The Sound of Broken Glass (28 page)

“Still, isn't that a bit of a cliché, shagging the lead guitarist?”

Gemma smacked his arm with her free hand. “It's not funny. God knows the super isn't going to think it's funny if she finds out.”

“If? You haven't told her?”

“I'm waiting for Rashid's official estimate on time of death before I add Melody's statement to the case file. I'm hoping that he'll place it before midnight and I can just say she interviewed Monahan at a club during that time frame. And when I spoke to Superintendent Krueger, her biggest concern was keeping any details of Shaun Francis's death from the media for as long as possible. The reporters were gathering by the time I got back to Cleaver Square this afternoon. They'll have Amanda Francis's address in no time.”

What Krueger had actually said was, “Get me a result before this thing leaks or we'll have a media circus, and you do not want to be the star,” implying that this was Gemma's first really high-profile case on the team, and she had better not screw it up.

“No pressure, then,” Kincaid said lightly, and she knew he understood. “I won't say anything to Doug, but I suspect he'll find out one way or another,” he added, the humor gone.

“They're just friends,” Gemma protested. “It's not as if they're going out or anything.”

“Not in any conventional sense, perhaps. But just hearing the way Melody talked about Andy Monahan got Doug's knickers in a twist. That's why he was so keen to go with me to talk to Tam.”

“Oh, dear. Well, Melody will have to sort that one out. If Andy Monahan is involved in this case, she's got bigger problems than Doug's wounded feelings, and so do I.”

“Andy couldn't have more reliable alibis than Tam and Melody.”

“No. But he's off-limits to Melody for the time being. I'm sending her to Shaun's chambers first thing in the morning to see what she can turn up there. And I'm going to talk to Andy Monahan myself.”

“Are you seduction proof?” He pulled her closer and put his lips against her neck.

“I have to admit, the video is pretty amazing . . . ” she teased.

Kincaid had shown it to her earlier, with Kit looking over their shoulders. “That's brilliant,” Kit had said. “You mean you know them?” he'd added, obviously impressed with Andy and Poppy. “Can I download the song?”

Now Kincaid nibbled her ear. “You mean the music is amazing. Just the music.”

“Stop it. That tickles.” Gemma wasn't ready to be distracted. “And I'm going to follow up on Caleb Hart.” That thought took her back to her overriding worry. “About today—was Charlotte really all right with Doug?” Charlotte had told her all about her Na-pol-e-on, pronouncing all the syllables carefully. And she'd been very impressed with Doug's boot cast, explaining to Gemma that Doug had had an accident and that one should be careful on ladders. “And Saturday, when she went for a walk with Michael and the dogs, she was all right then, too?”

“She seemed to be fine.”

Gemma pulled away and turned so that she could see his face. “Do you think she's getting better?”

He shrugged. “I think it helps that she knows them.”

“Yes, but until now, she's only been willing to stay with Betty or Alia, so surely she's improving at least a little. And if we don't work out something about school for her soon—”

“Shhh.” He touched her lips with his finger. “There's no point worrying about that tonight.” Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet, dislodging the disgruntled cocker spaniel from the sofa and making Sid stretch and yawn in his place by the fire. “Come on. I think it's far past time for bed.”

It was only much later that she realized he'd done a very good job of changing the subject.

The next morning, Gemma drove straight to Andy Monahan's flat rather than going into the station. She doubted if musicians were early risers, but she was determined to catch him at home, even if she had to get him out of bed.

After inching her Escort up onto the curb in the narrow confines of Hanway Place, she got out and looked up at the grim facades of the buildings. The slice of sky she could see overhead was leaden gray, and the air blowing through from Oxford Street smelled of car exhaust and rancid cooking grease from the fast-food restaurants and takeaways. Beneath those scents she thought she caught the faint metallic tang of sleet.

She found the flat and was just touching the bell when the street door opened and Andy barreled out, almost knocking her down with the rectangular guitar case in his hand.

