The Sound of Broken Glass Part 9

He was back in a moment, and having, of course, looked at the caller ID, said as he handed it to Gemma, "It's Melody."

Gemma pushed her plate aside and answered the call. "Has something come up?" she asked.

"As in a breakthrough?" Melody answered, with a laugh that sounded a little strangled. "Not unless you count Doug. He's broken his ankle. He's in Charing Cross Hospital."

Melody stopped at the Tesco at Notting Hill Gate and bought some grapes and a bunch of slightly wilted yellow roses. By the time she reached the hospital, she was regretting both purchases, but she carried them in anyway.

The nurse on the ward desk told her it was past visiting hours, but when Melody showed her warrant card and said she was Doug's fellow officer, she got a nod through.

"Not too long, though," the nurse added. "We've given him something for the pain, and he needs to rest."

Finding the curtained cubicle, Melody peeked in. Doug was dozing, his splinted leg propped up on pillows. He wore a pale blue hospital gown, and without his gla.s.ses and with his blond hair rumpled, he looked ridiculously young and vulnerable.

"Hey," she said softly. He opened his eyes and blinked at her. "Nice outfit you've got there," she added.

Fumbling his gla.s.ses from the nightstand, he put them on and glanced down at the gown. "I asked for pink, but they were out." He seemed to be making an effort to enunciate.

"Good thing." She sat in the plastic bedside chair, feeling awkward, and held up the Tes...o...b..g. "Grapes," she said, retrieving her first offering. Looking round for someplace to put them, she settled for an empty spot on the nightstand. The flowers she drew out a little more reluctantly. "They're a bit sad," she apologized. "Here, I'll put them in your water jug. I'll ask the nurse for a clean pitcher before I go."

"Thanks." He looked pleased, and she felt better.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, glancing at the ankle.

"Like blazes at first. Not so much now. They say it's a clean break, but I have to stay overnight. Have to get the swelling down before they can put on the cast . . . thingy." His eyelids drooped and he blinked owlishly at her. "Don't want me playing football."

"I wouldn't put it past you after this. The lengths you'll go to for a little attention."

"Lengths to get off work, more like it."

"Or to get out of DIY."

"There is that. Sorry to ruin your Sat.u.r.day night," he added.

"I had a hot date with the telly," she told him easily. "You'll owe me. Now, what's this about tomorrow morning?"

"I could take a taxi home, but they said I'd need help getting settled. Got to keep weight off the ankle for the first day or so." He licked at dry lips and took a sip of water before going on. "Hate to ask, but otherwise, I'll have to ring my mum in St. Alban's." Rolling his eyes, he added, "Fate worse than death."

Melody laughed. "I know what you mean. Not to worry. Just tell me what time," she rea.s.sured him, all the while wondering how she was going to juggle looking after Doug with the demands of a murder case.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The site attracted 2 million visitors a year and was also home to displays, festivals, music shows and over one hundred thousand soldiers during the First World War.

-www.bbc.co.uk Gemma was halfway to Brixton the next morning when her mobile rang. A taxi horn blared beside her just as she picked up, and then a familiar voice said in her ear, "I do hope you're on hands free. Talking while driving, tut-tut."

"Ras.h.i.+d, hi." She flipped on her headset. "I've just crossed the Battersea Bridge, so give me a sec." Easing into the traffic pa.s.sing Battersea Park, she said, "Okay, good now. What's up? You have something for me?"

"I'm on my way to a scene in Tooting Bec, but it's not one that can't wait half an hour. I thought maybe we could meet in Brixton for a chat. I'll be going right past."

Glancing at the car clock, Gemma saw that she'd be a good half hour early for the scheduled nine o'clock briefing, and from Melody's second phone call last night detailing the arrangements for Doug, she suspected Melody might be running a bit late. "Right, I can do that."

"Station?"

She thought a moment. "You know the Caffe Nero across from the tube station? Why don't you meet me there instead. I'll buy you a cuppa."

"Deal," said Ras.h.i.+d, and rang off.

There were disadvantages to having Ras.h.i.+d come into the station, Gemma had learned-mainly that every female in the building would come up with some excuse to stop and say h.e.l.lo. No one had warned her when she joined CID that a pathologist with rock-star looks might present a problem.

