The Sound of Broken Glass Part 33

"What happened then?" asked Gemma, leaning forward.

"As soon as I got away from that d.a.m.ned hotel I was already ashamed of myself. Ashamed of what I'd done. Ashamed of how I'd felt doing it. I almost went back, but I couldn't make myself. I didn't know if the band had finished at the White Stag, but there was no way I could face Andy after that. Not that night. I flagged a taxi on Church Road and went home."

Gemma threw a swift glance at Melody, who still stood by the cubicle curtains, her face unreadable. Then Gemma said quietly to Nadine, "But you still wanted to see Andy, didn't you."

"Not that next day, no. I was so sickened by what had happened. By what I'd done. But I'd seen Andy's name on the schedule for the club in Denmark Street for Sunday night, and by that time I thought-I still thought I owed him some sort of explanation or apology.

"But when I saw him play that night, really play, with his heart in it, I knew he was all right. More than all right." Nadine's expression softened at the memory. "And then"-Pausing, she looked at Melody, studying her as if making an a.s.sessment. Then she nodded again, once, and spoke to her directly. "After that first set, when I saw him look at you, I knew he didn't need my interference or my apologies. He'd moved on, and I knew I must, too.

"It was only when I was walking home from the club that I saw on the telly about Arnott. That he was dead. I thought"-Nadine turned a pleading gaze back to Gemma-"I thought I'd killed him. That maybe he'd suffocated from the gag, even though it wasn't tight. I should never have left him like that. It was stupid and childish. But I didn't see how I could explain what I'd done . . . Oh, G.o.d." Nadine sagged back against the pillow.

"The police believed you before, when Joe Peterson made those accusations against you," said Gemma.

"Yes, but little good that did me." There was a first hint of bitterness in Nadine's smile. "All week, I'd been frantic with worry, trying to decide what to do. And then yesterday, when I saw the police outside the flat . . . I just . . . panicked. It was only when I'd had time to come to my senses that I knew I had to confess what I'd done. But I also knew I needed one last chance to talk to Andy, after all. I was sure he thought badly enough of me, but I couldn't bear him thinking I'd deliberately harmed someone, even that horrible man."

"And what about Shaun Francis?" asked Gemma.

"Shaun Francis . . . " Nadine frowned. "Oh, he was the other boy, wasn't he? The one who backed up Joe Peterson's story?"

"But you hadn't seen him since?"

"No." Nadine looked confused. "Why would I have-"

"He was killed, too. After Arnott."

Nadine glanced from Gemma to Melody. "But what-I don't understand any of this. Why would someone kill Shaun Francis? And why was Joe waiting for Andy in the house? Why did he attack Andy and me?"

Gemma answered. "Nadine, Vincent Arnott didn't suffocate. He was strangled. Shaun Francis was strangled the same way two nights later, but this time with the scarf you used to gag Arnott."

"What?" Nadine's eyes grew wider. "Dear G.o.d. My scarf. So that's why you came to my flat. You thought I killed both of them?" She took a moment to think it through, then frowned. "But in the house today, Joe said something about 'the others.' It was Joe who killed them?"

"Peterson was there at the White Stag on Friday night, perhaps for the same reason as you. Maybe he saw Andy's name on the pub flyer and wanted to see what Andy had made of himself. He approached Andy at the break. Andy was furious. He hit him. This was the scuffle that prompted Arnott's outburst.

"Then," Gemma continued slowly, still working things out for herself, "we have to a.s.sume Joe recognized you and Arnott. We have CCTV footage of him following the two of you from the pub. I wonder . . . " She paused, visualizing the hotel. "The room at the Belvedere had ground-level windows. Do you remember if the curtains were closed all the way?"

Nadine shook her head. "I-I don't think so. They didn't hang right."

"If Joe followed you to the hotel," Gemma went on, "and saw Arnott let you in the fire door, he could have seen into the room through the cracks in the curtains. And we discovered that the latch on the fire door was broken. So when you left-"

"Oh, G.o.d," Nadine whispered. "He just walked in. I gave him the perfect opportunity. If I hadn't-and he took my scarf from Arnott's mouth after he was dead?"

"It doesn't matter," Melody said suddenly, sharply, stepping forwards. "It was Andy that Joe was angry with that night. He was always jealous, and Andy publicly made a fool of him. If Joe hadn't followed you, he might have waited for Andy, and who knows what he might have done? He came close enough today. All of this-everything that happened all those years ago, and everything that's happened this last week, these two murders-spiraled out from Joe Peterson's actions. Not yours. Not Andy's.

"Andy never knew, by the way, what the boys had said about you. He didn't know you lost your job or why you left your house. All this time he's thought it was his fault, that you left because you blamed him for what happened."

Nadine's eyes brimmed with tears. "But I never-"

"He wants to see you," said Melody. "He wants to make sure you're all right."

"Oh, no, but I-" Nadine wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. "How can I face him now, if all this time he's thought that of me?"

