The Sound of Broken Glass Part 6

Gemma frowned. "Did you see Arnott after that?"

"I served him another drink, maybe a bit before eleven," Reg said, brow furrowed as he thought about it. "Lost him in the crowd after that."

"And this guitar player?"

"His manager made him put an ice pack on his hand. I know because I got some from the bar for him. Then, the band played another set and I think he left with the manager. c.r.a.p band, but the guitarist was good."

"Any idea where we could find him?" asked Gemma, thinking that any lead was better than none.

"Matter of fact, I do." Reg looked pleased at being able to offer something helpful. "Only reason we put the band in last night was that Caleb Hart, the record producer, is a regular here and he wanted to hear the guy play. He's got him recording today at the studio down the hill. I can give you directions, if you like."

CHAPTER FIVE.

August 1852 saw the rebuilding work begin and in June 1854 Crystal Palace was reopened in its new location by Queen Victoria . . . The whole building was enormous-1,848 feet long and 408 feet wide including two huge towers and many fountains with over 11,000 jets rising into the air.

-www.bbc.co.uk Andy had plugged in the Strat and began to adjust the tuning when Poppy hit the first notes of a ba.s.s riff. He looked up at her in surprise. It was distinctive, unmistakable, and not at all what he'd expected.

"Know this one, guitar boy?" Poppy asked, her grin wicked.

He finished tuning, then fell in with her, finding the notes, getting the feel for it, watching her small fingers slide on the neck of the ba.s.s. When they'd got the rhythm, she moved into the intro, leaning into her mic until she was almost kissing it, and began to sing the familiar lyrics. "'She's a rich girl, she don't try to hide it. She's got diamonds on the soles of her shoes.'"

Andy felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Little Poppy Jones was an alto, rich, deep, slightly husky, and she didn't sound like anyone he'd ever heard.

He glanced across the room at Tam, who nodded once. An I told you so nod.

They played, working and reworking their way through the song. Time grew liquid, lost in sound. From Paul Simon, Poppy segued into Rickie Lee Jones's "Chuck E's in Love," then into something he didn't recognize. Her own composition? It was jazzy, bluesy, unique, and a little rough. When Andy had the words down, he came in on backup, adding his own riffs on the Strat, and the song began to mutate into something more polished. She was good, but together they were better.

After a while, he realized Caleb Hart was filming them with a video cam, and that they'd gone well past the time Caleb had allotted for the rehearsal s.p.a.ce. But he also knew no one wanted to burst the bubble. There would be time for that later.

What they were making, in this finite moment, was magic.

Gemma and Melody emerged from the warmth of the pub into a fierce wind blowing up Westow Street. The clouds were in tatters now, the temperature noticeably lower. Gemma b.u.t.toned her coat, then pulled up an area map on her phone.

"Shall we get the car, boss?" asked Melody. "Drive back to the scene?"

Frowning, Gemma thought for a moment. "I think one of us should check out this guitar player. So far he's the only person we know of that had any interaction with the victim." Westow Street, where Reg the barman had said they would find the recording studio, ran to their right. Belvedere Road, where they'd left the car, to their left, Church Road and the Belvedere Hotel, straight ahead. "Why don't you go to the recording studio," Gemma continued. "I'll walk down to the hotel, see if Shara or the techies have made any progress. Then we can meet back at the Arnotts' house. Maybe by that time the FLO will have Mrs. Arnott settled, and we can have a look through Arnott's things."

"Right, boss." Melody didn't look thrilled at the allocation.

"Maybe you can get an autograph," Gemma teased. "I could have sworn you had the makings of a groupie."

When Gemma reached the Belvedere Hotel once more, the coroner's van was gone. The crime scene van was still parked in the road, however, so she decided to check in with the SOCOs before she compared notes with Shara MacNicols and talked to the hotel staff.

The younger constable, Gleason, stood guard at the propped-open fire door. When she reached the room, she found that the fresh air and the removal of the body had alleviated a good deal of the stench, although an unpleasant odor still lingered.

Mike and Sharon, the techs, had bagged the victim's clothing and the bedding, and were in the process of lifting prints from the room's surfaces.

"b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare," said Mike as he transferred a strip of tape to a card. "Prints everywhere. And fibers. The cleaning staff in this place don't exactly do spit and polish."

"I'd never have guessed." Gemma glanced in a tiny cubicle that she suspected was referred to as the "en suite" bathroom. While the basin and toilet looked fairly clean, there were drifts of hair along the skirting boards. "Ugh." She found it interesting that a man as fastidious in his home and about his clothing as Vincent Arnott could have frequented a place like this.

"We did find something," said Sharon. "A spot of what looked to be fresh blood on the sheet."

"Any corresponding injuries on the victim?" asked Gemma.

"Not that were readily visible. Ras.h.i.+d will be able to tell you, of course."

That was something, thought Gemma. a.s.suming they could get DNA, or at least blood type. If the blood was not Arnott's, and the hotel cleaner would testify that she had changed the linens after the previous guest, they might be able to tie a suspect to the time and place. a.s.suming, that is, that they found a suspect.