And, she admitted to herself, she wasn't averse to a little one-on-one case discussion with Ras.h.i.+d. Last night had not given her much chance to do more than go over the bare bones of it with Duncan. Between conferences with Melody and the normal dinner-bedtime routine with the children, she'd fallen into bed too knackered to do more than mumble a good night.

When she reached Brixton, she parked her Escort in her designated spot in the gated police station car park, then ducked out and hurried up Brixton High Street towards the place on the second level of the old Morley's Department Store. Only when the building was in sight did she remember that it was Sunday, and that the department store wouldn't open until eleven.

Ras.h.i.+d, however, was standing outside the Starbucks on the tube station side of the road, grinning. He wore his usual jeans and black leather bomber jacket. A woman walking by gave him a covert glance, but he seemed, as usual, completely oblivious.

"Starbucks will have to do," he said as she reached him. "Minus the view, but at least it's warm."

"As long as there's a double-strength latte, it could be the moon."

He held the door open and ushered her in with the lightest of touches on her elbow. "Early start?" he asked. "Or late night?"

"A bit of both. And Doug Cullen fell and broke his ankle yesterday. Melody's picking him up from hospital this morning, and Duncan's trying to make arrangements for the children so that he can look in on him midday."

"How the h.e.l.l did Doug do that? Sitting at the computer?" Ras.h.i.+d asked as Gemma got in the order queue. She didn't have to ask his coffee preference. One of the T-s.h.i.+rts he wore regularly bore the slogan PATHOLOGISTS DRINK JET FUEL.

"Apparently he's expanding his repertoire. He fell off a ladder while trying to paint his sitting room ceiling."

"DIY will get you every time." Ras.h.i.+d shook his head. "Silly git. He's lucky he didn't break his neck. I've seen enough cases like that." When Gemma had picked up their coffees and they'd found a booth, he added, "Any progress with our gentleman from yesterday?"

Gemma told him what they'd learned about Arnott's movements on Friday evening and about his home situation, adding, "And we found a stash of bondage DVDs hidden in his home office, but there was no other evidence that he made a regular practice of it. I'm having his car gone over today, just in case he kept equipment or contacts stashed there." She took a sip of her latte, which was still hot enough to burn her tongue. For a moment, she envied the other patrons, most of whom were lingering over spread-out copies of the Sunday Times with cooling ceramic mugs rather than paper takeaway cups. "I was hoping you'd have something more helpful," she said to Ras.h.i.+d.

He pulled a stack of printed sheets from the leather satchel he'd had slung over his shoulder. "Here's the report with i's dotted and t's crossed, but in a nutsh.e.l.l, I can tell you that he was strangled, and that it wasn't self-inflicted. Considering the bruising from the ligature, the pressure was definitely exerted from behind, so I think he was killed facedown, then immediately turned over."

"Could it have been an autoerotic liaison gone too far?"

"Most autoerotics go it alone. And the position was wrong. Pract.i.tioners want to, um, take full advantage of the stimulus."

Even with his olive skin, Gemma could have sworn that the imperturbable Ras.h.i.+d Kaleem was blus.h.i.+ng.

"Besides," he went on a little hurriedly, "the bruising was deep in the tissue. Most autoerotics just get carried away-and usually the deaths are hanging accidents-but whoever did this really meant to do damage. And there was no evidence of a.n.a.l penetration or s.e.xual activity of any kind."

The older man who had been so comfortably reading his paper in the next booth stood up, giving them a disgusted glare, and walked out.

"Oh, dear," said Gemma, glancing round to make sure there were no other patrons within hearing distance. "I'm afraid we've just ruined that poor man's breakfast."

"As long as he doesn't complain to the management." Ras.h.i.+d's grin was unrepentant.

"Any findings on the ligature?" Gemma asked, leaning a bit closer and keeping her voice down.

"Some luck there. First, he was gagged, but not tightly. There was a little chafing at the corners of his mouth, but no tearing, and no bruising of either lips or tongue."

"Would the gag have been enough to keep him from crying out?"

"He could have made some noise, but probably not anything intelligible."

"There was no one else in the bas.e.m.e.nt rooms. And there's a TV behind the reception desk," Gemma mused. "I'd bet the night manager keeps it on for company."

