The Sound of Broken Glass (36 page)

Caleb Hart sat at a mixing desk, wearing headphones. He looked up, his expression for a moment startled then he gave Melody the bland smile she remembered from Saturday and pulled the headphones off.

“Detective Sergeant Talbot, isn't it? I didn't hear you come in.”

Gemma showed him her identification. “I'm Detective Inspector James, Mr. Hart. We'd like to talk to you about Vincent Arnott. I believe you've been less than honest with us.”

Hart rolled his chair back from the console and regarded them with what seemed mild interest. “I don't believe I've talked to you about this . . .  Arnott.”

“You're being disingenuous,” said Melody, drawing her eyes from what seemed an overwhelming array of levers and knobs and sparkling lights on the board. “When I spoke to you and Tam and Andy on Saturday, you didn't happen to mention that you knew him.”

“You didn't ask me directly, if I recall. You were concerned about an incident in the pub. I wasn't there.”

“Stop playing games, Mr. Hart.” Gemma's tone made it clear she was losing patience. “We know that you not only knew Vincent Arnott, but that you had very good reason to dislike him, even to hate him. Perhaps even to want him dead.”

Hart gazed at them, looking every inch the urbane producer with his neat beard and rimless glasses and his roll-neck sweater.

It was warm in the small room. The only window was interior, overlooking the recording booth. “Now,” said Gemma, already beginning to sweat in her coat. “Let us tell you a little story. Melody, I think you have the details?”

Melody made a show of consulting her almost empty notepad. “Ten years ago, there was another promising young singer in your stable. She was arrested, along with you, on a possession of illegal substances charge. You got off quite lightly, and although the young woman received only a probationary sentence, the prosecuting attorney's treatment of her was brutal. The press had a field day, and her reputation was torn to shreds. Later that year, she committed suicide. Was it a drug overdose, Mr. Hart?”

Hart had gone white as paper. His face seemed to float, disembodied, above the dark roll-neck of his sweater. “You don't know anything about it. And her name was Lauren.”

“Did you hold Vincent Arnott responsible for what happened to Lauren, Mr. Hart?” asked Gemma.

“No. He was a bastard and he was unnecessarily vicious in his treatment of her. But the only person I held responsible for what happened to Lauren was myself. I got her involved with people who did drugs and alcohol as a matter of course. It's the business. You know what it's like.”

“So getting sober was your atonement?” asked Melody.

“There's no way I can ever atone for what happened to Lauren. Getting sober was self-preservation. It was that or die.”

Melody wondered if they were finally seeing the real Caleb Hart, or if it was just another layer of self-serving veneer. “And now you have another girl singer, Poppy. Just about Lauren's age, isn't she? Poised on the brink of success. And she's a vicar's daughter, isn't she? Does she know about Lauren? Do her parents? I doubt they'd think you suitable to manage their daughter's career if they did.”

Bright spots of color appeared in Hart's cheeks. “Of course they bloody well know. Poppy's father, Tom, was my best friend at university. It was Tom and his family who helped me get sober. I owe them everything, and they know I'll look after Poppy like she was my own daughter.

“That's why I wanted to see Andy Monahan before I put them together. Tam assured me he wasn't into drink and drugs, but I can get a feel for someone when they play. I thought he was all right, and now he seems to be involved in a murder investigation.” Hart's laugh was humorless. “I'd dump the whole project if they weren't so bloody good together. You only get one or two chances like this in the music business, if you're very lucky.”

“So what you're telling us is that you had a very good reason not to want anything—or anyone—to screw this up,” said Gemma. “Did Vincent Arnott threaten you in some way? You can't expect us to believe that, given your history with the man, you frequented the same pub on a regular basis and didn't recognize him.”

“Yes, I recognized him,” Hart admitted. “But I didn't see why I should get myself involved. I don't think he knew me from Adam, and I certainly never spoke to him.”

“You didn't see him on Friday night?”

“I did see him at the pub, yes, but he was drinking alone at the bar. I didn't think it was relevant.”

