The Sound of Broken Glass (30 page)

“And if it had come to the point where you had to tell Shaun that other accommodations might better suit him, would Amanda have gone, too?”

“That I can't say.”

“But you're very relieved not to have to find out.”

“That, Detective Sergeant,” said Spencer, “is not against the law.” Although delivered with a smile, it was a dismissal, but one Melody was not quite ready to accept.

“Mr. Spencer, do you know if Shaun knew a barrister called Vincent Arnott?” She mentioned Arnott's chambers, which were in the nearby Inner Temple.

“He might have done. It's a fairly small world, you know.” His gesture seemed to encompass the Inns of Court. “Vincent and I had been opposing counsels a number of times over the years, and of course you see one another in the pubs and wine bars.”

“So you knew Arnott was dead?”

“One could hardly have missed the speculation in the newspapers. And no, I'm not going to ask you if it's true,” he added, obviously having seen Melody begin to form a denial. “I know you're not at liberty to say, and I'm not at all sure I want to know.”

“Did you consider Arnott a friend?”

Spencer deliberated, and Melody doubted he ever answered anything of importance without first weighing the pros and cons. “I wouldn't say that Vincent had friends,” he answered after a moment. “He could be a tough adversary in court—admirable, of course—but he was inclined to take things beyond the courtroom.”

“How do you mean?” asked Melody.

“Oh, surely you see that in your work as well, Sergeant. He carried his cases with him on a personal level, whether he was defending or prosecuting. And more than that, if he was bested in the courtroom, he didn't forgive it.”

From what Melody had learned about Vincent Arnott's private life, she didn't find this surprising. “But you don't know that he had any direct connection with Shaun Francis?”

“No. You can, of course, ask the clerk to look through our files, but if Shaun had opposed Arnott in court, I'm sure Amanda would have known it.” Spencer's sharp blue eyes appraised her. “But you can't be thinking that Arnott had anything to do with Shaun's death, as Arnott was already dead. And if Shaun had something to do with Arnott's, then who would have killed him?”

If it had been the other way round, thought Melody as she left the chambers and wound her way through the narrow alleys leading into Fleet Street, they could have made a tidy case of it. If Shaun had been killed first, Amanda Francis could have picked up Arnott in the White Stag and killed him as revenge for her brother's murder. But then why would Arnott have killed Shaun, in this hypothetical scenario? So far, they'd found no connection between Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis. And Melody knew she was just confusing herself with idle speculation, trying to distract herself from the constant nagging worry about Andy.

She'd spent the past twenty-four hours wondering if she had done the best or the worst thing in her life. And last night, alone in her flat, she'd sat huddled on the sofa with her finger hovering over the keypad on her phone, debating whether to call or text Andy or Doug.

In the end she had done neither. She didn't know what she could say to Andy that would make things any better between them, and contacting him would have meant disobeying a direct order from Gemma.

As for Doug, she didn't think that either Gemma or Duncan (she had no doubt that Gemma would tell Duncan) would say anything to Doug about her spending the night with Andy, but she also had no doubt that sooner or later Doug would find out. She needed to talk to him before that happened, but not over the phone.

She had, however, finally managed to contact Nick, the bass player in Andy's band, and he'd agreed to meet her at lunchtime at a pub near the Royal Courts of Justice.

The Seven Stars in Carey Street was tiny and eccentric, and Melody had suggested it as neutral ground when Nick told her he'd be studying that morning at King's College Library. It had rained while she was in Shaun's chambers, and as she walked, the pavement glistened under a still-threatening sky.

The pub was jammed when she reached it, but shoving her way inside, she saw Nick, thin and dark, at a corner table. He'd put a stack of books on the chair beside him and was looking round worriedly. She recognized him from the CCTV footage of the band loading up outside the White Stag in Crystal Palace, but realized he had no idea what she looked like.

When she'd elbowed her way through the crush, he looked up and, putting a defensive hand on the books, said, “This one's taken.”

“Nick? I'm Melody Talbot.”

