The Sound of Broken Glass Part 12

"You played and sang like that, and it was the first time?" Melody stared at him. "Wow."

"Yeah. That's why-" He brushed his fingers across the guitar strings in an impatient gesture. The bruise on his knuckles had darkened, and Melody noticed he didn't wear a watch. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," Andy went on, not meeting Melody's eyes as he picked out a silent pattern of chords on the frets. "It's just-my mates-I can't talk to them."

"Nick and George? You've been together a long time?"

"Ten years, on and off."

Thinking for a moment, Melody decided she wasn't going to mention the fact that she'd spent the day looking for Nick and George. Or that she'd seen the CCTV footage. "So you've been good friends."

Andy nodded. "They've been . . . like family, I guess. When there was no one else."

"But you were arguing after the gig on Friday night. Before Tam picked you up."

He stared at her. "How-"

"We've been interviewing people. Trying to find anyone who saw Vincent Arnott leave the pub. So why did you have a row with your best mates?"

He shrugged again. "It's been coming for a long time. I guess you could say that Poppy was just the catalyst. The band is finished. They knew it-we all knew it-but they're still p.i.s.sed at me." He sighed. "Can't say I blame them."

"So it's your decision?"

"It's- It's just that I'm better than they are. I don't mean to sound like a total jerk. Nick and George are competent musicians. The band has been fun for them. Something to do until real life kicked in."

"Or their parents kicked them out," said Melody. At his startled look, she added, "Tam gave me their home addresses. The properties aren't registered to them. So how do you manage?" She waved round the room. "The flat. The equipment."

"I've been doing session work since I was sixteen. It's my life, playing. And if you mean the guitars"-he gave her that sudden grin-"that's what guitarists do. Our downfall. We make enough to eat and pay the rent, if we're lucky, and then we buy guitars." He waved at the workroom. "If you're good with your hands, you learn to repair the ones you find in charity shops and car boot sales, or that other players have to sell to pay their rent."

Something was nagging at Melody and she suddenly realized what it was. "Andy, if you'd never played with Poppy before Sat.u.r.day, you had used the studio before, right?"

"No. Tam and Caleb set that up."

"But when I mentioned the Belvedere Hotel, you knew immediately where it was. And what sort of place it was."

"I didn't say I didn't know Crystal Palace. I grew up there," he added with a grimace. "I haven't lived there in years, but the place hasn't changed much, from what I can tell. It was Caleb who set up the gig at the pub, to see me play. A sort of audition. That's part of the reason Nick and George were so out of sorts."

"Um, I'd say you were a bit out of sorts, too, if you hit a punter," Melody reminded him, glancing pointedly at his hand.

Andy flexed his fingers, looking rueful. "Yeah. That was pretty stupid. Believe me, I don't make a habit of it. But I don't like drunks. And I was already furious with Nick and George because they were deliberately sabotaging the set. w.a.n.kers. It was a lousy venue for anyone to really hear a band. I don't know why Caleb chose it, except that the management will let him put a band in on short notice."

Was that what had given her the sense that he was withholding something yesterday at the studio? Melody wondered. He hadn't wanted to talk about the rift in the band in front of Poppy and Caleb-Caleb. Melody stopped short, feeling a prize idiot.

Caleb Hart was a regular at the pub. And she had been so focused on Andy, and so mesmerized by what she'd heard, that she hadn't shown Hart Vincent Arnott's photo. Hart hadn't shown any sign of recognition when she'd mentioned Arnott's name, but he hadn't actually denied knowing him, either. And even if he hadn't recognized the name, that didn't mean he didn't know Arnott by sight. He might even have seen him that night or on previous occasions.

"Andy," she said, "how well do you know Caleb Hart?"

"Caleb? I just met him on Sat.u.r.day. He came into the Stag on Friday night but I didn't see him. Fortunately he left before the end of the first set, so he didn't see me make a complete a.r.s.e of myself."

"What do you know about him?"

"He manages and produces. Has some clout. You should ask Tam. They go way back."

"I'll talk to Tam. But I think it's Caleb Hart I need to speak to first." She glanced at the windows, saw that the only light now came from the glow of the sodium streetlamps. Checking her watch, she saw that it had gone six. "d.a.m.n," she breathed. The time had flown, and she hadn't even touched her tea. "Andy, I've got to go. Sorry about the-"

"Oh, s.h.i.+t." He was staring at the digital clock on his music center.

"What-"

"I've got a gig at the Twelve Bar tonight. Didn't realize it was so late. I need to be there to set up in half an hour."

"The Twelve Bar?"

"Denmark Street. Guitar club. A complete dive, but every good guitarist in the business has played there at one time or another."

"I can drive you," Melody offered, feeling unaccountably guilty for having made him late.

