The Sound of Broken Glass (20 page)

“Oh, no. I didn't. Never had a chance.” Melody slid into one of the workstations and was already tapping up the case file on the computer, her back to Gemma. “I'll give him a shout in a bit. So, any progress today? What's on our agenda? And where's the super?”

“No sign of Krueger this morning.” She looked towards their superintendent's glassed-in cubicle. The door was still closed, the blinds drawn. “That's a bit odd, the boss skiving off on a Monday morning. Maybe we should be counting our blessings. Oh, Melody,” she added as it occurred to her, “what about your guitar bloke? Have any luck there?”

Melody knocked a stack of papers from the workstation surface. She knelt, muttering and scrabbling for them, and only when she'd replaced them on the desk in a neat stack did she turn to Gemma. “Not really. It seems the band is splitting up and it was just a bad night all round. I still haven't managed to track down the drummer and the bass player. But it did occur to me that Caleb Hart, the producer who booked the band into the pub, might know Arnott at least by sight. He didn't react when I mentioned Arnott's name at the recording studio on Saturday, but then I didn't show him Arnott's photo.”

“That's something to follow up,” said Gemma. “Oh, and I think Duncan told you that he knows the band's manager, Tam Moran? He thought he might have a word with Tam. I'm sure he could get Caleb Hart's contact information from him.”

Melody stared at her, looking unaccountably dismayed. “But—I'd thought I could—I'm sure the recording studio will know how to get in touch with Hart. Or Reg at the pub—”

The CID room door swung open and Superintendent Krueger walked in. One look at her face froze Melody in midsentence, and made Gemma's heart contract in anticipation of very bad news. She had an instant to hope that it wasn't their screwup.

“I've had a call from Southwark,” said Krueger. “We have another victim. Male. Found dead in his flat this morning. Naked, trussed, and strangled.”

Cleaver Square is a paradox. Sandwiched between two busy streets, it provides a sense of eerie calm rarely seen outside of a Hitchcock movie. Shielded from the outside world with perfectly aligned houses and shaded by tall trees, the square is a regular host to boules games, providing the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful afternoon: the sound of the metal balls hitting the ground; the air rushing through the leaves; the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. Just sit on a bench, and observe.

—www.themagnificentsomething.com

The address Gemma had been given was in Cleaver Square, near the Kennington tube station. The square was a perfect rectangle of Georgian terraced houses surrounding an unfenced tree-lined garden. There was a pleasant-looking pub in the far right-hand corner, but the obvious activity was on the left side of the square, where the road was blocked by a phalanx of panda cars with blue lights flashing.

Finding a place to park between the pub and the crime scene, Gemma was pleased to see Melody's Clio pull in behind her.

“Major circus,” said Melody as she got out and they walked towards the scene. “But it's obviously not a hotel, so maybe it has nothing to do with us.”

“Maybe.” Gemma thought that was wishful thinking, which was not usually one of Melody's indulgences. “I'd say we're just lucky the rain has let up.”

They showed their IDs to the uniformed constable doing perimeter duty by the first panda car. “South London MIT,” Gemma added.

He was young enough to look impressed. “Guvnor's expecting you.” He nodded towards a slender, dark-haired woman in a Burberry standing in front of a flat with a yellow door.

Gemma stared at the detective, knowing her face was familiar but not quite able to place her. “Your guv'nor,” she said to the constable, “DI—” She let it hang as a question and the constable cooperated.

“DI Maura Bell, ma'am. Southwark Station.

Gemma thanked him, then muttered, “Bugger,” under her breath as she and Melody walked towards the flat.

“What's up, boss?” asked Melody.

“I know her. And I'm not sure that's a good thing.”

But when they reached Detective Inspector Bell and introduced themselves, Bell showed no immediate sign of recognition.

“The techs are here, and we're expecting the pathologist any moment,” said Bell, with a faint trace of the Scots accent that Gemma remembered. “But I imagine you'd like to have a look straightaway.” She shook her head. “This is a weird one. Certainly not your ordinary weekend domestic.” She gestured towards the flat, which was surrounded by a low, wrought-iron railing. “It's the ground floor. The door was locked, the victim's keys inside. No sign of forced entry in the front or back. None of the neighbors—at least none that we've spoken to—reported a disturbance.”

