The Sound of Broken Glass (8 page)

Gemma could never decide which was worse in the suddenly bereaved—paroxysms of grief or the stunned silence of shock. At least with hysteria you felt there was something you could do, some comfort you could offer, some calming gesture you could make. But the paralyzed ones . . .  She shook her head, gazing at the blank face of Vincent Arnott's wife.

“Mrs. Arnott, is there someone you can call to be with you?”

The woman just stared, apparently unable to comprehend Gemma's question.

“Mrs. Arnott?”

A slight shudder went through Mrs. Arnott's body and she gave the same odd blink Gemma had noticed before. “I don't understand. Vincent will be home soon.”

“Okay,” said Gemma, catching Melody's eye and giving a little shake of her head before turning back to Mrs. Arnott. “Let's make some tea, shall we? And then we'll have a little chat.”

Melody rose with her and they stepped into the work area of the kitchen. “I'll try to find out if there's a relative, and if so, get a number,” Gemma said quietly. “You ring headquarters, tell them we've got a positive ID. And get an FLO here as soon as possible.” She thought for a moment. Both male and female family liaison officers worked regularly with her team, but in this case she thought a woman was definitely the best option. “See if we can get Marie Daeley.”

While Melody excused herself, phone already to her ear, Gemma filled the kettle and quickly found tea bags and mugs, milk and sugar. There was a shopping list fixed to the shiny stainless steel door of the fridge with a magnet. The handwriting looked masculine, but a few things had been added in the margins in an almost illegible scrawl. Peering, she decided one said “birds,” another “boots.” Odd items for a grocery list.

The tea bags were plain-Jane Tetley's. When Gemma poured the boiling water into the mugs, the liquid turned instantly orange and smelled comfortingly malty. When the tea had steeped, she carried the three mugs to the table with the milk and sugar, and sat down across from Mrs. Arnott.

Although she hated sweetened tea herself, she added milk and a generous helping of sugar to Mrs. Arnott's. “This'll perk you up a bit,” she said as she slid the mug across. When Mrs. Arnott made no move to take it, Gemma leaned over and lifted her limp hand from the tabletop. It was icy cold, and Gemma chafed it between her own for a moment, then wrapped it round the warm cup. “Have a sip now,” she encouraged gently, and slowly Mrs. Arnott gripped the mug with both hands and raised it to her lips.

“That's better,” said Gemma. “Do you have children, Mrs. Arnott?”

The woman seemed to make an effort to focus on Gemma's face. “No.” Her voice was a whisper. “No,” she said again, more strongly. “We wanted them, but . . . ”

“Do you have sisters or brothers?”

“My sister. Sara. She lives in Florida.” More animation now, as if this was an often repeated source of pride.

Gemma, however, controlled a grimace. The sister would be no help any time soon. “Do you have her phone number?” she asked.

“Vincent keeps a book for me. It's in the drawer.” Mrs. Arnott glanced towards the work area in the kitchen; then her face creased in distress. “But I don't—Vincent rings for me. The codes—I can't remember—”

“Not to worry,” said Gemma quickly. “I'll ring her for you, in just a bit. You drink some more of that tea.” She waited until Mrs. Arnott had complied and her color seemed a bit better. Then she added, “I'll bet you remember which pub Vincent goes to on his Friday evenings.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Arnott looked at her as if she were daft. “The White Stag, at the top of the hill. Where else would he go?”

“Does he always go the same time, on Fridays?”

“When
Emmerdale
comes on.”

“That's your favorite program, is it?” Gemma was trying to visualize the telly schedule, difficult when they rarely watched at home except for the news or something special for the kids. Her mum liked
Emmerdale
, though, and she thought it came on at seven.

Now that she had a rough idea of a time and place to begin following Vincent Arnott's movements, she breathed a sigh of relief when Melody appeared in the hall doorway and motioned to her.

“You have some more tea, Mrs. Arnott. I'll be back in a tick,” she said, patting the woman's arm as she slid from her chair and went to join Melody in the hall.

