The Sound of Broken Glass (37 page)

“Andy was a latchkey kid. Worse than a latchkey kid, because his single mother was an alcoholic and he was her caretaker. He and Mrs. Drake—Nadine—became friends. It seems to have been the first time an adult had ever taken any interest in him or shown any concern for his welfare. And I think, from what Andy told me, that Nadine Drake was just as lonely.” He shot a concerned glance at Melody. “It was Nadine who encouraged him to play the guitar, but he said they never talked about personal things. He knew that her husband had died, but he had no idea what she did for a job.”

Reaching across him to pour herself more tea, Gemma said, “That seems odd.”

“Not really.” Kincaid shrugged. “Andy said they talked about books and music and history, the things that interested them both. It's only as adults that we immediately peg people by what they do and who they know. Andy was just thirteen. And as for Nadine Drake, I'd guess it was a way of removing their relationship from reality.”

Melody felt cold. “Oh, God, was the story true then? Did she molest the boy from the college? And was Andy—”

“No, no.” Kincaid shook his head. “Your headmaster was right. According to Andy, their whole story was a tissue of lies. They didn't just happen to meet Nadine Drake outside school. It was Andy they met in the park, and they attached themselves to him. Bullying him, following him, finding out where he lived. I suppose it might have been envy in a weird sort of way. They had privilege, but he had something they couldn't begin to fathom. An aura of self-sufficiency, maybe.

“Andy said he avoided them as much as possible, but one night he was angry at Nadine because she was drinking and behaving strangely. He let the boys into his house, and from his garden they found a way into hers. It was hot; her doors and windows were open. They could see her, and when she went to have a bath, Shaun Francis dared his friend Joe to go in and surprise her. When he did, she threw the boy out and threatened to call the police. She certainly never touched him. And she never spoke to Andy again.”

“But—” Melody tried to fit it all together. “Why did the boys lie about her at the school?”

“I suspect Joe Peterson was humiliated. It might have started as something whispered to another boy to make himself feel better. And then it snowballed.”

“Or it might have been Shaun,” said Gemma. “Mr. Carstairs said he was a grudge holder. Maybe he was offended for his friend's sake, or maybe she said something that angered him.”

“Could Nadine have thought that Andy countenanced their story?” asked Melody, horrified.

“Possibly,” Kincaid answered. “But Andy knew nothing except that she disappeared. He still doesn't.”

“Surely the boy's father didn't win the civil suit?”

“It was never resolved,” broke in Doug. “Nadine Drake is easy enough to trace before that. Born Nadine Summers, grew up in Hampstead, took a first-class degree in French at Cambridge. Met Marshall Drake, who had a job in advertising. They moved into an upmarket flat in Canary Wharf; then Marshall fell down the stairs in their building and died as the result of a head injury. The neighbors had heard them having a row shortly beforehand. But his blood alcohol was high, and his death was ruled an accident. Apparently, however, he had run up massive debts. Perhaps that was why they were arguing. She lost the Canary Wharf flat, took a job teaching French at Norwood College, and moved into the rented flat in Crystal Palace.

“But that autumn, after she was let go from the college, she simply disappeared. No social security records, no benefits. But speaking of benefits, however, I did track down your Joe Peterson.” Doug looked pleased with himself. “He's on the dole and lives in a council flat in Crystal Palace. It's just off Church Road.”

“Which is why it makes sense that he was at the White Stag last Friday night,” put in Kincaid.

“What?” Melody and Gemma said in unison.

“It was Joe Peterson that Andy punched. He said Joe came up to him and wanted to be mates. He hadn't seen him in fifteen years.”

“No wonder he didn't want to talk about it. But why did he tell you?” Melody couldn't help feeling hurt.

“I think he'd carried it for a long time, along with a lorryload of guilt. He thought everything that happened was his fault. I imagine it would be the last thing he'd want to tell a woman he fancied.” Kincaid flashed Melody a quick smile, then went on. “But there's more. It seems Nadine Drake may not have vanished from the face of the earth. Andy thought he saw Nadine in the pub that night. And again, on Sunday, when he and Melody were at the Twelve Bar.”