"No, it's not far, and all I need is my guitar. I'll use the club amp." Andy studied her, and for an instant she felt as immobilized as a b.u.t.terfly under gla.s.s. Then he nodded, as if he'd reached a decision. "Come with me."

"But-I should-"

"Come on. If it's Caleb Hart you want, I wouldn't bet on your chances of finding him at home on a Sunday night. Besides, where's your sense of adventure?" He c.o.c.ked his head and gave her a quizzical look. "And if you don't know anything about music, you owe it to yourself to learn." When he saw her perplexed expression, he laughed. "Don't you think it's time you lived up to your name, Melody Talbot?"

Andy had put the acoustic guitar he'd played for her earlier in a case, then they'd bundled into their coats and walked round the corner of Hanway Place and into the throng of Oxford Street.

"That's my Hummingbird," he'd told her, patting the case.

"Hummingbird?"

He'd smiled. "The guitar. A Gibson Hummingbird, 1976. I have better acoustics, but there's something about the sound of this one that I like. They all have personalities, voices. Like people."

"If you say so."

"You'll see."

They'd crossed Oxford Street at the lights, following the construction h.o.a.rdings until they came into tiny Denmark Street from the east, pa.s.sing the dark hulk of a church.

"The street of guitars," said Andy as they reached the narrow entrance to a club with a sign over the door saying 12 BAR. Melody caught a glimpse of a printed flyer taped to the window, a monochrome version of Andy's face on pink paper with his name beneath it.

"Are you famous here?" she asked.

"It's a small world."

The bloke on the desk by the door gave Andy an enthusiastic handclasp and Melody an a.s.sessing look. "Who's this, then, mate?" he asked.

"Melody. Leave her alone, Ricky. She's new."

"Have fun, then," Ricky told her with a wink. "And watch out for guitarists. They're dangerous."

"Don't pay him any mind," Andy told her as he led her to the back. "He's just jealous."

He bought her a gla.s.s of the only white wine available. When Melody took a sip, she thought it might as well be horse p.i.s.s, but she certainly was not going to complain.

"It improves with age," said Andy, seeing her grimace. "When you're a hundred years old it will taste like nectar."

She'd laughed and followed him down the stairs into a bas.e.m.e.nt that was smaller than the sitting room in her flat. There were no chairs or tables, just a few bar stools against the back wall between the door that led to the sound booth, and a staircase that led to a tiny balcony overlooking the room. The odor of stale tobacco smoke seemed to ooze from the concrete walls, and she thought that eons of a smoking ban would not erase it.

"Grab a seat while you can," said Andy, and when she was settled on a stool by the sound booth door, he'd chatted with the soundman, then climbed to the stage, tested his amp and his mic, and tuned the guitar. She'd watched him, feeling oddly comfortable in this strange world in which she was the outsider.

He'd come back to her, drinking a few sips of a beer as the audience trickled in, telling her little tidbits about the history of the club and the famous guitarists who had played there, greeting people who came to speak to him. Then suddenly the room was full, the soundman mumbled something unintelligible over the PA, and Andy was on the stage.

From the first moment, she realized that what she was seeing-hearing-was different from what she'd seen when he played with Poppy in the studio. There had been a tension with Poppy, a striving to meld one musician's unique voice and style with another's to create something entirely new.

But this, this was just between Andy and the guitar, and there was a grace and confidence to his playing that took her breath away. She felt, as she listened and watched him, that she knew him in a way that she had never known anyone else. And when he came back to her, at the end of the set, she knew that something fundamental had changed between them.

She'd stood outside the club for a long time. She knew how to loiter, to make herself invisible in the ebb and flow of the street. She was just a woman with her coat collar turned up, gazing intently in windows at objects she couldn't have named.

She watched the punters trickle in-ones and twos, then the occasional group of three or four. Sunday nights were bound to be quiet, but the custom was steady, and from the looks of the patrons, they were there to listen, not to drink.

The music began, too faint to identify, loud enough to be a rhythm in the blood, a counter to her heartbeat. Finally, deciding there was camouflage enough, she walked in and paid her cover to the young man at the door. He looked at her, as men did, and when he stamped her hand he kept his fingers on her wrist an instant too long.

She gave him her most impersonal smile as she drew back her hand. "Thanks," she said. "Good show tonight?"

"Couple of guys doing acoustic sets. Top notch. Bar's on your left if you want a drink. Music's downstairs." She remembered that, the tiny bas.e.m.e.nt, from a visit to the place years ago.

Nodding, she walked through the narrow ground-floor room and at the bar bought herself a drink she didn't want. It would look odd to be empty-handed. Afterwards, she couldn't remember what she'd ordered, except that it had been bitter.

The music rose up to meet her as she descended the stairs. Halfway, she stopped, her throat tight, and she held on to the rail until someone b.u.mped her from behind. "Sorry, sorry," she murmured, and made herself take the last few steps.