"Which would have masked any sounds from downstairs, especially with the interior fire doors closed." Ras.h.i.+d moved his coffee so that he could flip through the report, although Gemma was quite sure the gesture was no more than habitual. She'd never known him to have to check a fact. "I did find some interesting fibers," he went on. "Lodged in the corners of the mouth, a very fine silk blend. Pale gray. And in the ligature bruising on the neck, a few bits of a fuzzy wool-acrylic, some fibers navy, some maroon."

Gemma frowned, digesting the information. "I'll see what the SOCOs turned up as soon as I get into the station. The fuzzy stuff could have come from something that shed in the room as well." She sipped her cooling latte, which now tasted of scalded milk. "Anything interesting from the tox screen yet?"

"Blood alcohol was fairly high. He certainly shouldn't have been driving. And although his judgment was almost certainly impaired, I expect he could have still put on a pretty good front." Ras.h.i.+d glanced at his watch, then downed the rest of his coffee in one long swallow. "I'll have more for you on the tox results in a couple of days, but I'd better get on to Tooting Bec. An elderly man dead in his home, but the medics found an empty bottle of sleeping pills, so the coroner will need a postmortem.

"Oh, one more thing," Ras.h.i.+d added as he rose. "The SOCOs checked with me on the victim's blood type. That spot of fresh blood on the sheet? It wasn't Arnott's."

Getting Doug in-and out of-Melody's little Renault Clio had been a bigger undertaking than she had expected. Even after she'd slid the pa.s.senger seat all the way back, he'd had to grab the car's roof and lever himself in, grimacing as he positioned the unwieldy surgical boot in the foot well.

"Sorry, sorry," she'd murmured as she eased the car into traffic, hating the sight of his white face and clenched teeth.

Fortunately, the Sunday-morning streets were as empty as they were ever likely to be, and it wasn't far from the hospital to Putney. He'd needed her arm to get out when they reached his house, and that had made him grumble under his breath.

"You'll get better at it," she said, walking beside him as he hobbled up to the front door. "Are you sure you don't need a crutch or something?"

"No, they said I just had to stay off it as much as possible the first day or two. I don't need a b.l.o.o.d.y crutch or a cane, thanks very much." He fumbled the key in the lock, then stepped into the house with an obvious sigh of relief.

Melody had to bite her lip when she followed him into the sitting room and saw the overturned ladder and the spilled paint decorating not only the drop cloth but the surrounding carpet, like a monotone Jackson Pollock painting. "Good thing you'd decided to rip the carpeting out," she said only half jokingly. They'd discovered that beneath the worn brown flat-weave carpet, the original Victorian floorboards were in almost perfect condition. "Don't worry. I'll help you clean it up later."

She uncovered the armchair Doug had protected with a sheet and pulled up an ottoman. Both were finds from the Chelsea auction house they'd visited on several occasions, and she was glad they'd escaped unscathed. As Doug sat heavily in the chair and propped up his foot, she fetched his laptop, his phone charger, and the telly remote, putting them on a side table.

Surveying him with satisfaction, she said, "All comfy now?" then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Food. I forgot about food. Do you have anything in the house?"

"I thought we'd be going out yesterday, so I was going to do the shopping today." There was a tinge of self-pity in Doug's answer, but she couldn't really blame him.

"I can dash round the corner and get you an Egg Mcm.u.f.fin from the McDonald's," she offered.

Doug made a face. "No, I'm fine, really. They fed me something horrible in the hospital first thing this morning."

"Cup of tea?"

"No. You go on," he insisted. "I know you're late as it is. And thanks, Melody, really."

"Okay," Melody agreed, reluctantly. "But I'm going to pop in again after the briefing."

He flapped a hand at her in a half wave, and when she looked back from the door, his eyes were already closed.

To Melody's relief, when she arrived at the station, Gemma was just hurrying in the door to the CID suite. "Boss. Glad I'm not the only one late," Melody whispered.

"We've just seen Ras.h.i.+d," Gemma muttered back as their boss, Detective Superintendent Diane Krueger, turned to look at them with disapproval.

"Nice of you ladies to come in this morning." Superintendent Krueger had not made any casual concessions to Sunday-she wore a charcoal pin-striped suit with a knee-length skirt, and had her thick brown hair pulled into a neat French twist. "I've got a media interview in an hour, and I'd like to have something to tell them. Or at least know what not to tell them."

