The Sound of Broken Glass (41 page)

“Yeah.” He summoned a grin. “Dandy.”

“Okay. Just don't blow this. I'll carve up your liver if you do,” she added sweetly, going to her jacket and pulling out the water bottle stuffed in a pocket.

“My, you do sound just like a preacher's daughter.”

Poppy straightened up, holding a piece of paper crumpled in her hand. “That I may be, but I'm not a very good messenger, apparently. I found this stuck under the door when I got here this morning. I meant to give it to you. It has your name on it.”

“What? Let me see.” Frowning, he took it from her. It was a piece of cheap notepaper, folded in quarters, with his name printed on one side in black marker. “What the fu—” He caught himself, even though Poppy swore like a trooper. That seemed to be her bit of rebellion, if you didn't count the clothes and the hair. Unfolding the sheet, he peered at the scrawl inside. The paper seemed to have got wet at some point and the marker had run.

“NEED TO TAL—,” it said, then something he couldn't make out. Then there was another illegible word, followed by “KNOW WHERE.” And then— He tilted the paper one way and then the other, trying to be certain. Was that scrawl running off the bottom of the page an N?

“What is it?” said Poppy. “You look like someone walked over your grave. Let me see.”

“No.”

“Come on, let me see.” She grabbed for the paper, as if he were one of her brothers, playing keep-away.

“No, Poppy, really—”

But she'd snatched at it again and got a glimpse before he yanked it back, half ripping it.

“Ooh, what are you doing? Passing secret messages like the Famous Five or something?”

“No. But
you
probably still read Enid Blyton,” he said, trying to make light of it even as he stuffed the torn note into his jeans pocket. “Leave it alone, Poppy.”

His heart was pounding in his ears. Was it— Could it be Nadine? But how had she known where to find him? Then he remembered that he'd seen her—or thought he'd seen her—at the White Stag and at the 12 Bar. People knew they were recording—it wasn't impossible someone would have told her he'd be here.

Then he thought of Melody. She'd asked him to promise to be careful. Well, he would be careful. But he didn't for a moment believe those things she'd said, and if the note was from Nadine, there was no way he could refuse.

“Poppy, I have to go out for a bit. Tell Caleb I won't be long.”

“But—”

“Please. I'll make it up to you. Tell him it's a family emergency.”

Ignoring the disapproval on Poppy's face, he slipped on his jacket and turned towards the door.

Then he stopped. He never left his guitar. Not anywhere. Ever. He put the Strat in its case and slipped the strap over his shoulder.

“You're mad,” said Poppy.

“I know.” He touched her cheek. “Thanks.”

Now there was only one place he could go.

Nadine slipped from the church before full light, hoping that the first person who arrived to prepare for morning service wouldn't be too panicked by the unlocked door. The church, surely, would be safe enough, daybreak on a Thursday morning not being a prime time for vandals.

Head down, she walked into Oxford Street, taking refuge in the McDonald's sandwiched between Tottenham Court Road and Hanway Place. She ordered coffee and a roll, not because she wanted them, but because she knew her body needed fuel if she was to keep going, and because the food and drink provided camouflage. When someone left a newspaper behind, she slid it over to her table and hid behind it, staring unseeing at photos of celebrities she didn't recognize.

When enough time had passed, she left the restaurant and walked back into Charing Cross Road. The air felt dense, and the sky seemed darker than it had at dawn. She went into Foyle's and discreetly freshened up in the ladies' toilet, another skill learned long ago.

Then, when the guitar shops began to open their doors, she wandered back into Denmark Street. She'd perfected the art of aimless browsing as a way to keep warm and kill time, and it served her well. All the salesclerks were men, and after the first—sometimes appreciative—glance they ignored her, as if they knew instantly that she wasn't a serious customer. When they got comfortable with her presence, she asked each, oh so casually, if they happened to know her old friend she'd been meaning to look up since she'd arrived in London.

The luthier in the last shop, a middle-aged man with a ponytail, looked up and smiled. “Andy? Yeah, I hear he's got a good gig going. Some girl singer that's maybe the next big thing. He was in here the other day—had some work done on his Martin. Said he was going to be recording.”