“Oh, sor—” he said, then stopped short, staring at her. “I know you. I've seen you at Louise's. You're little Charlotte's foster mum.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that. I'm also Melody Talbot's boss. Detective Inspector Gemma James.”

Andy looked dumbfounded. “You're a cop? But I thought it was Duncan who was—I mean—”

“We both are.”

“Melody said she had to speak to her guv'nor, but I never imagined . . . ”

“It is a bit weird, isn't it? Six degrees of separation and all that. Look, could we go somewhere and talk?” Thinking of Melody, she felt suddenly uncomfortable insisting that they go back into his flat, as if she were trespassing on her partner's privacy. “There's a Starbucks just at the corner. I'll buy you a coffee.”

Looking harried, Andy pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and glanced at the time. He didn't wear a watch. “I've got a session in Notting Hill in an hour. I can't be late.”

“Notting Hill? With Poppy?”

“How did you—” He shook his head. “No. That's pie in the sky, that stuff. This is paying work, at one of the studios in Lansdowne House, and it's been booked for months. I can't afford to miss it.”

“Twenty minutes,” Gemma insisted. “I don't want to have to do this officially.”

The threat had been implicit, but after a moment Andy shrugged. “Okay.” He set off, leading the way round the corner into Oxford Street and dodging through the traffic.

Although he wasn't much taller than Gemma, she had to hurry to keep up, but when she reached the coffee shop he seemed to think better of his manners and stopped to hold the door for her.

As they entered, Gemma inhaled the warmth and the peculiarly comforting aroma of the place. “Why is it that no other coffee shop smells quite like Starbucks?” she asked. “It's all coffee beans. You'd think it would be the same.” When Andy looked at her blankly, she said, “Never mind. What can I get you?”

“Just regular coffee. Black.” He eased his guitar case in beside a chair in the front window and glanced again at the time on his phone.

Budget coffee, thought Gemma. That was how she had drunk hers when she was on her own with Toby, struggling to pay the bills, and every penny counted. As she stood in the queue, she wondered if Andy Monahan had any idea who Melody's father was, and if it would matter to him if he did. He didn't seem the sort to be impressed by money and power—he might, in fact, be terrified by the prospect.

When she came back with their cups—hers half coffee, half steamed milk, as she knew it would be a long day and she'd drop halfway through if she overdid the caffeine this early—he'd settled uneasily on the edge of his chair.

She eased the lid off her cup, using the moment to study him. He seemed very different from the cheeky bloke she'd occasionally seen coming and going from Tam and Michael's flat when she was visiting Louise. He was older than she'd thought, and perhaps, up close, more good looking, with his shadowed dark blue eyes and tousled, blond-tipped hair. And in the video, she'd seen the grace and skill in his playing, and something else that was both indefinable and undeniable. He had star quality, whatever that was, and she wondered suddenly what he would be willing to do for the success he deserved.

“Tell me about Shaun Francis,” she said.

Andy gave her a startled glance, as if he'd expected her to make small talk. She tapped her watch. “You're the one on a schedule.”

“I told Melody. I met him one summer when we were kids, in Crystal Palace Park. I didn't like him. I haven't seen him since.”

Taking out her phone, Gemma pulled up a photo they'd copied from one in Shaun Francis's flat and handed it across to Andy.

He looked at the picture, frowning, then shook his head and gave it back to her. “If that's Shaun, I'm not sure I'd have recognized him.” He rubbed his fingers on the leg of his jeans—an odd gesture, thought Gemma, as if he were erasing even such distant contact.

“Did you know he lived in Cleaver Square?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Have you ever been to the pub there, the Prince of Wales?”

“Yeah, but not for a while. I've a photographer mate who uses the Camera Club round the corner. I've been for a drink with him when he's done some publicity shots for the band, but he's been in Australia this year.”

Gemma made a mental note to check how long Shaun Francis had been living in the Cleaver Square flat. “But you didn't see Shaun when you were there?”

“No, I've told you. I don't think so.”

“Would Shaun have recognized you?” she asked, thinking about it the other way round. “If he'd seen you somewhere—anywhere, not just in the Prince of Wales.”