Krueger was a striking brunette in her midforties, slender, with a face that both still and video cameras liked. Melody knew that Gemma, who was a bit self-conscious about her North London accent when she heard it recorded, was always happy when Krueger volunteered for media duty.

Shara MacNicols, there before they were, gave them a smug look. She was seated in front of a computer monitor at one of the suite's long worktables, the pile of Arnott's DVDs beside her. Melody hoped she'd been watching them with the sound turned off.

"Sorry, guv," Gemma said to the superintendent. "We've just been meeting with the pathologist. He got the postmortem done ahead of schedule." As she and Melody slid into seats at the conference table, she went on, "Surely we want to say as little as possible. As in, 'London barrister found dead in suspicious circ.u.mstances near his Crystal Palace home. Police await coroner's ruling.'"

"Thank you, Gemma. I'll be sure to let you know next time I need help with a press release." Krueger sighed and relented a little. "Of course we'll try to keep this as low key as we can, at least until we have a better idea of what we're dealing with. But there's a very active virtual forum in the area, and a member reported police activity at the Belvedere Hotel. A newspaper stringer picked it up, talked to the staff, and Bob's your uncle. The journos are already camping in front of the station, and I can't keep them from talking to the hotel staff. By tonight we're going to be front-page and the ten o'clock news. I'd like to have something a bit more definitive to tell them."

"Yes, ma'am." Gemma knew the super was right.

Crossing the room to the whiteboard, Krueger stood with marker in hand, ready to add to the information already posted. "So, what did the delicious Ras.h.i.+d have for us?"

"Vincent Arnott was strangled, as we a.s.sumed," said Gemma quickly, aware that Melody was not in the loop. "Ras.h.i.+d said it was done from behind and that it was not self-inflicted. There was no sign of s.e.xual a.s.sault or activity."

She went on to detail Ras.h.i.+d's findings of the two different fibers, the gagging, and the fact that the spot of fresh blood had not belonged to the victim. "His alcohol level was high but not enough to incapacitate him. He did, after all, walk into the hotel and pay for the room, and there were no signs of further alcohol consumption."

Krueger added key points to the board. "The lack of s.e.xual activity doesn't mean we can rule out some sort of bondage nutter. Shara, is there anything on those videos to suggest he was into cross gender?"

"Not so far. Women wearing cheap dominatrix gear, tying up middle-aged men and telling them to be good little boys. Pretty pathetic, really."

"I a.s.sume you'd recognize expensive dominatrix gear if you saw it?" asked Krueger. It was their guvnor's idea of a joke, and when they all smiled obediently, she continued. "We'll see if forensics can get a DNA profile from that blood spot. Maybe some perp will conveniently pop up in the database. If not, we'll at least have something that might link a suspect to the scene, if-let's make that when-we do turn up a viable suspect. In the meantime, do we know anything about Arnott's work situation?"

"I've got the home number for his chambers clerk," said Gemma. "I'll see if I can set up an interview for today."

"What about the CCTV?" Krueger consulted her notes. "You had that pulled, I think, Melody."

Crossing to one of the computers, Melody logged into the case file. As she brought up the CCTV footage, she said, "Unfortunately, we've only got a camera covering the pub. There was nothing along Church Road by the hotel."

"So Big Brother is not everywhere," said Krueger. "Unfortunate indeed, in this instance."

Melody turned the monitor and they all gathered round the screen. "d.a.m.n," she said when the sequence began. "It's like b.l.o.o.d.y pea soup." The angle of the camera just caught the front of the White Stag, the intersection, and a few yards of Church Road, but the swirling fog would have made the location unrecognizable if one hadn't already been familiar with it.

Melody fast-forwarded and they watched the frames jump. Groups of people entered and left the pub's front entrance, moving in jerky quick time, like an old silent film. The digital counter clicked towards eleven o'clock, and suddenly there he was.

Arnott, recognizable in a break in the fog by his shock of silver hair. Melody slowed the tape, then backed up. There, again, Arnott exiting the pub, and now they could see that there was another person with him. But the figure was smaller, and s.h.i.+elded from the camera by Arnott's body. The couple moved away quickly, even in real time, and vanished from view a few yards along Church Road.