“Oh. How smashing for him.” Nadine gave him her best smile. “Did he happen to say where?”

“Um, Crystal Palace. That little place tucked away behind Westow Street. Can't remember the name of the lane. You want me to give him a message if he comes in?”

“No, but thanks. I'm sure I'll run into him sooner or later.”

She climbed up from Gipsy Hill Railway Station, stopping every few minutes to let the wooziness in her head clear and to ease the pain in her calves. The strange darkness grew. Something icy bit at her cheek and the gray wind funneled down the hill, bringing a swirl of sleety snow with it.

Nadine came to a halt, unable to see above or below as the visibility decreased even further. She felt as though she were suspended in space and in time, a no-man's-land between memory and reality in which she might wander forever.

But she had to finish what she'd begun, had to make things right. Taking a searing breath, she went on. Her feet began to slip as the freezing mixture coated the pavement.

Then, just as she neared the summit, she saw Andy turning into Westow Hill, his guitar case over his shoulder, hurrying.

She followed.

His feet had almost gone out from under him as he clattered out of the studio and started down the metal stairs. “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing the rail to steady himself and proceeding the rest of the way down much more carefully. He could see the ice sheen on the steps now, but everything beyond the small parking area below the studio was a gray blur.

A cold drop of moisture touched his cheek, like a tear, then another and another. Freezing rain, turning to snow. For a moment, he was tempted to return the guitar, but he knew he couldn't go back. He hoped he could reach his destination.

Managing to get up the steep lane, he walked as fast as he dared the length of Westow Street, then turned into Westow Hill.

When he reached Woodland Road he stopped, suddenly afraid to go on. Where else could she have meant but the old flats? They had never met in any other place.

And if he was right . . .  What would it be like to see her, to talk to her again? Could he face her? But if she needed him, he must go. He'd call Melody when he found out if Nadine was all right.

He half slid down Woodland Road, banging his guitar case more than once. Even returning to Crystal Palace for the gig at the White Stag and the recording sessions, he'd avoided coming this way, and now the sight of the house shocked him.

There was a rubbish skip on the pavement in front, and the windows were partially boarded over. Someone was renovating the place. The thought made him feel violated.

Next door, Nadine's old flat looked freshly painted and well kept. Moving a few steps closer, he saw that the door to his former home stood very slightly ajar. Careful of his footing, he climbed the steps where he had spent so many hours, and stepped inside.

The dimness in the flat was disorienting. Lumber and builder's tools lay everywhere, some on a worktable near the right-hand side of the sitting room. The wall between the kitchen and the sitting room had been pulled down. And there, near the worktable, a flicker of flame. Someone had lit a portable gas heater left behind by the builders.

“Nadine?” he said softly. The room seemed to swallow his words, and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

A figure rose from among the boxes stacked near the heater. “No, sorry, mate. I knew you'd come, but I got a bit cold waiting for you, so I lit us a fire.”

“Joe? What the hell are you doing here? Where's Nadine?” Andy set down the Strat, suddenly wanting his hands free.

“Oh, I knew you'd fall for that old trick.” Joe giggled. It was the same sound Andy remembered from years ago. He felt sick. “I've no idea where your precious Mrs. Drake is,” said Joe. “But I know what she did in that hotel on Friday night, and I know she's going to go down for triple murder.”

“You're lying. You always lied. Nadine would never hurt anyone.”

Joe unwound the navy and maroon Crystal Palace scarf from round his neck. “Wouldn't she?” he said, running the scarf through his fingers. “You're such an innocent. But it doesn't really matter what you think, does it, Andy lad? As long as the police think she did it.”

Andy's shock must have shown on his face because Joe laughed again. “Oh, the police warned you, too, did they? That's hysterical, that's what it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Because now they're going to think she killed you, too. When they find her—and they will—I don't think things will go well for her. And then that's all of you, finished.”

“You're . . . ” Andy's tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Crazy,” he managed to finish.