"Because he knows the truth. And I think it's far past time the two of you really talked. I'll get him, shall I?"

Slowly, Nadine nodded. But when Melody turned to go, she whispered, "Wait. Will you stay?"

"I'll get Andy," said Gemma, and slipped from the cubicle.

For a moment, Nadine gazed at Melody, searching her face. Then, her whisper so faint that Melody stepped up to the gurney to hear, she said, "I'll go back to Paris, you know, as soon as I can. I realized, before any of this, that I should never have come back to England. There's no life for me here."

"But Andy-"

"I'll be an old friend." She smiled. "He can write to me, if he wants. I'll follow his career. Maybe someday the two of you can come to Paris."

"But I-but we aren't-"

"I saw you together, at the club in Denmark Street. And today, when you went back into that fire-he wouldn't leave me, but he was terrified for you. I thought-I hoped that you would promise to look after him."

Melody shook her head. "I don't think Andy needs looking after."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong." Nadine reached out and touched Melody's hand. "We all need looking after. It's the greatest of mistakes to think otherwise. No one knows that better than me."

When Doug Cullen's doorbell rang on Thursday evening, he thought it was about time that Melody had come to tell him in person what had been happening, instead of sending him abbreviated and inscrutable texts.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he shouted as he hobbled to the door. Maybe he should just have a key made for her, if his d.a.m.ned ankle didn't get better soon.

But when he opened his door, it was not Melody who stood on his slushy step, but Detective Inspector Maura Bell.

In her tan trench coat, she looked just as he remembered, although perhaps a bit more worn. Incongruously, she was holding a bunch of supermarket flowers. As he stared at her, she thrust them out. "I heard you broke your ankle."

"What are you-how did you-"

"Your friend Sergeant Talbot gave me your address. I thought, since you never returned my calls, that maybe with the b.u.m ankle you couldn't avoid me."

"But I- You were the one who-" Doug stopped. The memory of her rejection still made him cringe. He'd thought their relationship was going somewhere until the night he tried to kiss her on the Millennium Bridge.

"You never gave me a chance to explain."

"You didn't have to-"

"Just shut up, will you, Doug?" She gave the exasperated sigh he remembered. "I'd been seeing someone before I went out with you. We'd split up. Before I met you that night, he'd rung, wanting to get back together. I'd thought it might work out, and so I didn't want to- It was complicated."

Doug frowned. "Did it work?" he asked, interested in spite of himself.

"For a week." Maura made a disgusted face. "Lucky it lasted that long. I was an idiot, and all the while I was ringing you and you wouldnae talk to me. Look. I didnae come to grovel. I just thought maybe we could be . . . friends. If you're not going to let me in, at least take your stupid wee flowers. I'm b.l.o.o.d.y freezing." Maura shivered.

It had started to snow again, great white flakes that drifted gently in the glow from the streetlamp.

Doug pushed his gla.s.ses up on his nose. He remembered now, not how hurt he'd been, but how much he had liked this p.r.i.c.kly, funny woman, who was never less than honest.

"I seem to be making a habit of acquiring female friends," he said. "I suppose I could do with one more." Opening the door wide, he stepped back. "You didn't by any chance bring anything edible?"

Melody and Gemma waited at the hospital for Joe Peterson to come out of the operating theater. The afternoon had drawn into night, and when Melody, restless, went to look out the reception area doors, the snow was falling again.

The foyer door opened and Andy came to stand beside her. His hair fell over the square of white gauze on his forehead, making him look quite rakish.

"Is she gone, then?" asked Melody. He'd insisted on staying with Nadine until she was released.

"She wouldn't let me see her back to Covent Garden." He shrugged. "It's very odd. How someone can seem so different and yet the same. She said she'll go back to Paris."

"I know. She told me. There will be some legal things to work out first."

"Will she be all right, do you think?"

"Yes." Melody considered. "I think so." It seemed to her that Nadine Drake had not only survived what life had thrown at her, but that she might at last have found her place in it, and some peace. "What about you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I lost the Strat. It was in the flat."

"Oh, Andy." She turned to him. "I'm so sorry." She'd come to realize what the guitar meant to him. It had been his talisman, his connection to the past, his hedge against fate. "They might recover it."

"Time for a new start, maybe," he said, with a shrug. "But Poppy will be livid. She liked the sound." He threw a glance at her. "I was thinking of quitting. The thing with Poppy." Touching a finger to the cold gla.s.s, he gazed out at the snow. "I thought that if I let myself care about anything, I would somehow lose it, and I didn't want to take that chance with something I'd wanted so badly. But I think I might have been wrong."

"You can't dream of quitting," said Melody, horrified. "You're brilliant, the two of you. If you don't do this, you'll regret it the rest of your life."