He seemed taken aback. “I don't know. Maybe. I was skinny and blond all those years ago, too. But really blond,” he added with the first hint of a smile she'd seen, touching his hair. “Like barley straw, and that summer it was bleached almost white from the sun. But what if he did? I don't understand what this has to do with anything.”

“I don't, either.” Gemma changed tack. “What about Caleb Hart? What do you know about him?”

“He's a friend of Tam's. He seems like a good guy, and he really knows his stuff, musically.” Andy moved his coffee in a circle on the table, but he hadn't taken a sip. “You can't possibly think Caleb has anything to do with these—these deaths. That would be mad.”

“Murders,” Gemma corrected him, holding his gaze. “And I think whoever is doing this might be quite mad, actually.”

It was Andy who broke the eye contact first. “I can't help you. And I've got to go.” He hadn't bothered looking at the time on his phone again. Standing, he retrieved his guitar case, and Gemma resigned herself to letting him go. For the moment. She didn't think he'd lied to her, but she was equally sure that he hadn't told her the whole truth.

“Andy,” Gemma said quietly as he turned towards the door, “Melody had no choice but to speak to me.”

“I know,” he said. “But that doesn't make it any better.” And then he was out the door and gone, swallowed up by the milling crowd in Oxford Street.

Having done the post-breakfast washing-up and got Charlotte settled in the sitting room for her allotted half hour of morning telly on BBC2, Kincaid was looking out into the garden, weighing the look of the sky against the prospect of a run in the park.

He'd just decided that the best option might be to leave Geordie at home and take Charlotte for a gentle jog in the direction of Portobello Road, where they could take cover if needed.

“Slacker,” he said aloud, chiding himself. But the dark day seemed to call out for color and crowds, not an isolated pounding of the paths in the park.

The doorbell rang, making him jump and startling the dogs into a frenzy of barking. Charlotte, mesmerized by the garishly colored animated figures on the television, remained unperturbed.

Wondering if Gemma had ordered something and forgotten to tell him, he went to the door and looked out the sidelight. A black Mercedes SUV he didn't recognize idled at the curb, plumes of white fog drifting from its exhaust. Frowning, he opened the door and found MacKenzie Williams standing on his doorstep.

“Duncan,” she said, “sorry to drop by unannounced, but I didn't have your mobile number, and I knew where your house was because you'd told me.”

“Not to worry.” He was surprised, pleased, and a little disconcerted. “Are you all right? Won't you come in?”

“I'm fine, and no, I can't stay. I've got a job to go to this morning. That's why I stopped by, because I knew I'd miss you at K and P.”

Hushing the dogs at his ankles and stepping outside, he wondered what sort of job it was. She had her long, curly hair pulled up in an untidy bunch, wore not a stitch of makeup, and looked as though she'd thrown on her old waxed jacket and faded jeans in her sleep. “I had some news for you and it couldn't wait,” she went on, grinning. “There was a parents' evening at the school last night, and I've convinced the head to at least consider Charlotte for placement. You've an appointment tomorrow morning at ten.” MacKenzie couldn't have looked more pleased with herself if she'd just given him the crown jewels.

“But—”

“Oliver will be in his class. I can wait in reception with Charlotte while you talk to the head. And she may want to see Charlotte as well.”

“Oh, I—” Kincaid collected himself. “MacKenzie, you're brilliant. But what should I—What does one wear to an interview with the headmaster? It feels like a state visit.”

“It's headmistress,” MacKenzie warned. “And she won't like it if you assume otherwise.” She pursed her lips, giving him a considering glance. “I'd go for nice but casual, the stay-at-home Notting Hill dad look. No suit. You'll do fine.”

“Will I need any sort of paperwork or credentials?”

She laughed. “Don't worry. I've told her all about you.”

“Now I really am terrified,” he said, joking, but he was feeling a bit gobsmacked by the speed of MacKenzie's results, and her apparent influence. And by the fact that he had yet to speak to Gemma about any of this.

“I'll see you at the school, then, a bit before ten tomorrow? You know where it is?”