“He lived alone?” asked Melody.

“Apparently. His name is Shaun Francis. His sister called it in. Said they work in the same office. She was worried when he didn't show up for work this morning and didn't answer his phone. Afraid he might be ill. Turned out to be an understatement. She came over and let herself in with her own set of keys.” Bell nodded towards the panda car farthest from the flat. “She's quite shocked. I've got her sitting with one of the PCs for the moment.”

“I'd rather have a look inside before we speak to her,” said Gemma.

“Be my guest.” Bell tapped on the yellow door and a constable opened it immediately.

The main entrance led into a central hallway, lit by the fanlight above the door. A staircase led up to the next two floors, and an interior door stood open on the left. This, Gemma surmised, was the ground-floor flat, but she paused before entering. “Both outer and inner doors were locked?”

“Yes. No one's home in either of the upstairs flats or the basement flat.”

“A nasty surprise when they get home, then,” said Gemma. “But we'll definitely need statements. It's possible they heard something they didn't identify as odd at the time.” After another glance around the hallway, she stepped into the flat, followed by Melody and Bell.

Behind her, Melody murmured, “I hate seeing these Georgian houses converted into flats, but this one doesn't seem to have been done too badly.”

“I try to keep in mind that they didn't have plumbing,” said Bell. “Lessens the pain considerably. As does the fact that the servants lived in the basement.”

Shooting a glance at Gemma, Melody whispered, “Bit prickly,” as they moved into the room.

Gemma had more sympathy with Bell's attitude, considering that she came from a family whose ancestors would undoubtedly have labored in the basement and carried the chamber pots up and down the stairs.

A very small foyer with coat hooks and an umbrella stand led into a sitting room filled with light from the two large front windows. Gemma's first thought was that the flat was very deliberately masculine. Taupe walls with gleaming white trim, large expensive-looking sofa and chairs in coordinating taupe fabrics. Crimson accents. Expensive media gadgets and contemporary art that looked as though it might be original. A new issue of
GQ
was thrown casually across a stack of Sunday's papers on the coffee table, and a set of keys lay in a porcelain bowl on a console table in the foyer.

“Interior designer,” Melody said with conviction. “And he used a good one. Didn't mind spending money.”

Nothing in the sitting room seemed disturbed or unusual, so Gemma walked on, towards the open kitchen tucked into the middle of the flat. Although small, it was fitted out with the latest decor and appliances, but she saw no evidence that its owner had actually cooked.

By the time she reached the door to the bedroom just beyond the kitchen, the smell that had been tickling the back of her nostrils became unpleasantly pronounced. Decay, human waste, and something else she couldn't quite identify.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she said as she looked into the room.

Two unfamiliar SOCOs in bunny suits were processing the scene, but they didn't block the view of the bed. The sheets were pulled back, as they had been at the Belvedere. But this was no cheap, rickety hotel bed. Massive and modern, it dominated the room, and made the figure lying facedown upon it seem even more grotesque.

This man was younger. Much younger. Brown hair that looked—at least from the back—as if it had been expensively barbered. A slightly stocky build with the beginnings of thickening at the waist.

Sturdy ankles—ankles bound with a brown leather belt.

Wrists bound behind his back with a tie. Liberty of London, how posh, thought the part of Gemma's mind that was picking out details from the big picture. A bit feminine compared to the atmosphere of the flat. Had it belonged to the victim?

And around his neck, a fine, gray silk scarf.

“No gag this time,” said a familiar voice behind Gemma. “And he's facedown.”

“Good God, Rashid,” she said, turning. “You gave me a fright. Don't you ever take a day off?” she added, looking at him more closely. There were dark circles under his eyes.

“Short rota. Two pathologists down with winter flu.”

“Well, I'm just as glad it's you, considering.” Gemma turned back to the room but was careful not to step into it. “What do you think?” she asked quietly. “Is it the same perpetrator?”