It was time she had another word with the staff.

"Cancer?" Kincaid said, on a rush of dread.

But Louise shook her head. "It's TB. Apparently it's on the rise in London, especially among the immigrant black and Indian communities. My clients, in other words."

"But TB's treatable." His relief was not mirrored in Louise's expression.

"Yes, but." She gave him a tired smile. "There's always a 'yes, but.' It seems there are more and more antibiotic-resistant strains. They've started me on the most consistently effective drug, but it will be a couple of months before they'll know if it's working."

"Months?" Kincaid said in dismay.

"The normal course of treatment is at least a year on antibiotics. And that's a.s.suming the drug works from the beginning. And rest. Lots of rest. Not my cup of tea."

"Will you be able to keep working?"

"I'll do as much from home as I can for the time being. I've hired an a.s.sistant, and I'll go into the office a few hours a week. But there's the contagion issue." His alarm must have shown in his face because she shook her head. "I'm not coughing, and I've been very careful with my hygiene," she added, gesturing at his coffee. "I think my hands may fall off from all the b.l.o.o.d.y was.h.i.+ng. So as long as we don't have 'intimate' contact"-she made a wry face-"they say there's little risk. But I thought it better not to have Charlotte in the flat."

"And Michael and Tam?"

"Not likely to be any 'intimate contact' there." Louise gave a hoa.r.s.e chuckle. "At any rate, I've told them they should just leave me alone, the old biddies, but they won't hear of it. They'll need to be tested every few months, just in case."

"If there's anything we can do-" he began, but she was already waving away his offer.

"Just get Charlotte settled."

Next door, he found Michael and Charlotte had already returned from their walk. As often as he'd visited Louise, he'd never been in Michael and Tam's flat. The rooms were mirror images of Louise's, but considerably more tidy and organized. Potted plants the size of small trees filled the front windows, while one long wall held neatly shelved books and CDs. Several guitars on stands were tucked into a corner, and two large rectangular dog beds were positioned opposite the sofa and armchairs.

Charlotte sat in the middle of one of the dog beds, arranging dog toys neatly on the other. Jagger and Ginger lay nearby on the polished wood floor, watching her with expressions of bewilderment.

"They're very patient," Kincaid said as Michael ushered him in.

"They love kids," Michael answered. "Interesting, isn't it, how they know? They knew about Louise, too," he added more softly. "That's why we insisted she see a doctor. d.a.m.n good thing."

"How did they tell you something was wrong?" Kincaid asked, curious.

"Well, generally Louise is sort of tolerantly affectionate with them, and vice versa. But the last month or so, they've been glued to her, nudging, whining, then coming to us as if they expected us to know what to do. Finally, even we began to see how bad she looked. Then we bullied her into going to a clinic."

"How bad is it, really?" murmured Kincaid, with an eye on Charlotte, who was still absorbed in her game.

Michael shrugged. "Hard to say. I've read that if it's an antibiotic-resistant strain, it can be tough, even for those who were in good shape before they became ill."

Kincaid knew what he wasn't saying-Louise had been a heavy smoker who didn't exercise, worked too much, and ate halfway decently only when Michael and Tam fed her.

"Can I get you a coffee?" Michael asked. "I know Louise made some, but I also know she mainlines her caffeine."

"Stout," Kincaid agreed with a grin. "I think that was my limit for the next week, but thanks. Maybe another time. And I think I might have promised a certain young lady a cupcake."

"Me! Me!" Charlotte jumped up, proving she'd been listening all along.

As Kincaid bundled Charlotte back into her coat, he glanced at Michael. "I know Louise won't ring us, but you will, won't you, if there's anything-"

"Of course. Tam will be sorry he missed you."

"The guitars-are they Tam's?" Kincaid asked as the instruments caught his eye again. "I didn't know he played."

"Relics of his misspent youth. He does still play occasionally, and he's quite good. But I think it was when he realized he'd never be great that he went into managing. He's still looking for his holy grail."

The directions given by Reg the barman took Melody into a steep lane that led off to the left from Westow Street. Not only steep, but cobbled. Within ten feet, she was cursing her heels. By the time she reached the bottom, she wondered if she'd misunderstood. The lane seemed to dead-end, and there was no sign of a recording studio.

Then she saw that the lane gave a twist to the left and leveled out for a few dozen yards before it jogged downhill again. There were a few cars parked on the right. Beyond them, treetops masked the hill as it fell steeply away to the west.

But on the other side, wildly colored murals decorated the lower part of brick walls. And above, brick and metal rose into a disjointed jumble of buildings that might have been thrown together with a giant's LEGO.

She stopped, surveying the place, and then she heard it. Music. It took her a moment to separate the source of the sound from the echoes, but when she did, she realized it was coming from the top of several flights of open iron stairs.

"b.u.g.g.e.r," she muttered. With another disgusted glance at her shoes, she headed for the stairs.