Gemma had abandoned her sandwich and was sitting hunched over her tea mug in concentration. “Caleb Hart said he saw a woman watching Arnott in the pub on Friday night. Could it have been . . .  good God, she had reason enough to hate Arnott.”

“And Shaun Francis,” Kincaid said. “And Peterson, you would think, more than any of them.”

In spite of the fire, Melody's fingers had gone numb. “No, it's Andy she would have hated the most. But why has she reappeared now, after all these years? And what if—”

A phone rang. Melody recognized it as Gemma's even as they all automatically checked pockets or bags.

Retrieving her phone, Gemma stood and walked to the hallway door. She turned her back as if the separation helped her to concentrate. Melody heard her murmur something; then she came back into the room and picked up a pen and a scrap of paper from the coffee table.

“Right,” Gemma said, writing. “Ta, Mike. I'll let you know what we find out,” she added, and disconnected.

“What is it?” asked Melody, her sense of dread stronger now.

Gemma looked at her, concern in her glance. “I think I can tell you why Nadine Drake has suddenly reappeared on the scene. Forensics traced the scarf used to gag Arnott and strangle Shaun Francis. In England, it was sold only in a French boutique in Covent Garden called Le Perdu. The shop just opened six months ago, an offshoot of a boutique in Paris of the same name. The manager of the Paris shop came to London to get this one off the ground. Her name is Nadine Drake.”

“Covent Garden?” Kincaid glanced at his watch. “It's only just gone four. We should be able to get there well before closing, even in rush hour.”

“We?” said Gemma, raising an eyebrow in an expression that looked remarkably like Kincaid's.

“If there is any possibility that this woman killed two men, you and Melody are not going to interview her on your own.” His tone brooked no argument. “You can either have me or uniformed backup. But I promise I'll stay in the background.”

For a moment, Melody thought Gemma was going to bridle at having her interview commandeered, but then Gemma nodded. “All right. The more the merrier, I suppose.”

As Melody breathed an inner sigh of relief, Doug said, “I take it I'm going to be left behind again.”

“I'll have a hard enough time explaining Duncan if things go pear shaped,” Gemma told him. “Much less the presence of an officer who's meant to be on medical leave. And you could be most helpful by seeing if you can find a home address for Drake.” Turning to Kincaid, she added, “What about Charlotte?”

“I'll just give Betty a ring and see if she can keep her a bit longer.”

They were quick, bundling back into coats as Kincaid made his call. Melody spared a moment to look back at Doug, sitting forlornly in his chair, plates and cups and half-eaten sandwiches littered across the room as if the house had suffered a brief invasion by an alien army. “I'll come back,” she said. “Help you clear up, and fill you in.”

She caught the instant of vulnerability on his face before he gave her a mocking smile. “I won't hold my breath.”

“No, really. I promise,” she said, and knew she couldn't renege.

Then they were out the door in a flurry of cold air and piling into Duncan's Astra. Melody took the back, next to Charlotte's safety seat, and was glad of the relative seclusion. Thoughts racketed through her mind as they crossed Putney Bridge and entered Chelsea, then drove steadily east along the river through a light mist.

How had this woman found Andy at the White Stag in Crystal Palace? Melody asked herself. Or had Arnott been her target and it was only coincidence that Andy had been there, too? Where was Andy now? Was he safe?

As if reading her mind, Gemma turned from the front seat. “Ring him, why don't you?”

“Right.” Melody pulled out her phone and dialed but the call went to voice mail. She didn't leave a message. “No answer,” she told Gemma.

“Well, keep trying, then.”

The traffic grew heavier and heavier as they neared the city center, until they were crawling and Melody had to fight the urge to get out and walk.

Kincaid glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It's still early. I should think the shop would stay open until six.”

“Maybe we should have called in uniform.”

“We're almost there,” said Gemma. “And I'd like a chance to talk to her first. Without identification from a witness, we don't have anything concrete. Anyone could have bought that scarf.”