“I'd be willing to bet all my accumulated vacation time on that being the scarf used to gag Vincent Arnott.”

“If that's true, why use it as the ligature this time? And why leave it behind?”

“First things first.” Rashid turned to the taller of the techs. “Laurence, mate. Mind if I have a look?”

“Got your booties on?” Laurence gave him the once-over. “Right, then. Just watch your step.”

Rashid crossed to the bed.

Gemma watched as the pathologist gently probed and prodded. Just behind her, she could hear Melody's breathing. DI Bell had stayed back by the kitchen, watching the proceedings from a distance.

“The flat's cool but not cold,” Rashid said as he manipulated the victim's head. “Rigor is just beginning to pass off in the neck and jaw, so I'd estimate time of death at roughly twelve hours—give or take a couple, of course. Possibly between ten and midnight last night.

“I don't want to remove the scarf until I get him on the table, so I can't say anything definitive about strangulation, although the thing was certainly tied tight enough. However, from the smell of him, there was a good deal of alcohol involved.” He leaned down to look more closely at the sheet. “And—”

“Vomit,” said Gemma, realizing what had been lurking beneath the stronger odors.

“Yes. He might have choked on it. But there's no trace on the bed, and I didn't see any evidence of a drinking binge as I came through the flat. So if he drank enough to be sick, how did he get home? And undressed?”

“And where is the damned smell coming from?” asked Melody. There was a slight tremor in her voice.

Straightening, Rashid scanned the room. “Ah.” He went towards the bathroom, which, from the layout of the flat, Gemma guessed must be tucked beneath the hall stairs. Rashid had a dancer's grace, and Gemma watched, fascinated as always, as he moved around the crime scene without seeming to disturb a molecule.

He stopped at the door of the bathroom, however, and stood looking in. “Someone undressed him. He was sick on his clothes—probably somewhere outside the flat. And it looks like there's a trace of vomit in the sink as well.”

“How can you tell it was someone else?” asked Melody.

“The clothes are in a pile. Think about it. You come home blind drunk, so drunk you've been sick. You stumble around the bathroom, pulling things off and dropping them wherever they land. You're sick again. Chances are you don't get everything off before you stagger back into the bedroom and fall—probably crossways—onto the bed. You don't drop your clothes neatly atop one another in a pile. Wait a minute—” Rashid peered more closely into the bathroom, then turned back to them, looking pleased with himself. “I'll need blood work, but there may have been more to it than alcohol. There's a bottle of Valium on the sink. But”—frowning, he gazed at the body on the bed—“mixing Valium and alcohol doesn't usually cause that severe a reaction. I'd like to get him on the table as soon as possible. All right if I get my photos, Laurence?”

“I'm logging you, but be dainty, will you?” the tech replied.

“As a bloody butterfly.” Rashid grinned and took his camera from the bag he'd left by the door.

“You have to appreciate a man who enjoys his work,” murmured DI Bell as they moved back into the sitting room. “Or maybe I should just say ‘appreciate,' full stop.”

“I take it you haven't worked with Dr. Kaleem before,” said Gemma, suppressing a smile.

“I haven't had the pleasure.” Bell's Scottish lilt was more apparent when she was relaxed. Now she studied Gemma, looking puzzled. “I know you, though, don't I? Have we met on a case?”

“You worked a case with my husband some time ago. A warehouse fire in Southwark. Only we weren't married then. Detective Superintendent Kincaid.”

Watching Bell color, she suspected the detective remembered her now, and the gaffe she had made.

But Bell said, “Doug Cullen's guv'nor?”

“Yes.” Gemma wasn't going to go into the current circumstances of Duncan's leave and Doug's reassignment.

“How is he?” asked Bell. “Doug, I mean.”

Melody stepped in. “He broke his ankle over the weekend, but he's doing fine. Want me to give him a message?”

“You're—” Bell looked confused.

“His friend. I've been looking after him.”

“Och. No, that's all right. But thanks. Maybe I'll give him a ring—”

“Ma'am,” called the constable on the door. “There's a neighbor wants to speak to you.”