He turned to meet her eyes. "It would mean I'd be touring. There wouldn't be much time for-"

Gemma, coming into the foyer, said, "Oh, there you two are. Peterson's out of surgery, and they think he'll be okay, barring infection. I'm just going to order a guard, although I don't think he's going to be jumping up and running about any time soon, thanks to you, Andy." She sighed, rubbing at a bit of soot left at her hairline. "And his father's shown up, with lawyer, so I'm going to have to deal with them. I'll enjoy telling him that we will be the ones pressing charges, not him. Melody, you might as well leave me to it. I'll see you at the station in the morning." Straightening her shoulders, she headed back for reception.

Melody didn't know what Andy had been going to say, and couldn't bring herself to ask. Instead, she ventured, "I don't suppose there's any chance of me getting my car."

He laughed. "From Crystal Palace, in this weather? Nothing will move in or out of the triangle until it thaws. But we can get the train from Denmark Hill."

"We?" she said, hesitantly.

"Well, as far as you want to go together. I mean-" He colored. "You never told me where you live, you know."

"Notting Hill." Melody thought of going home to the quiet, empty flat. The flat she had never invited anyone to visit, not even Gemma or Doug, because she'd been afraid of their breaching her carefully built barriers.

And what, she thought, had that got her? Nights spent in front of the telly, drinking a few too many gla.s.ses of wine and eating ready meals. Suddenly the safety of her solitary existence seemed much less appealing.

She remembered the fantasy she'd had, the evening of the day she'd met Andy. Standing at the window of her flat, looking down into Portobello Road, she'd wondered what it would be like to walk, arm in arm with him, in the cold, brisk air, feeling the warmth of his body through her coat. Now, with a flutter of desire, she imagined much, much more.

She took a breath and said, "We could go to my place, if you like."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

There have been a number of proposals for the site over the years but all of them have fallen to the way side . . . But Crystal Palace will live on in the minds of those that loved it for a very long time to come.

-Betty Carew, www.helium.com Kincaid woke early on a dark Monday morning in February, showered, then spent a good deal of time examining the contents of his wardrobe. At last he decided on a suit and tie rather than his usual trousers and sports jacket. He felt he should mark the occasion. It had been so long since he'd dressed for work that he had to brush the dust from the shoulders of his jacket.

"You'll look lovely, whatever you wear," said Gemma, coming out of the bathroom and kissing him on the cheek.

"I don't think 'lovely' is the operative word," he countered, but grinned.

"Wear the blue, then. It brings out the color of your eyes. I can take Char this morning, if you like," she added, continuing the quick, deft plaiting of her hair that always amazed him.

"No, I want to. But thanks."

Gemma had been busy the past few weeks, tying up the details of the Peterson investigation for the Crown prosecutor. Although Joe Peterson and his lawyer were staunchly protesting his innocence, they'd found a fingerprint match in the room in the Belvedere Hotel, and Peterson's blood type and DNA had matched that of the blood spot found on the sheet beneath Vincent Arnott's body.

Kincaid was glad to see Gemma getting the credit she deserved for solving the case-it erased a bit of the guilt he'd felt over what he'd suspected were the real reasons behind her appointment to the South London murder team.

And he'd achieved a major victory-he'd got her to agree to a dinner invitation from MacKenzie Williams for the coming weekend.

Their morning routine went on as usual. The house smelled of bacon and toast. Dishes clattered in the kitchen and the rooms rang with the racket of children and animals, all demanding one thing or another. When it was time, leaving Gemma to see the boys off, he buckled Charlotte into the Astra and drove her the short distance to her school.

He hadn't expected the lump in his throat as he walked her to the door and pushed the buzzer. "Bye, sweetheart." He leaned down to kiss her. "See you tonight." Charlotte had adjusted so well to her new school that she had now begun full days.

"Bye-bye, Papa." She wrapped her small arms round his neck and pressed her face against his, and then she was gone, into the throng of children in their bright blazers.

He'd get used to it, he thought. He would get used to leaving her.

The traffic was light for a Monday, and he arrived at the Yard even earlier than he'd intended. The building seemed unusually quiet as well. There was no one in the corridor when he arrived on his floor, no one to welcome him on his first day back.

For a moment, he considered going up to see his guv'nor, Chief Superintendent Childs, before he went into his office, but he was suddenly and unexpectedly eager for the sight of the small room with its rickety coatrack and carefully organized shelves of books. He'd missed it.

Opening the door, for a moment he thought he'd wandered into the wrong office. He shook his head, baffled. There were his shelves-he'd built them himself when he'd first been promoted to superintendent. But they were empty. Cardboard boxes sat stacked against one wall.

And it was his desk, an old oak piece he'd bought at an estate sale to replace the standard police issue when he'd first started at the Yard. But it was bare as well, except for a plain white envelope with his name scrawled across the front.

He felt as if he were sleepwalking. Slowly, he picked up the envelope, lifted the unsealed flap, and eased out the single sheet of paper.

It was a letter of transfer. And his chief superintendent had signed it.