She'd dressed for the interview at the Inns of Court, in a suit and her best red wool coat, and from Nick's surprised expression she thought he'd expected a trench coat and a badge. Maybe she should take a page from Maura Bell's book.

“Oh, sorry.” Hastily, he moved the books and squeezed them precariously onto the tiny table beside an almost empty half-pint of lager. “You're not—I didn't—”

“Can I get you another?” she asked.

“Oh—” He glanced at his watch. “No, I'd better not. I've got a class. Accounting's dull enough as it is. I'd never stay awake.”

“I'll try not to take up too much of your time, then,” she said, sitting down. “Thanks for seeing me.” The pub was loud and she had to lean close to be heard.

“You said this was about Andy. I've been ringing him but he doesn't return my calls. Is he okay?” His worry seemed genuine.

So Nick hadn't heard about the video. “Yes, he's fine. I just had a few questions about what happened at the White Stag last Friday night.”

Nick was frowning at her, the remainder of his beer untouched. “You're a plainclothes detective. Why should you care about a little punch-up? That guy didn't press charges, did he?”

She remembered her first interview with Andy and Tam in the studio, and Andy's bruised knuckles. Tam and Andy, as well as Reg, the manager at the Stag, had said Arnott shouted at Andy because Andy had had a row with a punter. “No one pressed charges. Are you talking about the guy Andy hit? What was that all about, anyway?”

Nick relaxed enough to take a sip of his beer. “Everyone was short-fused that night. We were pissed off with Andy for agreeing to the gig, and he was pissed off with us because we were acting like assholes. After the first set, I figured Andy was going to take us outside and tell us off good and proper. But just as we finished playing, this bloke came up and got right in Andy's face. And Andy just went off. I'd never seen him do anything like that.”

“Do you know what this guy said?”

“I didn't hear. I heard Andy, though. Everyone did. He was calling the guy a bastard and saying he never wanted to see him again. And then Andy just hauled off and punched him in the nose.” Nick shook his head and flexed his own hand, as if contemplating the idiocy of risking such an injury.

“You've no idea who he was?”

“Never seen him before, and I've known Andy since not long after he left school.”

Melody took out her phone and showed him the photo of Shaun. “Was it him?”

Nick studied it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Definitely not.”

“Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“About our age. Just ordinary. Thin. A bit scruffy.” Nick shrugged. “He had that look. You learn to recognize it if you play in a band long enough. Drugs. Alcohol. Something just a little off.” He met Melody's eyes. “I just assumed he was an obnoxious drunk and that between us and him, Andy had had enough. But now, it does seem a bit weird, the way Andy reacted to him. Like it was personal.”

“Did you talk to Andy about it, afterwards?”

Nick gave a humorless laugh. “Not bloody likely. Andy wasn't talking to us. Wouldn't even ride back to London in the van. And Tam was doing the whole mother-hen thing over Andy's hand, although I can't say I blame him. I hope he's okay.”

“Why don't you try ringing him again now?” Melody suggested carefully. She couldn't repeat anything Andy had told her, and was not even sure she should be playing mediator.

This time Nick smiled more easily. “Nobody wants to be the first to apologize. It's like a bad couple's breakup, you know? One where you know it's coming but it still makes you feel like hell.”

“I'm not sure I—”

“The band. It's over, but none of us wants to admit it. In a month or two, we'll be able to go out for a pint and have a laugh about it. But now . . . ” He finished his beer and frowned. “You still haven't said exactly what it was you wanted. Although to be fair, I don't suppose I've given you much chance.” This time, the glance he gave was assessing, and slightly flirtatious.

Oh, God, she thought. Nick was an attractive guy, but that was a complication she didn't need. Flushing, she said, “It was about the man who shouted at Andy after the row. Did you know him?”

Nick looked blank for a moment. “The white-haired guy? No, I just thought he was some bad-tempered geezer. I really wasn't paying attention, if you want the truth.”

“Did you see Andy talk to him either before or after that?”

