The Sound of Broken Glass (29 page)

Kincaid nodded. It was east of Notting Hill Gate, and he'd seen the children coming out in their uniforms often enough.

“Got to dash. Cheerio.” MacKenzie waggled her fingers at him, ran lightly to her car, and drove away, leaving Kincaid staring after her and feeling as if he'd just been blitzed by a force of nature.

He'd just come in and shut the door when his mobile rang. He swore under his breath as he realized he still hadn't given MacKenzie his number, in case of a hitch, and then he wondered if Gemma or one of the boys had forgotten something or if Doug was going stir-crazy again.

But it was Tam on the other end of the line, his voice high and his Scots accent more pronounced than usual.

“Duncan, our Andy just rang me and said Gemma turned up at his flat this morning to question him. Something about anither murder and a lad he knew from years ago, and what I'm wondering is why Gemma would think he knew anything at all about that?”

Still trying to work out whether or not that had been a question, Kincaid said, “Whoa, Tam. You knew it was Gemma's case, the murder in Crystal Palace. There's a possibility that the two might be connected.”

“But why talk to Andy?” Tam asked, a bit more coherently. “How did Gemma ken that Andy knew this lad?”

“He wasn't a lad anymore. He was a junior barrister, living in Kennington. And as for how Gemma knew, did Andy not tell you?”

“He was blathering something about that dark-haired lass, the constable that came to the studio.”

“Melody. And you know perfectly well she's a detective sergeant. She told Andy about the second murder, um, in passing, and Andy recognized the name. Simple enough.”

There was silence on the other end. “In passing?” Tam said at last. “Are you telling me that the lad has gone and got himself involved with a lady copper? I thought he was a wee bit smitten, but not that he'd gone right off his haid.”

“You should be glad, for his sake. It looks as though she's his alibi for the time of the second murder.”

“And why would he need an alibi, Duncan, tell me that? I should never have spoken to you about him.”

Kincaid was still standing at the front window. The sky had grown darker, and now the first fat drops of rain splashed against the pavement. “Tam—”

“Och, I'm sorry.” Tam sighed. “It's not your fault. But I don't understand what's going on here. If the lad cannae have had anything to do with either of these . . .  incidents, then why is he in such a lather? He's even saying he's not sure he wants to sign the contract with Caleb. I've told him he's lost all sense but I cannae seem to get through to him.”

Crystal Palace, thought Kincaid. That was the common factor. The first murder had taken place there. Andy Monahan had grown up there. Andy had met the second victim there. “Tam, what do you know about Andy's background? You said he hadn't any family when you first met him, and that he was not long out of school. Has he ever talked about his childhood? Or about what happened to his family?”

“No. Not to speak of. But”—Tam sounded reluctant—“he might have said a few things over the years that gave me the impression his mum was a bit overfond of the drink. He gets a bit shirty with the lads—and sometimes the punters—if they're over the limit.”

Kincaid was certain that was not quite all. “And?”

“And . . .  I might have mentioned that to Caleb . . .  I didn't say that the lad was teetotal, mind you, just that he's not one to overindulge. I wanted to give a good impression, seeing as how—”

“Caleb is a recovering alcoholic.”

“He told you?”

“He makes no secret of it. I believe that's common in the AA program. So, you thought Caleb and Andy might have a common bond. Fair enough. Did Andy ever tell you he grew up in Crystal Palace?”

“What? No. No, he didn't.” Tam sounded surprised and a little hurt. “When I met him, he was dossing on sofas in Central London and the East End. It was only when I started getting him session work that he was able to get his own place. I just assumed . . . ”

Kincaid was beginning to think that it wasn't wise to make assumptions about Andy Monahan. “That's how he knew the second victim. From Crystal Palace.”

“But he never said, when Caleb chose that pub . . . ” Tam was silent for so long that Kincaid walked into the sitting room to check on Charlotte. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, both dogs sprawled on her lap, perfectly happy with the extended telly time.

