The Sound of Broken Glass Part 28

"Which is why it makes sense that he was at the White Stag last Friday night," put in Kincaid.

"What?" Melody and Gemma said in unison.

"It was Joe Peterson that Andy punched. He said Joe came up to him and wanted to be mates. He hadn't seen him in fifteen years."

"No wonder he didn't want to talk about it. But why did he tell you?" Melody couldn't help feeling hurt.

"I think he'd carried it for a long time, along with a lorryload of guilt. He thought everything that happened was his fault. I imagine it would be the last thing he'd want to tell a woman he fancied." Kincaid flashed Melody a quick smile, then went on. "But there's more. It seems Nadine Drake may not have vanished from the face of the earth. Andy thought he saw Nadine in the pub that night. And again, on Sunday, when he and Melody were at the Twelve Bar."

Gemma had abandoned her sandwich and was sitting hunched over her tea mug in concentration. "Caleb Hart said he saw a woman watching Arnott in the pub on Friday night. Could it have been . . . good G.o.d, she had reason enough to hate Arnott."

"And Shaun Francis," Kincaid said. "And Peterson, you would think, more than any of them."

In spite of the fire, Melody's fingers had gone numb. "No, it's Andy she would have hated the most. But why has she reappeared now, after all these years? And what if-"

A phone rang. Melody recognized it as Gemma's even as they all automatically checked pockets or bags.

Retrieving her phone, Gemma stood and walked to the hallway door. She turned her back as if the separation helped her to concentrate. Melody heard her murmur something; then she came back into the room and picked up a pen and a sc.r.a.p of paper from the coffee table.

"Right," Gemma said, writing. "Ta, Mike. I'll let you know what we find out," she added, and disconnected.

"What is it?" asked Melody, her sense of dread stronger now.

Gemma looked at her, concern in her glance. "I think I can tell you why Nadine Drake has suddenly reappeared on the scene. Forensics traced the scarf used to gag Arnott and strangle Shaun Francis. In England, it was sold only in a French boutique in Covent Garden called Le Perdu. The shop just opened six months ago, an offshoot of a boutique in Paris of the same name. The manager of the Paris shop came to London to get this one off the ground. Her name is Nadine Drake."

"Covent Garden?" Kincaid glanced at his watch. "It's only just gone four. We should be able to get there well before closing, even in rush hour."

"We?" said Gemma, raising an eyebrow in an expression that looked remarkably like Kincaid's.

"If there is any possibility that this woman killed two men, you and Melody are not going to interview her on your own." His tone brooked no argument. "You can either have me or uniformed backup. But I promise I'll stay in the background."

For a moment, Melody thought Gemma was going to bridle at having her interview commandeered, but then Gemma nodded. "All right. The more the merrier, I suppose."

As Melody breathed an inner sigh of relief, Doug said, "I take it I'm going to be left behind again."

"I'll have a hard enough time explaining Duncan if things go pear shaped," Gemma told him. "Much less the presence of an officer who's meant to be on medical leave. And you could be most helpful by seeing if you can find a home address for Drake." Turning to Kincaid, she added, "What about Charlotte?"

"I'll just give Betty a ring and see if she can keep her a bit longer."

They were quick, bundling back into coats as Kincaid made his call. Melody spared a moment to look back at Doug, sitting forlornly in his chair, plates and cups and half-eaten sandwiches littered across the room as if the house had suffered a brief invasion by an alien army. "I'll come back," she said. "Help you clear up, and fill you in."

She caught the instant of vulnerability on his face before he gave her a mocking smile. "I won't hold my breath."

"No, really. I promise," she said, and knew she couldn't renege.

Then they were out the door in a flurry of cold air and piling into Duncan's Astra. Melody took the back, next to Charlotte's safety seat, and was glad of the relative seclusion. Thoughts racketed through her mind as they crossed Putney Bridge and entered Chelsea, then drove steadily east along the river through a light mist.

How had this woman found Andy at the White Stag in Crystal Palace? Melody asked herself. Or had Arnott been her target and it was only coincidence that Andy had been there, too? Where was Andy now? Was he safe?

As if reading her mind, Gemma turned from the front seat. "Ring him, why don't you?"

"Right." Melody pulled out her phone and dialed but the call went to voice mail. She didn't leave a message. "No answer," she told Gemma.

"Well, keep trying, then."

The traffic grew heavier and heavier as they neared the city center, until they were crawling and Melody had to fight the urge to get out and walk.

Kincaid glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "It's still early. I should think the shop would stay open until six."

"Maybe we should have called in uniform."

"We're almost there," said Gemma. "And I'd like a chance to talk to her first. Without identification from a witness, we don't have anything concrete. Anyone could have bought that scarf."

Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely, thought Melody. Then she realized that however d.a.m.ning the evidence seemed against Nadine Drake, there was something that didn't make sense. "Duncan, did Andy say what time he thought he saw Nadine at the Twelve Bar?"

"No. Why?"

"If it really was Nadine Drake, could she have got to Kennington Square in time to pick up Shaun Francis in the Prince of Wales, take him home, and kill him?"

"What time did you and Andy leave the Twelve Bar?"

Melody flushed, realizing that she'd been paying no attention whatsoever to the time that night. "I'm not sure. His was the early set. Maybe somewhere between half past nine and ten."

"It could be done," said Gemma as Kincaid navigated Trafalgar Square. "Northern line from Tottenham Court Road straight to Kennington."

"But from what Ras.h.i.+d said, it sounded like someone had been plying Francis with drugged double gins for a good part of the evening." Melody wondered why she was arguing against Nadine Drake as their murderer. Was it because it terrified her to think that Andy might have been her target that night, and that it was only her presence that had protected him? "And besides," she added, "if Andy thought he recognized her, wouldn't Shaun Francis have recognized her, too?"

"Andy knew her much better," said Kincaid. "He saw her every day for several months. And even if Shaun had recognized her, why would he have been afraid of her? He wouldn't have known anything about Arnott's death, and even if he had, he would have been unlikely to make a connection."

"From Caleb Hart's description, she's very attractive," put in Gemma. "He might have been flattered."

"We don't even know if it was Drake that Caleb Hart saw looking at Arnott," Melody protested.

"It's a logical a.s.sumption, if Andy thought he saw her. We have CCTV of Arnott leaving the pub with a woman, and every reason to think that he had a woman with him when he checked into the Belvedere."

Melody sat back, watching the traffic lights change, trying to imagine what could make a woman murder two men so brutally, and trying not to picture Andy the way she'd seen Vincent Arnott and Shaun Francis. Feeling sick, she punched his number into her phone again, and once more it went to voice mail.

Having inched his way up Charing Cross Road, Kincaid swore as he turned into the one-way system on Longacre. The road was single lane, with widened, pedestrianized pavements on the right and no parking at all. "There's no way I'll be able to leave the car. I'll get as close as I can to the shop and keep you in sight."

But when they reached Le Perdu, the shop was dark and shuttered.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," said Gemma as Kincaid nosed the car up onto the pavement.

Gemma jumped out with Melody right behind her, and together they banged on the shop door. There was no answer, and no movement within.

The neighboring shops still blazed with light, so at a nod from Gemma, Melody took one side and Gemma the other.

The girl at the sales desk of Melody's boutique looked at her blankly when she asked if she'd seen the woman who managed the shop next door.

"The French shop? Le Perdu?" Melody added.

"Oh. Is that how you say it?" The girl shrugged. "Don't know her. Not very friendly, is she?"

Melody bit back the temptation to say she wouldn't know. "Did you know the shop had closed early?"

"No. Can't leave the shop, can I?"

Melody gave it up and thanked her, hoping Gemma had had better luck, but when she met Gemma outside, Gemma shook her head.

"Call Doug," said Gemma. "See if he's got the home address."

Doug answered on the first ring. "She's closed the shop," Melody told him.

"I was just going to phone you," he said. "She lives right round the corner, a flat in Floral Street." He gave her the address. "Be careful, will you?" he added.

"Somehow I don't think we're going to find her at home."

Kincaid swore when they returned to the car and pa.s.sed the information along. "b.l.o.o.d.y one-way system. I'll have to go round the mulberry bush to get down Floral Street."

"We'll walk and you can meet us there," suggested Gemma.

His lips tightened. "I don't think so. Hop in. I don't think another five minutes are going to matter."

It took longer than five minutes. Melody tried Andy again with no luck. When at last they managed to circle round the right way into Floral Street, they found the address, not far from the back entrance of the Royal Opera House. There was no name beside the bell for the flat number Doug had given them, and when they rang, there was no answer. The windows on the front of the building were dark.

"Try the other bells," suggested Kincaid, who had pulled the car up on the double yellows and got out with them.

No one answered in the other two flats. "Either no one's home from work yet, or these are lease properties that are empty."

Gemma gave the bell one last frustrated push, then turned away. "I'm requesting a warrant to bring Nadine Drake in for questioning. And I want a constable on the shop and on the flat in case she comes back. I wish I had more to give them than Caleb Hart's description." She turned to Melody. "Still no answer from Andy?"

When Melody shook her head, Gemma hesitated, then said, "Maybe he just doesn't want to talk to you. No offense," she added quickly. "But he may feel . . . awkward. Duncan, could you try?"