The music grew clearer as she climbed. A ripple of guitar. Ba.s.s notes providing a punchy beat. And then the voices. One female, strong, a.s.sured, slightly quirky. Then a male voice coming in on harmony, and together they soared into a melody that made her think of songs she loved but was somehow completely new.

By the time Melody reached the railed wooden platform at the top of the stairs, she'd caught her heel only once. Pausing to adjust her shoe, she peered in the window beside the closed door, but saw only blurred shapes behind her own reflection.

She knocked lightly, feeling suddenly very much the intruder. There was no answer, no break in the music, so after a moment she opened the door and stepped gingerly inside.

The room was large, with dark, scuffed wooden floors. Bits of furniture and electronic equipment were pushed haphazardly against the walls. An electric heater near the door put out a welcoming blast of heat that Melody suspected didn't penetrate far into the room.

Four people were gathered near the large windows at the western end. For a moment, she watched them un.o.bserved, as no one seemed to notice her.

The guitarist and the girl she'd heard singing faced each other, their mics close together as they sang. The girl, in spite of her powerful voice, looked like a child in her ruffled skirt and flowered tights. She had short hair the color of orange sherbet and held a slightly odd-looking ba.s.s guitar.

The guitarist, in jeans, trainers, and T-s.h.i.+rt, played a battered red electric guitar as he sang, his fingers flying over the strings. He was about her own age, she guessed. Slight-too thin, really-with rumpled blond hair. Nice looking, with features that might almost have been pretty if not for the intensity of his focus.

Melody thought she'd never seen anyone so completely absorbed in the moment, every line and muscle in his body an extension of the guitar in his hands. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt a sudden skip in her pulse.

It took an effort to s.h.i.+ft her attention to the other two people in the room.

A small man wearing a faded Scottish tam stood beside a glossy-black grand piano, watching the artists as if mesmerized. Another man, taller, with neat brown hair and beard, was filming them with what looked to Melody like a professional-quality video cam.

Then the musicians held a last sustained note, the guitarist hit a final, ringing chord, and silence descended. The tension went out of the room like a whoosh of air.

The small man gave a congratulatory whoop and crossed the intervening s.p.a.ce to give the guitarist a thump on the shoulders. The guitarist, starting to grin, looked up and saw Melody.

His face went still, his expression suddenly unreadable. His eyes, she thought, were blue, made darker by his black T-s.h.i.+rt. And the knuckles of his right hand, which still rested on the body of the guitar, were bruised and swollen. There was no doubt that this was the guitarist that Reg had described.

"h.e.l.lo," said the girl, with friendly interest. "Are we taking up your s.p.a.ce? I'm afraid we've gone a bit over."

The two older men turned to her, looking slightly puzzled. Melody couldn't imagine that she, in her tailored suit and coat, could look less like an artist in need of rehearsal s.p.a.ce. She crossed the room, her heels clicking like gunshots on the hard floor, until she stood before the guitarist.

"My name's Detective Sergeant Melody Talbot," she said, pulling her ID from her bag. "The barman at the White Stag said I might find you here, if I could have a moment of your time. I'm sorry, but I don't know your name," she added in a rush, feeling idiotic.

"Look here, la.s.s," said the small man, bristling, "you can see we're in the middle of a recording session-"

"Tam," broke in the guitarist, his voice easy. "I don't think you want to go calling a detective sergeant 'la.s.s.' She might clap the cuffs on you. I'm Andy," he added, meeting Melody's gaze. "Andy Monahan. What can I do for you?"

"It's about an incident at the pub last night." Melody saw that the girl looked curious, the Scot, wary. "Is there somewhere we could talk?" she asked Monahan, thinking he might be more forthcoming without an audience.

"No, this is fine," he answered, but there had been a flicker of a glance towards the Scot. "This is my manager-"

"Michael Moran. But everyone calls me Tam." Tam reached out and gave her hand a hearty shake.

"Caleb Hart," said the bearded man. "Reg at the White Stag is a mate. I told him we'd be doing a session here today."

"You're the producer?" asked Melody.

Hart nodded. "And this is Poppy Jones."

"Poppy," repeated Melody, taking the girl's offered hand. "Nice name for a singer." She saw that the girl was older than she'd first thought, and Poppy confirmed it by saying, "About time it came in useful. I've been cursing my parents over it for twenty years." Her accent, unlike Andy Monahan's, was as middle cla.s.s as Melody's own.

"What's this about, then?" said Monahan, making it clear that they'd covered the social niceties.

Melody tucked her ID back into her bag, giving herself a moment to frame her response. "We're investigating the suspicious death of a man found in the Belvedere Hotel this morning. According to Reg at the White Stag, you had an altercation with the gentleman in the pub last night."

She saw the instant of shock in Monahan's eyes, and the convulsive tightening of the fingers of his right hand.

"Don't know what you're on about," he began, but Tam was already shaking his head.

"An altercation?" said Tam. He put an exaggerated emphasis on the next to last syllable. "Is that what you call some pompous geezer complaining that the lad here had a bit of a row with a punter? Is it him that's dead?"