“Duncan,” Tam said at last, “I don't know what to think, except that he's a good lad, and I'd not want to see him come to any harm, regardless of all this business with Caleb and the video. I've seen these sand castles wash away before, and I will again. It's a nice little dream, but my life will go on as it is, one way or anither, and I'm lucky with it. But Andy . . .  I fear the lad is in some sort of real trouble, and I don't think he'll confide in me. Do you think he might talk to you?”

It was early evening before Andy realized they'd run out of milk. If there was anything that would make his mum more cross than usual, it was not having milk for her morning tea. She said milk made the tea easier on her stomach, which he could well believe considering the amount of cheap gin she'd been pouring down in the evenings.

She'd been worse the past few weeks, the heat, she said, getting on her nerves. And it seemed there was no relief in sight from that. The sky stayed bleached as bone, and the occasional menacing rumble of thunder in the distance came to nothing.

Surely the weather would break soon, Andy thought, trudging back from the shop with the pint of milk—bought with pennies scrounged from the last of the week's grocery money—sweating in his hand. It was almost term time—but that thought made him clench the bottle more tightly. As much as his mum was drinking, he couldn't believe she'd get herself up and to the pub for work if he wasn't there to make sure of it. And if she lost her job . . .

Although the blistering sun was sinking in the west, the heat still radiating off the pavement made him feel woozy and he stumbled slightly. He'd not been sleeping well, or eating much, for that matter.

And even though he'd stopped going to the library and reading the books on Crystal Palace, the fire dream had come back. Sometimes he woke in the dark, sure he'd heard the crackle of flames. And just last night, restless in his stuffy room, he'd come down and found his mum asleep on the sofa with a cigarette burning in her hand. Again.

Since the first time that had happened, he'd been hiding them from her when he could, but it made her furious. One night she'd actually struck him. The next morning, grumbling under her breath as she absently searched drawers for the packet, then the ashtrays for fag ends, she obviously had no recollection of what she'd done. Andy wasn't sure if he'd been glad or sorry.

As he started down the incline of Woodland Road, he saw that Nadine was sitting on her steps. He waved, but she didn't seem to see him. As he got closer, he saw that she was wearing a white dress again, this time with poppy-red splashes. She was wearing makeup as well, the slash of red lipstick making her look alien, unfamiliar. And she was drinking.

She held a glass of red wine in her hand, a half-empty bottle on the step beside her. Her pots of geraniums, he realized, were withering, the leaves yellowed.

“It has legs, you know,” she said when he reached her, holding up the glass and tilting it so that the liquid made thick trails on the inside of the glass. Her own legs were brown and bare, and in spite of the dress and the makeup, she wore no shoes.

Frowning, he stared down at her. “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating. Wedding. Anniversary.” She struggled a bit with the syllables. “White, and red.” Tilting her glass even further, she let a few drops of the wine fall onto the step, then rubbed at it with her finger. “Red as blood. We were arguing about where to go for our anni— You know.” She smiled, but when she looked up at him her eyes were frighteningly blank, and her voice was thick and slurring a bit.

Feeling sick, Andy said, “Nadine, you shouldn't be sitting out here.”

“And where should I be, Andy love?” She took another sip of the wine. “No party to go to. No dancing. That's what Marshall wanted to do, did you know that? Take me out for champagne and dancing. I said it was too expensive. He said I was a stupid cow who didn't know how to have a good time. So who's sorry now, eh?” she added in a singsong, swaying with it.

Andy fought the urge to put his hands over his ears. He didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to know this. Didn't want to think about Nadine fighting with her husband. Being with her husband. Dressing up for him, even though he was dead.

And he didn't want her sounding like someone he didn't know. Or someone he knew all too well.

“Stop it,” he said. “Stop it. You're just like my mum.”