Melody read out the number to Kincaid, who dialed from his phone. "No joy," he said after listening for a long moment, then clicking off.

Gemma took a breath and straightened her shoulders in the way that meant she'd made a decision. "Could you ring Tam and have him try? In the meantime, I think we should go to Crystal Palace. Maybe Joe Peterson saw something that night. And in any case, he needs to be warned."

Melody had suffered from car sickness as a child. Although Kincaid drove deftly, recrossing the river and winding south and upwards, the patchy fog that curled round the car windows like sinuous ghosts made Melody feel disoriented and queasy.

She thought of a long-ago summer drive with her parents. She had been perhaps nine, and it had been late in the summer hols. They were traveling from the Kensington town house to their country place in Buckinghams.h.i.+re. The car was too warm, and her father had recently taken up smoking cigars. The smell, combined with the motion, had made her so ill that she'd made her dad stop and let her out so that she could vomit on the verge. He'd never smoked another cigar-at least not in her presence.

She certainly hoped she wasn't going to have to ask the same of Kincaid.

The summer hols . . . something niggled at her. She realized it was the story she'd told Gemma at the beginning of this case, about visiting Crystal Palace Park with her school cla.s.s. It had been very early in the autumn term, she was certain, because the heat had made it still feel like summer. She and Andy were near the same age-was it possible they had unknowingly pa.s.sed each other in the park that day?

Romantic rubbish, she chided herself. Yet she found the thought comforting, and she felt a bit better for the rest of the drive.

By the time they neared the summit of Gipsy Hill, they were driving through dense cloud. Cars loomed at them as they went round the triangle, yellow lights glaring, and the red and green traffic lights seemingly winked from out of nowhere.

"b.u.g.g.e.r driving in this," Kincaid said. "Are we close?"

Gemma consulted the map and her directions. "There's a turning to the right just past the White Stag."

The road appeared out of the fog so suddenly that Kincaid almost missed it. Slowing into the turn, he crept round the corner and down into a loop of road. Blocks of council flats were barely visible, set in amongst the trees on the steep hillside.

"Not bad for council flats," said Gemma as she looked round. "Maybe we should try living on benefits."

When Kincaid had found a parking spot and they climbed from the car, Melody drew her coat collar tight about her throat. The fog might look soft as cotton wool, but it seared the lungs and chilled to the bone.

Gemma consulted the building numbers, then pointed. "Up there. First floor."

They followed her up the slick open staircase with care, then along a concrete walkway until they reached a battered door with no name beside the bell. When Gemma pushed it, there was no sound, so she knocked loudly. They could hear a television blaring through the thin door. The curtains in the front window were torn and sagged at the top.

"Not prepossessing, in spite of the view this place must have in daylight," Kincaid murmured as Gemma knocked again.

The television went quiet and a man's voice said suspiciously, "Who is it?"

"DI James. Metropolitan Police. We'd like a word."

There was no reply. Gemma had lifted her hand to knock again when the door opened on the chain and a man peered out at them.

"I want to see some ID," he said.

Obligingly, Gemma held up her warrant card.

The man jerked his head towards Melody and Kincaid.

Melody showed her ID. "DS Talbot."

Kincaid, who stood behind them, merely flashed his and said, "Kincaid," deliberately omitting his rank.

The chain stayed fastened. "What do you want?"

"Can we come in, Mr. Peterson?" asked Gemma. "I'm sure you'd prefer we didn't discuss your business in front of your neighbors."

"Why should it matter with that lot?" he said dismissively, but he flicked the chain off and stepped back to let them in. He didn't deny that he was Joe Peterson.

If he was Andy's age, he'd seen some wear and tear, thought Melody. He was thin, with short brown hair and a scruffy bit of facial hair that couldn't quite be called a beard. He also had a faint, yellowing bruise below his right eye.

The flat looked no better kept, and it smelled of damp and stale smoke. Half-filled boxes lay strewn about the sitting room, empty beer cans littered the tables, and the stained back wall held a Crystal Palace football poster, its top corner curling down like a drooping flag.

"Are you going somewhere, Mr. Peterson?" asked Gemma.

"Nah. Girlfriend's moving out. You know women and their stuff."

Melody pegged his accent as public-school-trying-for-working-cla.s.s, and it was grating. "Did she give you that, your girlfriend?" asked Melody, touching her own cheekbone.

She saw him hesitate, contemplating a lie, and in that still moment the faint bruising on his nose was visible as well. Then he shrugged. "Nah. I had a bit too much to drink on the weekend. Had a little argy-bargy in the pub."