“You don't get to decide what is or isn't relevant when the police are investigating a murder, Mr. Hart,” Gemma snapped. “Did you see him after you left the pub?”

“No. I went to my AA meeting. I always go on Friday night. It's a tough time for drinkers.”

Gemma merely studied him for a moment, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I spoke to your very helpful personal assistant yesterday,” she went on. “Roxy told me about your AA meeting. But we're very thorough, Mr. Hart. We've been to the community center this morning. Apparently, you got a phone call and left during the first half hour of the meeting, which means you could easily have gone back to Crystal Palace and killed Vincent Arnott.”

Hart gaped at her. “You're not actually serious? I told you I hadn't spoken to Arnott in years. Why on earth would I have done something like that?”

“I thought you might tell us.”

He shook his head. “That's absurd and you know it. You're simply fishing because you don't have anyone else in the frame and you're being pressured to come up with a suspect. I have had some experience with the police, as you've reminded me. I know how these things work.”

“Then you won't mind telling us where you went when you left the AA meeting on Friday night.”

“I can't. It's—” Hart hesitated. With a manicured fingernail, he pulled at the neck of his sweater as if it felt tight. “Look. If I tell you, you'll have to treat it as confidential. It has nothing to do with your investigation.”

“You know I can't promise that. But if that's the truth, I'll do what I can.”

Hart nodded. “I suppose that's the best I can hope for. You know that drug and alcohol abuse is rampant in the music business. When I got sober, I had a choice—either get out and give up the only thing I'd ever been any good at, or try to contribute something that would help other people who were struggling with the same demons. For a number of years, I've made myself available to anyone in crisis. That's what the phone call was on Friday night.” He named a popular singer who had been much featured in the press, including Melody's father's paper, for her struggles with alcohol addiction. “She needed help. I met her at her flat, made coffee, talked her through the bad patch. I'm sure she'll confirm that if it's necessary, but in telling you I feel I've betrayed her trust. And I certainly don't want it getting out to the media.”

It made sense, Melody thought. More sense than the scenario they'd constructed. Why would Hart kill Arnott after ten years, when he would have had easy access to the man on plenty of other occasions? And why kill him in that way, as revenge for a girl who committed suicide? Nor did Hart seem to have any connection with the second murder. “Did you know Shaun Francis, Mr. Hart?” she asked.

He shook his head again. “No. Was he the other lawyer that was killed? Tam told me there'd been another murder.”

Apparently Tam had failed to mention Andy's connection with Shaun Francis.

Taking up Melody's lead, Gemma asked, “Where were you on Sunday night, Mr. Hart?”

“I was at home, tweaking the video, then uploading it to the Internet.”

The activity would be logged. They could check it if they needed, and he would know that. They could check his story about Friday night as well, but Melody sensed they'd reached a dead end. His involvement seemed even less likely considering that his arrest meant his prints and DNA would be in the system, but there had been no flag on any of the physical evidence from either crime scene.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Gemma stood. “Mr. Hart, if we need to talk to you again, I would remind you not to be obstructive. You don't know how much damage you could do by withholding something that you think isn't relevant. You don't have all the pieces.”

Gemma had turned to go when he said, frowning, “There was something . . .  In the pub on Friday night. It was just before I left, and I'd forgotten. I told you Arnott was drinking at the bar. But there was a woman, alone as well, watching him. At first I thought she might be scoping him out as a prospect for a Friday night hook-up. But her expression . . .  It was . . .  I don't know. Cold. Made me glad she wasn't looking at me.”

“Can you describe her?” Melody asked, feeling a flare of excitement. Could it have been the woman in the CCTV?

“Early to midforties, maybe.” Hart shrugged. “It's hard to tell these days. Slender. Very chic. Chin-length dark hair. More striking than pretty, if you know what I mean. But there was . . . ” He hesitated, frowning. “This may sound daft. But if you've been in a very dark place, it leaves a mark. You learn to recognize it in other people. And that's what I saw in her face.”