“Marie Daeley's on her way,” Melody said quietly, “and I've got Incident pulling up whatever they can find on Mr. Arnott. I spoke to the next-door neighbor—a Mrs. Bates. According to her, Mrs. A is suffering from early-stage Alzheimer's, and the husband took care of organizing everything around the house. Mrs. Bates has the contact number for the sister. She's ringing her now, then she'll be over to help out.”

“That's a relief.” Gemma glanced in the kitchen, where Mrs. Arnott still sat, her back to them. “Poor woman. Anything else from the neighbor?”

“You were right. He was a barrister, but she didn't remember the name of his chambers. She had contact numbers for him, though. One looked like his mobile, the other is probably the chambers. I've put Incident on that, too.”

Gemma nodded. “Any personal comments?”

“Only that they didn't socialize much, because of her condition. Mrs. Arnott—her name's Kathy, by the way—was still okay on her own during the day as long as nothing disturbed her routine, but Mrs. Bates said she knew he was worried about how much longer they could go on as they were. He'd asked several of the neighbors if they could recommend someone who could come in at least for a few hours on weekdays.”

“It certainly doesn't sound likely he planned to be out more than a few hours last night. That would explain why the hotel expected his room to be empty this morning, if he made a practice of taking women there on his evening out.”

“Bastard,” said Melody. “He certainly didn't have to worry about his wife finding out.”

“No,” Gemma answered, but thoughtfully. “You remember she said they slept separately?” She looked back into the kitchen and gave a little internal shiver. “He can't have—with his wife . . .  it would have been like violating a child.”

“But the bondage?” Melody shook her head.

“God knows a psychologist would have a field day with that,” Gemma agreed. “But I think that in the meantime we should start with the pub.”

“Let's walk,” said Gemma as she and Melody left the Arnotts' house. “I don't remember there being much in the way of parking spots at the top of the hill.”

They'd left Mrs. Arnott with her neighbor, Mrs. Bates, who seemed both kind and sensible. “Are you sure it's Vincent?” she'd whispered, taking them aside. “I just can't believe it.”

“As sure as we can be without a formal identification,” Gemma told her.

Mrs. Bates blanched. “Oh, you can't expect—Kathy can't possibly—”

“No,” Gemma had agreed. “But perhaps someone from his work. Or another family member. Is there anyone, do you know?”

“I don't think so. I remember his mother passed away a few years back, and I never heard him speak of any siblings.” She frowned at them. “You're detectives. I thought at first a traffic accident or a heart attack, but—”

“I'm afraid we can't tell you anything more at the moment,” Gemma had said, and thanked her.

“You just want to test my legs,” Melody said now as they trudged up Belvedere Road.

“You're the runner. I'll bet your legs are better than mine.”

“You have the advantage—yours are longer,” Melody shot back.

Gemma stopped for a moment when they reached the top of the hill, surveying the pub they had passed earlier that morning. It was orange-red brick, Victorian Gothic, with a bank of mullioned windows on the ground floor. She imagined it would be pleasant in the summer with hanging baskets of flowers, and the tables on the pavement in front filled with patrons. Now, it looked a welcome shelter from the cold.

The wind had picked up as the rain tailed off, and when Gemma opened the front door, a gust pushed them inside. They were met by tantalizing odors of food, the buzz of conversation, and the clink of cutlery on plates.

A curved bar partially divided the large front room. Behind it, a young woman with curly blond hair tied back with a red bandanna drew pints with cheerful efficiency.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, smiling, as they reached the bar.

“Just some information,” said Gemma, returning the smile and holding up her warrant card.

The girl's eyes widened. She glanced to either side, checking that the other customers at the bar were occupied. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you know a man who comes in here named Vincent Arnott? Early sixties, trim, white hair?” asked Melody, showing her the driving license photo on her phone.

The girl shook her head. “I don't think I've ever seen him, but then we serve a lot of people.”

“We think he came in regularly on Friday nights,” said Gemma. “We were wondering if he came in last night.”

“Oh.” The girl looked relieved. “You'll want Reg, then. I only fill in lunchtimes on the weekends when I'm not at uni.”