“No, I didn't notice him before. Then after all the commotion during the break, Tam took Andy outside for a talk. Then we played the second set—a little more professionally, I'm glad to say—and after that, Andy and Tam helped George and me load the van and Tam drove Andy home.”

“And the white-haired man—did you see him again that night?”

“I don't think so. I was doing my best to redeem myself, and giving Andy some cover because I could tell his hand was swelling.”

“What about the scruffy bloke?”

“No.” Nick frowned. “No, I don't think so. But he wasn't exactly the sort you'd notice—although I daresay he had a sore nose,” he added, grinning. “Our Andy. Imagine that.”

Men, thought Melody. There was nothing that raised them in one another's estimation like the ability to give someone a bloody nose. Then the import of what Nick had said hit her. There'd been no room to slip out of her wool coat, and she was suddenly stifling.

“Look, thanks, Nick,” she said, standing. “You've been a big help.”

He looked surprised. “I have?”

“Absolutely. But I've got to run. I'll be in touch if I think of anything else.”

Nick stood, bumping the table, then had to make a grab for the toppling stack of books. “Maybe next time I can buy you a beer,” he called after her as she ducked through the crowd.

Melody pretended not to hear as she slipped out the door. She walked, unmindful of the direction she took, desperate to think.

Andy had told her that the bloke he hit that night was just some drunk punter who'd tried to touch his guitar. If what Nick had said was true, Andy had known him. Andy had lied.

After seeing Andy Monahan in Oxford Street, Gemma spent the remainder of the morning in Brixton, trying to pull the threads from the two separate investigations into some sort of cohesive whole and having very little success.

She pushed away from her computer and rubbed her tired eyes. They needed to go back to the beginning.

Vincent Arnott had gone to the White Stag on Friday nights on a regular basis, occasionally picking up women whom he'd taken to the Belvedere, and then he'd returned home to care for his ill wife. So what had changed last Friday night?

Caleb Hart had decided to book Andy Monahan's band there, she thought.

Was that a catalyst, or something completely unrelated? Why had Hart said he didn't recognize Arnott when it was very likely that he'd seen him at the pub? Had Hart really left the pub to go to an AA meeting on a Friday night?

It was time she found out, and that meant an official interview with Hart.

She considered asking Maura Bell to question him, but if Hart mentioned that Kincaid had called on him yesterday, she would have to explain that rather unorthodox bit of information gathering to Maura, which she'd prefer not to do. Melody had made things difficult enough without adding anything else into the mix.

So, as Rashid was doing the postmortem on Shaun Francis at the Royal London in Whitechapel, she decided she would stop in at Hart's office herself. She took the tube from Brixton to Liverpool Street station, then walked to the address Kincaid had given her in Hanbury Street by way of Spitalfields Market.

She wondered, as she always did now when she came to the East End, if, when Charlotte was grown, she would remember these streets as home, or if her early years would be swallowed up by the sedate greens and grays of a Notting Hill childhood.

There was certainly no warmth or color in Hanbury Street today. Grim, brown Georgian brick gave way to shoddy postmodern blocks, and the cold, damp wind tugged at her hair and the hem of her coat. Gemma found the entrance to Hart's office and went in.

The reception area was ultrachic, as was the receptionist, who simultaneously managed to look up from her desk and down her perfect nose at Gemma. Gemma felt suddenly disheveled, aware of her hair blown loose from its plait and her wind-chapped cheeks. Kincaid might have warned her, she thought, smoothing a strand of hair and assuming her most brisk manner.

“I'm Detective Inspector James, Met CID,” she said, showing her warrant card. “I'd like a word with Mr. Hart.”

“He's not here.” The girl showed not the least bit of interest, or apology. There was a hint of a dropped
h
in her accent. An authentic East End girl, and all the more trendy for it.

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“Couldn't say.”

“Can you tell me how I can contact him?”

The girl shrugged and handed her a business card from a little silver stand on her desk. “That's his mobile. But he never answers if he doesn't recognize the number, so you'll have to leave a message.”