The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie

but there had been a flicker of a glance towards the Scot. “This is my manager—”
    â€œMichael Moran. But everyone calls me Tam.” Tam reached out and gave her hand a hearty shake.
    â€œCaleb Hart,” said the bearded man. “Reg at the White Stag is a mate. I told him we’d be doing a session here today.”
    â€œYou’re the producer?” asked Melody.
    Hart nodded. “And this is Poppy Jones.”
    â€œPoppy,” repeated Melody, taking the girl’s offered hand. “Nice name for a singer.” She saw that the girl was older than she’d first thought, and Poppy confirmed it by saying, “About time it came in useful. I’ve been cursing my parents over it for twenty years.” Her accent, unlike Andy Monahan’s, was as middle class as Melody’s own.
    â€œWhat’s this about, then?” said Monahan, making it clear that they’d covered the social niceties.
    Melody tucked her ID back into her bag, giving herself a moment to frame her response. “We’re investigating the suspicious death of a man found in the Belvedere Hotel this morning. According to Reg at the White Stag, you had an altercation with the gentleman in the pub last night.”
    She saw the instant of shock in Monahan’s eyes, and the convulsive tightening of the fingers of his right hand.
    â€œDon’t know what you’re on about,” he began, but Tam was already shaking his head.
    â€œAn altercation?” said Tam. He put an exaggerated emphasis on the next to last syllable. “Is that what you call some pompous geezer complaining that the lad here had a bit of a row with a punter? Is it him that’s dead?”
    â€œThe pompous geezer’s name was Vincent Arnott. And Reg said Mr. Monahan hit someone. I’d call that more than a row.” She glanced at Monahan’s bruised hand.
    â€œWell, I didn’t hit him , if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Monahan dismissively, but Melody could have sworn it was relief that had washed across his face and left it pale.
    â€œDid you see Mr. Arnott after that?” she asked. “Maybe he sought you out to further his grievance.”
    Monahan shrugged. “Maybe he picked a fight with someone else. I didn’t see him again. I played the second set, then I went home. I certainly didn’t go to the Belvedere, and from what I saw of that bloke, I can’t imagine he did, either. Stuffed-up prick.”
    He was watching her carefully, and there was, thought Melody, curiosity mixed in with the relief. And something else. She felt her throat go dry and swallowed before she asked, “Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”
    â€œMe, lassie,” said Tam, ignoring Monahan’s earlier admonishment. “I was with the band the whole evening. After we broke down the equipment, I ran Andy home in my Mini.”
    Melody didn’t intend to let Tam Moran answer for Monahan. “Where’s home, Mr. Monahan?”
    â€œHanway Place. Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. And I don’t have a car, if that’s what you’re wondering. I didn’t go back to Crystal Palace.” He thought for a moment, absently plucking a few strings on the guitar, but didn’t take his eyes from Melody. “You said ‘suspicious death.’ What happened to this bloke?”
    â€œI’m afraid that’s confidential for the moment,” she answered, in her primmest police-speak. It wouldn’t be confidential for long, once the press got hold of the details. “Had you ever seen Mr. Arnott before? Reg at the White Stag said he was a regular there.”
    Monahan shook his head, frowning. “Don’t think so. And we’d never played that pub before.” The twist of his lips told her that it was not an experience he’d care to repeat.
    â€œBut you did hit someone last night, Mr. Monahan,” Melody persisted.