The small bas.e.m.e.nt was as dingy as she remembered, and packed with listeners, standing as they gazed up at the tiny, chest-high stage.

Tonight he was playing an acoustic, and she wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the sight of the red Strat when she'd seen him at the White Stag.

His hair was darker now, but the stage lighting picked out the faint blond highlights. And he still played with the same intense concentration, as if nothing existed in the world except him and the guitar. She saw that expression in her dreams, even now.

The melodies wove in and out, some familiar, some not. He built on them in variations, his fingers flying over the strings and the frets, and the audience listened in perfect silence, spellbound.

She felt a rush of pride, then reminded herself that whatever he had made of himself was no thanks to her. But she could make an apology, and if her courage had failed her before, she was determined that tonight it would not.

The set ended. He nodded, flas.h.i.+ng a quick smile in acknowledgment of the echoing applause, then placed the guitar on its stand and vaulted lightly down the steps to the floor.

She took a breath, then a step forward. And he walked right past her, slipping through the crowd until he reached a dark-haired young woman sitting on one of the few stools at the back of the room. The woman was pretty, with pale skin flushed from the heat or perhaps excitement. He didn't touch her, but leaned close and said something in her ear. The woman laughed, and intimacy crackled between them like an electric charge.

Oh, G.o.d. She turned and pushed her way towards the stairs. What a fool she had been. What had she thought she could say that he would possibly want to hear, that would change anything that had happened years ago? Friday night had been folly enough, but this, this was madness.

The man at the door called out as she went past, but his words were lost as she stumbled into the street. Blindly, she turned towards Charing Cross Road, her breath coming in sobbing gulps. The weather had changed-she felt the moisture in the air, a needle sting against her face.

And she, she was no longer invisible. Pedestrians swore as she lurched against them, turning to look at her, wondering if she was drunk. Or crazy. She made herself slow down, look in windows, be ordinary.

There, a bookshop. And there, the shop with the miniature replica guitars carefully displayed on shelves in the window, each with its little tag attributing it to a famous guitarist.

A cruel joke. s.h.i.+vering, she moved on. A man coming out of a kebab shop stepped right into her path. This time, he was the one apologizing, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder. But she stood, transfixed by the picture on the television mounted above the counter in the little shop.

That face-it couldn't be.

"Lady," said the man with the kebabs, "are you all right?"

"Yes. Thanks." She managed to nod, and he moved on with a shake of his head. Then she opened the door and went into the kebab shop, her eyes never leaving the television screen. It was the London segment of the ten o'clock news. The picture flashed again, and over it, a female newscaster's voice, saying, "A well-known London barrister was found dead near his home in South London. Police are asking for help with their inquiries . . . "

The sound faded out. She stood, paralyzed, as little animated rain clouds began to move across the map of Britain on the screen.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be him.

What on earth had she done?

When the second guitarist on the bill began to set up, Andy took her half-drunk gla.s.s of wine and set it on the shelf that ran along the back wall. "You don't want to stay for this," he said in her ear. "He's not as good as I am."

As he went back for his guitar, she saw him pause for just an instant, head turned towards the stairs, an odd look on his face. Then he shook his head and retrieved the Hummingbird, and before she knew it he had hustled her up the stairs and out into the street.

The weather had changed. There was mist in the air, and the heavy scent of rain.

"We'll be wading if we don't hurry," he said, and they walked fast, this time towards Charing Cross Road. Andy held the guitar case in one hand and her elbow in the other.

Melody felt so unlike herself that she might almost have been out of her body-except that every inch of her felt so joyously, triumphantly alive. The half gla.s.s of despicable wine might have been a bottle of champagne, so giddy was she.

By the time they reached Hanway Place, it had started to sprinkle. Andy unb.u.t.toned his coat and held it over them. She felt the warmth of his arm on her shoulders as they ran the last few yards and skidded, laughing, into the doorway of his building.

"You'd better come in and get warm," he said. "I'll make you a cuppa if you'll drink it this time."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It was fine, really."

He laughed, and she felt his breath on her face. "Maybe the milk was a bit off, after all. We could have it without."

"No, really, I've got to go. Work in the morning. I-"

She felt him draw away.

"Well, then. Thanks for coming with me. I'll see you again, shall I? When you've got more investigating to do?"

"Yes, thanks. It was lovely." She cursed herself. What could she have said that would have been more stupidly inadequate for what she'd felt that evening? "I mean-"

She stopped as he leaned towards her. His lips brushed one cheek, then he turned to kiss the other just as she responded in kind. It was the friends' casual farewell, but she'd got her timing wrong, and their lips met.

They both froze. Then his arm was around her, his mouth was against hers, and Melody found she didn't care if she ever got home.

CHAPTER TEN.