“Like a fox.” Joe cocked his head. “You didn't want to be bothered with me, did you? Did you think I'd forget what you did to me? What you all did to me? No one would talk to me, not even Shaun. I had to leave school the end of that year. They wouldn't stop whispering that ‘what happened to poor Mrs. Drake' was my fault. And my father, he—he—” Joe's face twisted in a spasm that might have been grief or pain.

Andy took a step closer. “Look, Joe, whatever you've done, I'm sure there's some way—”

“Whatever I've done? Oh, I've hardly done anything yet. Just wait until they arrest the bitch.” Tilting his head again, he seemed to consider Andy. “But I want them to find you first. Maybe I should make an anonymous call. What do you think, Andy?”

Andy tensed, every muscle in his body ready for fight or flight. “I—”

But he'd left it too late.

A piece of lumber seemed to appear in Joe's hands. Before Andy could move, Joe swung it, catching Andy in the forehead.

Andy staggered, stunned, then shook his head and wondered how he'd got on the floor. The room swam. Something wet trickled into his eye as he tried to sit up.

Then Joe was on him, pushing his head back to the bare floorboards with a crack, and something soft and scratchy was pulled and twisted round his neck.

The scarf. Andy scrabbled at it, trying to get his fingers into the space between the fabric and his skin. Joe's weight pinned him, and above him, Joe's face contorted as he grunted with the effort of twisting the scarf.

Spots swam before Andy's eyes. He couldn't let himself black out. Letting go of the scarf, he reached for Joe's shoulders and gave a mighty shove.

Joe fell to one side, rolled, and hit the gas heater.

It tipped and clanged over. Flames sputtered and then began to lick across the floor.

Through a haze of blood, Andy saw his childhood nightmare come to life.

“I can't get the car down the lane.” Melody's Clio had slipped and slid going up Gipsy Hill until they'd reached the level surface of the triangle and driven round to Westow Street. The visibility had deteriorated so badly since it had begun to snow that she almost missed the lane altogether. “And there's no bloody place to park here.” She felt like screaming with impatience.

“I'll stay with the car.” Gemma was already unfastening her seat belt. “You go down and see if Andy's there. Just don't break your neck.”

“I'll try not to,” Melody answered with as much of a smile as she could muster. Once out of the car, she picked her way carefully down the cobbled lane, thankful she'd worn boots and warm clothes. She'd forgotten a hat. Reaching up, she brushed at the gathering snowflakes in her hair.

As she reached the bottom of the lane, something bright orange bobbed towards her from the direction of the studio. Squinting through the snow, she recognized Poppy, wearing a ridiculous knitted hat.

“Poppy,” she called, a little breathlessly. “Have you seen Andy?”

“He buggered off while Caleb was out getting sandwiches,” said Poppy as they met. Poppy, zipped into a puffer jacket that looked suitable for the North Pole, was carrying her bass. “Good thing Caleb decided to call off the session because of the weather, or he'd be royally pissed off with Andy. And I've got to get to the train or I won't get home to Twyford.”

“Wait.” Melody touched her arm. “Do you know where Andy went?”

“No. He got some cryptic note shoved under the studio door. I managed to read a bit before he took it away from me. Something about a meeting, and then it said”—Poppy drew her eyebrows together—“something like, ‘You know where.'” She shrugged. “Whatever that means. But he seemed to know.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Is he all right, do you think?” asked Poppy as they started back up the lane together.

“I'm sure he is,” answered Melody, although she wasn't sure at all. “You'd better hurry or you won't be able to get down Gipsy Hill.”

Wearing boots that looked as though they were soled with tire tread, Poppy forged ahead. She waved as she reached the top of the hill, then disappeared.

Melody slowed, thinking furiously. What would send Andy tearing out of the studio in the midst of a recording session? And who would leave him a note?

She thought of Nadine, who had seemed to appear and disappear like a ghost all through this case. She still didn't know what part Nadine had played, but if Nadine had wanted to meet Andy, where would she have chosen that he would recognize instantly?