“Could we have a word with Reg?”

“His son had a school football match this morning.” The girl glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. “I should think he'd be back any time now, if you want to wait. This bloke”—she nodded at the photo—“is he in some kind of trouble?”

“You could say that.” Gemma's eyes strayed to the menu on a chalkboard and her stomach rumbled. She realized she'd had no breakfast, and that Kincaid's Friday-night pizza was but a distant memory. “Let's get some lunch while we wait,” she suggested to Melody.

“I thought you'd never ask. My knees were weak, and not from climbing the hill.”

A few minutes later they were seated at a table in the front window with coffee and sandwiches.

“Nice place,” said Melody as she bit into homemade fish fingers in a roll. “Upmarket shabby chic.”

Gemma knew exactly what she meant. Mismatched furniture, scuffed wooden floorboards, quirky lamps, but the windows and glassware sparkled, and the food was delicious. She bit into one of the homemade chips that had come with her chicken, cheddar, and smoked bacon club. “I can see why Vincent Arnott liked to come here, but it seems a far cry from the Belvedere.”

“If a stone's throw.” Melody wiped a smear of tartar sauce from her lip with her pinky.

Gemma nodded, wondering if there were CCTV cameras with a good view of the pub. When they had a better idea of the time frame for Arnott's movements, she'd get the techies on it.

While they were waiting for their food, she'd checked in with DC MacNicols. Now, she glanced at her phone again, just in case she'd missed a message from Kincaid, but there was nothing.

“What were you going to do with your Saturday?” she asked Melody.

“Help Doug paint his sitting room.”

“The great DIY project?” Gemma asked, bemused. “How's that coming?”

“Very slowly.” Melody drew out the words. “He now knows which colors are authentic Victorian reproductions, and which brands have the least emissions.” She rolled her eyes. “‘Just pick a color you like' obviously was not the proper way to approach something of such import with Detective Sergeant Cullen.”

Doug Cullen had become Kincaid's partner when Gemma had been promoted to inspector, and although Kincaid's leave had left him assigned to a different murder team, Cullen and Melody had become cautious friends.

“Well, it is his first house,” Gemma said, laughing. “You could cut him some slack.” Sobering, she nibbled a corner of her sandwich and regarded Melody a little hesitantly. “We haven't seen much of him. How are things at the Yard, do you have any idea?”

“I know Doug despises working with Superintendent Slater, and the feeling seems to be mutual. I think Doug's taking out his frustration on the paint.”

“Has he said anything about Duncan? About the job, I mean?”

“Only that he's eager for him to come back. Why?” Melody looked concerned now. Gemma began to regret saying anything, but Melody was the only person she could talk to about this.

“It's just that—Look, you won't say anything to Doug?”

“Not if you don't want me to.” Melody put down her sandwich and gave Gemma her full attention.

“I'm probably worrying over nothing. But when Duncan told Denis Childs he needed a bit more time at home, Denis went all hale and hearty and ‘Don't bother your little head about it.' Not like him at all.”

“No,” Melody said slowly, frowning. “But surely he's just being—”

“All warm and fuzzy?” Gemma shook her head. “Definitely not the chief super's style, however sympathetic he may be under that impassive exterior. But I—”

She stopped as a shadow fell over their table. Looking up, she saw a large man with a shaved head and a neat brown beard, wrapping a bartender's apron around his waist. “I'm Reg,” he said. “Kasey said you wanted a word?”

Gemma pushed her chair back and showed him her ID. “It's about Vincent Arnott. One of your regulars, I think?”

“Sure, he comes in most Friday nights.” The man grinned. “Don't tell me Vince has the law after him.”

“He's dead, actually,” said Gemma quietly.

“What?” The smile left the bartender's face. “You're having me on, right?” When their expressions assured him that they weren't, he pulled out a chair and sat, heavily. “I don't believe it. He was just in last night. Was there an accident or something? Look, I'm careful not to overserve my customers,” he added, a defensive edge to his voice. “And besides, Vince never drives—”

“There's no evidence that he did,” said Gemma quickly, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot. “What time did he come in?”