and rock and roll at the very least—and Arnott was apparently vicious as a prosecutor. He smeared the girl’s reputation. Apparently she either couldn’t handle the drugs or the adverse press. She committed suicide ten months after the trial. Hart then got very publicly sober and has remained so since.”

  “Bastard,” said Melody.

  Gemma, watching her intently, mouthed, “What?”

  “Did you happen to get a home address?” Melody asked Doug, giving Gemma a slight headshake as she scrabbled in her bag for a pad and pen.

  “It’s North Dulwich. Crystal Palace, more or less.” Doug read it out to her and she wrote it down.

  “Thanks. You’ve been brilliant.”

  “But,” said Doug, who knew her intonations too well.

  “You could do something else, if you’re not too busy.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny. What do you need?”

  “Arnott was involved in a civil case about fifteen years ago. The plaintiff was a Gary Peterson, the defendant, Nadine Drake. Can you see what you can dig up on either of them?”

  “I live to serve.” Doug disconnected.

  Melody turned to Gemma. “Not only does Caleb Hart have a lousy alibi for Friday night, it seems he had a very good reason to hate Vincent Arnott.”

  “I’d like to talk to him without forewarning,” said Gemma when Melody had relayed Doug’s information. “We’re not too far from his home address, although I don’t know how likely it is we’d find him there this time of day. But he wasn’t in his office when I called in midday yesterday, so I suppose it’s possible.”

  Melody pulled up a map on her phone and examined it. On a hunch, she said, “We’re practically a stone’s throw from the recording studio. Why don’t we try there first? And if he’s not there, we could grab some lunch at the White Stag and have another word with Reg, the manager.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Gemma started the car and put it into gear, and within a very few minutes they’d reached Westow Street. “Now where?” she asked.

  “This little lane.” Melody pointed out a turning to the right.

  “Bugger,” muttered Gemma as they bumped down the incline of narrow, cobbled lane. “I’d hate to try this in icy weather. There’s nothing here,” she added, peering ahead.

  “Take a sharp left at the bottom.”

  Gemma followed instructions, smiling when she saw the wall murals. She pulled the Escort in behind a new gleaming black Jaguar XF. “Does that look like a record-producer car to you? Maybe we’re in luck.”

  They got out and Melody stood still for a moment, listening. No music drifted down from above. “The recording studio’s on the second level, I think, below the rehearsal space.” She let Gemma lead the way up the precarious open metal stairs. The memory of Saturday, and her first sight of Andy, was vivid in her mind. Had she been so blinded by instant infatuation that she hadn’t done her job? They should have been onto Caleb Hart well before now.

  They stopped on the first-floor landing, the wind whipping their hair and their coats. Melody opened the door and the draft almost pushed them into the tiny anteroom.

  It was empty. They stood for a moment, catching their breaths. A high-pitched electronic squeal came from behind the closed door of the room beyond. Melody automatically smoothed her hair, then knocked perfunctorily before opening the door.

  Caleb Hart sat at a mixing desk, wearing headphones. He looked up, his expression for a moment startled then he gave Melody the bland smile she remembered from Saturday and pulled the headphones off.

  “Detective Sergeant Talbot, isn’t it? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Gemma showed him her identification. “I’m Detective Inspector James, Mr. Hart. We’d like to talk to you about Vincent Arnott. I believe you’ve been less than honest with us.”

  Hart rolled his chair back from the console and regarded them with what seemed mild interest. “I don’t believe I’ve talked to you about this . . . Arnott.”

  “You’re being disingenuous,” said Melody, drawing her eyes from what seemed an overwhelming array of levers and knobs and sparkling lights on the board. “When I spoke to you and Tam and Andy on Saturday, you didn’t happen to mention that you knew him.”

  “You didn’t ask me directly, if I recall. You were concerned about an incident in the pub. I wasn’t there.”

  “Stop playing games, Mr. Hart.” Gemma’s tone made it clear she was losing patience. “We know that you not only knew Vincent Arnott, but that you had very good reason to dislike him, even to hate him. Perhaps even to want him dead.”

  Hart gazed at them, looking every inch the urbane producer with his neat beard and rimless glasses and his roll-neck sweater.

  It was warm in the small room. The only window was interior, overlooking the recording booth. “Now,” said Gemma, already beginning to sweat in her coat. “Let us tell you a little story. Melody, I think you have the details?”

  Melody made a show of consulting her almost empty notepad. “Ten years ago, there was another promising young singer in your stable. She was arrested, along with you, on a possession of illegal substances charge. You got off quite lightly, and although the young woman received only a probationary sentence, the prosecuting attorney’s treatment of her was brutal. The press had a field day, and her reputation was torn to shreds. Later that year, she committed suicide. Was it a drug overdose, Mr. Hart?”

  Hart had gone white as paper. His face seemed to float, disembodied, above the dark roll-neck of his sweater. “You don’t know anything about it. And her name was Lauren.”

  “Did you hold Vincent Arnott responsible for what happened to Lauren, Mr. Hart?” asked Gemma.

  “No. He was a bastard and he was unnecessarily vicious in his treatment of her. But the only person I held responsible for what happened to Lauren was myself. I got her involved with people who did drugs and alcohol as a matter of course. It’s the business. You know what it’s like.”

  “So getting sober was your atonement?” asked Melody.

  “There’s no way I can ever atone for what happened to Lauren. Getting sober was self-preservation. It was that or die.”

  Melody wondered if they were finally seeing the real Caleb Hart, or if it was just another layer of self-serving veneer. “And now you have another girl singer, Poppy. Just about Lauren’s age, isn’t she? Poised on the brink of success. And she’s a vicar’s daughter, isn’t she? Does she know about Lauren? Do her parents? I doubt they’d think you suitable to manage their daughter’s career if they did.”

  Bright spots of color appeared in Hart’s
cheeks. “Of course they bloody well know. Poppy’s father, Tom, was my best friend at university. It was Tom and his family who helped me get sober. I owe them everything, and they know I’ll look after Poppy like she was my own daughter.

  “That’s why I wanted to see Andy Monahan before I put them together. Tam assured me he wasn’t into drink and drugs, but I can get a feel for someone when they play. I thought he was all right, and now he seems to be involved in a murder investigation.” Hart’s laugh was humorless. “I’d dump the whole project if they weren’t so bloody good together. You only get one or two chances like this in the music business, if you’re very lucky.”

  “So what you’re telling us is that you had a very good reason not to want anything—or anyone—to screw this up,” said Gemma. “Did Vincent Arnott threaten you in some way? You can’t expect us to believe that, given your history with the man, you frequented the same pub on a regular basis and didn’t recognize him.”

  “Yes, I recognized him,” Hart admitted. “But I didn’t see why I should get myself involved. I don’t think he knew me from Adam, and I certainly never spoke to him.”

  “You didn’t see him on Friday night?”

  “I did see him at the pub, yes, but he was drinking alone at the bar. I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “You don’t get to decide what is or isn’t relevant when the police are investigating a murder, Mr. Hart,” Gemma snapped. “Did you see him after you left the pub?”

  “No. I went to my AA meeting. I always go on Friday night. It’s a tough time for drinkers.”

  Gemma merely studied him for a moment, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I spoke to your very helpful personal assistant yesterday,” she went on. “Roxy told me about your AA meeting. But we’re very thorough, Mr. Hart. We’ve been to the community center this morning. Apparently, you got a phone call and left during the first half hour of the meeting, which means you could easily have gone back to Crystal Palace and killed Vincent Arnott.”