Not bloody likely, thought Melody. Then she realized that however damning the evidence seemed against Nadine Drake, there was something that didn't make sense. “Duncan, did Andy say what time he thought he saw Nadine at the Twelve Bar?”

“No. Why?”

“If it really was Nadine Drake, could she have got to Kennington Square in time to pick up Shaun Francis in the Prince of Wales, take him home, and kill him?”

“What time did you and Andy leave the Twelve Bar?”

Melody flushed, realizing that she'd been paying no attention whatsoever to the time that night. “I'm not sure. His was the early set. Maybe somewhere between half past nine and ten.”

“It could be done,” said Gemma as Kincaid navigated Trafalgar Square. “Northern line from Tottenham Court Road straight to Kennington.”

“But from what Rashid said, it sounded like someone had been plying Francis with drugged double gins for a good part of the evening.” Melody wondered why she was arguing against Nadine Drake as their murderer. Was it because it terrified her to think that Andy might have been her target that night, and that it was only her presence that had protected him? “And besides,” she added, “if Andy thought he recognized her, wouldn't Shaun Francis have recognized her, too?”

“Andy knew her much better,” said Kincaid. “He saw her every day for several months. And even if Shaun had recognized her, why would he have been afraid of her? He wouldn't have known anything about Arnott's death, and even if he had, he would have been unlikely to make a connection.”

“From Caleb Hart's description, she's very attractive,” put in Gemma. “He might have been flattered.”

“We don't even know if it was Drake that Caleb Hart saw looking at Arnott,” Melody protested.

“It's a logical assumption, if Andy thought he saw her. We have CCTV of Arnott leaving the pub with a woman, and every reason to think that he had a woman with him when he checked into the Belvedere.”

Melody sat back, watching the traffic lights change, trying to imagine what could make a woman murder two men so brutally, and trying not to picture Andy the way she'd seen Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis. Feeling sick, she punched his number into her phone again, and once more it went to voice mail.

Having inched his way up Charing Cross Road, Kincaid swore as he turned into the one-way system on Longacre. The road was single lane, with widened, pedestrianized pavements on the right and no parking at all. “There's no way I'll be able to leave the car. I'll get as close as I can to the shop and keep you in sight.”

But when they reached Le Perdu, the shop was dark and shuttered.

“Bloody hell,” said Gemma as Kincaid nosed the car up onto the pavement.

Gemma jumped out with Melody right behind her, and together they banged on the shop door. There was no answer, and no movement within.

The neighboring shops still blazed with light, so at a nod from Gemma, Melody took one side and Gemma the other.

The girl at the sales desk of Melody's boutique looked at her blankly when she asked if she'd seen the woman who managed the shop next door.

“The French shop? Le Perdu?” Melody added.

“Oh. Is that how you say it?” The girl shrugged. “Don't know her. Not very friendly, is she?”

Melody bit back the temptation to say she wouldn't know. “Did you know the shop had closed early?”

“No. Can't leave the shop, can I?”

Melody gave it up and thanked her, hoping Gemma had had better luck, but when she met Gemma outside, Gemma shook her head.

“Call Doug,” said Gemma. “See if he's got the home address.”

Doug answered on the first ring. “She's closed the shop,” Melody told him.

“I was just going to phone you,” he said. “She lives right round the corner, a flat in Floral Street.” He gave her the address. “Be careful, will you?” he added.

“Somehow I don't think we're going to find her at home.”

Kincaid swore when they returned to the car and passed the information along. “Bloody one-way system. I'll have to go round the mulberry bush to get down Floral Street.”

“We'll walk and you can meet us there,” suggested Gemma.

His lips tightened. “I don't think so. Hop in. I don't think another five minutes are going to matter.”

It took longer than five minutes. Melody tried Andy again with no luck. When at last they managed to circle round the right way into Floral Street, they found the address, not far from the back entrance of the Royal Opera House. There was no name beside the bell for the flat number Doug had given them, and when they rang, there was no answer. The windows on the front of the building were dark.

“Try the other bells,” suggested Kincaid, who had pulled the car up on the double yellows and got out with them.