Some of the original remains that can still be seen today are classed as Grade II* listed. They include terraces, sphinxes and the huge bust of Sir Joseph Paxton . . .  Other fascinating features include sets of stairs, remains of the aquarium and the base of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's south water tower.

—www.bbc.co.uk

When Melody and Gemma came out of the recording studio, the afternoon had faded to an early twilight. West London, rolling away down the hill below them, was a soft violet beneath the lowering cloud.

A glance at Gemma's face as they got in the car told Melody that her partner felt as dispirited as she did.

“Dead in the water on that one, I think,” said Melody.

“For Andy Monahan's sake, I hope so. If Caleb Hart was our murderer, that would be the end of Andy's recording deal. God, I hate winter,” Gemma added, glancing up at the sky. “It's not even midafternoon and it's already dark. Not to mention we've missed lunch.”

Melody's phone beeped with a text message. She read it, then translated for Gemma. “Doug says he has some new information, and that Duncan is on the way to his house. He wants us to come there, too.”

After a moment's thought, Gemma said, “It's that or back to Brixton, and nothing new's come in from the station. I'd just as soon avoid telling the super we've got nowhere. Text Doug back and ask him if he has anything to eat around the place.”

Melody did as she was asked. Then, as they traveled north in already heavy afternoon traffic, she tried to curb her impatience. Why had Doug texted rather than ringing her? And why did Duncan want to meet them there? Had he learned something from Andy? Her stomach churned, and she was suddenly glad it was empty.

By the time they reached Putney, the cloud that had hovered over Crystal Palace had descended upon the city, hugging the streets near the river like a great gray beast.

Kincaid's elderly Astra was parked in front of Doug's house, and the little light remaining in the sky was eclipsed by the green-gold beacon of Doug's front door.

By the time Melody and Gemma got out of the car, Kincaid had come out to greet them. He must have been watching for them, thought Melody, and her gut clenched with anxiety. When she reached him, she touched his arm to hold him back for a moment. “Is it Andy?” she said quietly. “Is he all—”

“He's fine.” Kincaid gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Come in and we'll have a powwow.”

Inside, Doug was propped in the sitting room armchair like royalty holding an audience, the fire was going, and the coffee table held platters of freshly made sandwiches and fruit.

“The kettle's on,” Kincaid said. “I'll just fetch cups.”

Melody nodded at the sandwiches. “Your doing?”

“Doug said you needed feeding, so I picked up a few things.”

“You're getting to be quite handy to have around,” Melody said, still not certain she could do the feast justice.

“Don't encourage him,” Gemma put in. “He's already put my pitiful attempts in the kitchen completely to shame.” Picking up a sandwich triangle, she took a nibble and added, “Mmmm, roast beef and horseradish. I could eat the horse.”

Doug already had an empty plate beside him and was tapping the arm of his chair impatiently. As Kincaid brought in a tray with mugs and a pot of tea, Doug said, “How did you get on with Caleb Hart?”

“No joy there, I don't think.” Gemma's answer was slightly muffled by sandwich. “We found him at the studio in Crystal Palace,” she added, swallowing and taking a cup of tea from Kincaid. “Although he admitted to recognizing Arnott in the pub, Poppy and her family know all about his trial and the aftermath. It was Poppy's father who helped him get sober. And we'll check them, of course, but he seems to have reasonable alibis for the times of both deaths.”

“I think we'll have to do round-robin,” said Kincaid, filling Melody's cup, then topping up Doug's and his own. “Gemma, what about your interview with the head at the boys' college?”

Gemma gave them a rather more concise version of Wayne Carstairs's story, then added, “Which gives us a connection between Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis, but I still don't see what any of that has to do with Shaun meeting Andy in the park that summer. Are we chasing phantoms, here?”

“No, unfortunately, I don't think you are.” Kincaid sat on the edge of the sofa, rotating his cup in his hands. “I spoke to Andy earlier this afternoon, at Tam's. Your Mrs. Drake was Andy Monahan's next-door neighbor.