“You know, maybe I am,” Nadine said slowly. She frowned up at him, then looked away and sloshed more wine from the bottle into her glass, spilling drops on her dress. “I'm sure she has her reasons. And I never said I was perfect. I never promised you anything, did I, Andy?”

Sudden shame made his eyes burn with tears, blinding him. He'd thought he was special. He'd thought she cared about him.

Then fury washed over him, leaving him dizzy and shaking. “No!” he shouted at her. “No. You bloody well didn't.”

He turned away from her and slammed into the flat.

The light grew dim as Andy sat hunched against the wall in the sitting room. He wasn't sure how he'd got there, or how much time had passed. The pint of milk, warm now, was on the floor beside him.

His chest ached from the heaving sobs that had finally subsided into hiccups. His eyes felt raw, scoured, his face flushed and chapped. But not even the bout of tears had eased the knot of anger inside him. He wanted to do something, anything, to make the hurt go away.

When the bell rang, he jerked to his feet, breathing hard. Was it Nadine, come to say she was sorry?

He didn't want her to see he'd been sitting in the dark. Switching a lamp on low, he walked slowly to the door, his heart thumping, and pulled it open.

But it wasn't Nadine who stood waiting. Andy stared at Shaun and Joe. “What are you doing here?”

“It's Friday night,” said Shaun. “You never go out. We thought you might be lonely. And we brought you a present.”

Something clinked in the paper bag Joe held against his chest.

“Go away.” Andy started to shut the door, but Shaun put a hand on it.

“Hey, man, come on. We're sorry about what happened in town. We've come to make amends. Let us in.”

“Besides,” put in Joe, “we know you don't have anything better to do.”

No, thought Andy. He didn't.

The steps next door were empty. Nothing was what he'd thought. No one was what they seemed. And he didn't have anything to do at all.

He opened the door.

What really struck me as I was looking for accounts and images of the fire is the extent to which it was and continues to be seen as a spectacle, comparable with all the palace's previous performances.

—www.sarahjyoung.com

Shaun Francis's chambers was a venerable establishment in the Middle Temple—meaning the offices were old, cramped, and filled to the gills with too much stuff and a very harried staff.

The head clerk answered Melody's questions politely, as did the barristers to whom he introduced her, but the first thing they all wanted to know after expressing polite dismay over Shaun Francis's death was when Amanda was coming back.

Her impression was that Amanda Francis was the glue that held the chambers together, and that her brother had been at best an afterthought, at worst a nuisance.

When she was shown into the office of the head of chambers, he was quick enough to confirm her suspicions.

“It's Spencer, Edmund, like the poet,” he said, rising to shake her hand. “Except with an undistinguished
c
.”

He was past middle age, bald, short, with a stomach that strained the buttons of his chalk-striped waistcoat, and he had a voice that Melody thought would either sear righteous fire into jurors' souls or reduce them to puddles of treacly sentiment, depending on his intent. She hoped that if she ever met him in court, he would be representing the prosecution.

“We are most shocked at this news about Shaun,” he went on as he gestured her into a chair. “A tragic loss. So young, such promise.” When Melody merely raised a quizzical brow, he sighed. “Well, perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. You'll find out, I think, that Shaun Francis was not particularly well liked in the chambers. But we are certainly distressed and saddened by his death.”

“Had Shaun been with you long?” Melody asked, feeling that they'd got on a more useful footing.

“Less than a year. To be honest, we took him on at Amanda's request. She began here as a trainee legal secretary ten years ago, and we are all utterly dependent on her.”

“And Shaun? Were you satisfied with his performance?”

Spencer tapped a silver fountain pen on his cluttered desk for a moment before he answered. “His record in trials had not been stellar, I admit. We were, in fact, in a bit of a pickle.” He looked up at her with very sharp blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. “But not one that anyone here would have bumped him off to resolve.”

“Did he make things difficult for Amanda in chambers?”

“It was hard for her, yes, when he didn't prepare properly for a case. I think she felt it reflected on her.”