The Sound of Broken Glass (10 page)

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.

“Bugger,” 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. Bass notes providing a punchy beat. And then the voices. One female, strong, assured, 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 unobserved, 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 bass guitar.

The guitarist, in jeans, trainers, and T-shirt, 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 shift 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 space 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-shirt. 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.

“Hello,” said the girl, with friendly interest. “Are we taking up your space? 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 space. 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, lass,” 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 ‘lass.' 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 class 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?”

“The pompous geezer's name was Vincent Arnott. And Reg said Mr. Monahan hit someone. I'd call that more than a row.” She glanced at Monahan's bruised hand.

“Well, I didn't hit
him
, if that's what you're thinking,” said Monahan dismissively, but Melody could have sworn it was relief that had washed across his face and left it pale.

“Did you see Mr. Arnott after that?” she asked. “Maybe he sought you out to further his grievance.”

Monahan shrugged. “Maybe he picked a fight with someone else. I didn't see him again. I played the second set, then I went home. I certainly didn't go to the Belvedere, and from what I saw of that bloke, I can't imagine he did, either. Stuffed-up prick.”

He was watching her carefully, and there was, thought Melody, curiosity mixed in with the relief. And something else. She felt her throat go dry and swallowed before she asked, “Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”

“Me, lassie,” said Tam, ignoring Monahan's earlier admonishment. “I was with the band the whole evening. After we broke down the equipment, I ran Andy home in my Mini.”

Melody didn't intend to let Tam Moran answer for Monahan. “Where's home, Mr. Monahan?”

“Hanway Place. Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. And I don't have a car, if that's what you're wondering. I didn't go back to Crystal Palace.” He thought for a moment, absently plucking a few strings on the guitar, but didn't take his eyes from Melody. “You said ‘suspicious death.' What happened to this bloke?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential for the moment,” she answered, in her primmest police-speak. It wouldn't be confidential for long, once the press got hold of the details. “Had you ever seen Mr. Arnott before? Reg at the White Stag said he was a regular there.”

Monahan shook his head, frowning. “Don't think so. And we'd never played that pub before.” The twist of his lips told her that it was not an experience he'd care to repeat.

“But you did hit someone last night, Mr. Monahan,” Melody persisted. “Was it someone who might have known the victim? Was that why Mr. Arnott was so upset?”

“No. I don't see how—” Monahan seemed to stop himself. “It was just some guy who'd had too much to drink and objected to our covers.”

Melody studied him. “Do you always beat up the audience, Mr. Monahan? Not the best practice for someone who lives by their hands, I would think.”

He flushed and looked away for the first time. “I don't like being shoved. And I don't like people putting their mitts on my guitar.”

“Sergeant.” It was Caleb Hart, who had carefully put down his video camera and now approached her, glancing at his watch. A Rolex, if she wasn't mistaken. “If there's nothing else we can help you with, our time here is fleeting. And expensive.”

Melody felt a flash of irritation at being so summarily dismissed. But remembering the music they'd been making, she felt a stab of regret as well for the bubble she'd burst. She somehow doubted that they would all come together again in the same way, at least on this day.

“If you could just give me your contact information, Mr. Monahan and Mr. Moran. I think that will be all for now.” She was brusque, determined to put herself back in charge, but the harder she tried for authority, the more she felt she was making a fool of herself.

Monahan patted his jeans pockets, then, looking around, said, “Tam, have you got a card?”

His manager took a slightly weathered business card from a case in his jacket and passed it to him, along with a pen. Monahan slipped off the guitar and placed it on its stand, then walked over to the piano and used the flat surface of its top to scrawl on the back of the card. He brought it to Melody with a flourish.

“Name. Address. Mobile,” he said, and there was a hint of challenge in his look as he handed it to her.

She gave her own card to Tam, then Monahan, and told herself it was an accident when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks. You'll let me know if you think of anything else,” she added, making it a statement. “Thanks for your time.”

Turning, she walked to the door, very aware of the clickety-clack of her heels on the floor and of four pairs of eyes on her back.

She let herself out onto the platform, took a gulp of cold air, then started carefully down the stairs. Halfway, she stopped, hoping to hear the music start again, but there was not a sound from above.

Locally the place name is often [used] as an alternative to Upper Norwood or the postcode area of SE19. If you ask a London taxi driver to take you to Crystal Palace he will usually assume to take you to the end of Crystal Palace Parade at the top of Anerley Hill, which used to have a roundabout and was the former location of the Vicar's Oak.

—www.crystalpalace.co.uk

“It was huge, the Crystal Palace.” Andy threw his arms wide in demonstration, and Nadine, sitting on the far side of the step, ducked away, laughing.

“I believe you,” she said. “Really. I do. Be careful with that guitar,” she admonished. “You might actually be good at playing it, one of these days.”

Flushing, Andy settled the Höfner more firmly across his knees. It was the first time anyone had given him the least bit of encouragement, and coming from Nadine it meant more than anything. He practiced every day, and had taken to playing on the front steps when he knew Nadine would be home soon. A lame excuse for keeping his observation post, but she didn't seem to mind him being there.

They'd developed an unspoken routine. When Nadine had parked her rattletrap of a Volkswagen, she'd put her handbag and work things in her flat before coming out again with lemonade or fizzy drinks for them both. Sometimes she changed from her dress into shorts, and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. She looked even younger then.

Andy had found an old strap for the Höfner at a charity shop on Westow Hill, and although he thought he probably looked a right prat wearing it sitting down, he did it anyway. It made him feel more like a real guitar player. While he and Nadine drank their lemonade, he played little snippets for her. New chords, a bit of a picking pattern. Never a whole song—that would have been totally naff.

She listened, and then they'd talk. That's how he'd learned that she liked history, and that she didn't know much about Crystal Palace.

“Wasn't it just taken down in Hyde Park and put up again here, on Sydenham Hill?” she asked now.

“No, look,” he protested, pulling carefully folded papers from the back pocket of his jeans. He'd made copies at the library of some of the old black-and-white photos in the reference books. Smoothing them out, he handed them to Nadine and she took them, studying the pictures intently. That was one of the things he liked about her. She listened, and she looked at things, really looked, not just glancing at something and saying, “Oh, that's nice, dear,” like most adults. Or his mum.

Not that he could think about her being anything like his mum. His mum was thirty-five, and he couldn't imagine Nadine being nearly that old, even though he knew she'd been married. But when he'd got up the nerve to ask her, she'd just laughed, and told him not to be cheeky.