The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Page A

“Was it someone who might have known the victim? Was that why Mr. Arnott was so upset?”
    â€œNo. I don’t see how—” Monahan seemed to stop himself. “It was just some guy who’d had too much to drink and objected to our covers.”
    Melody studied him. “Do you always beat up the audience, Mr. Monahan? Not the best practice for someone who lives by their hands, I would think.”
    He flushed and looked away for the first time. “I don’t like being shoved. And I don’t like people putting their mitts on my guitar.”
    â€œSergeant.” It was Caleb Hart, who had carefully put down his video camera and now approached her, glancing at his watch. A Rolex, if she wasn’t mistaken. “If there’s nothing else we can help you with, our time here is fleeting. And expensive.”
    Melody felt a flash of irritation at being so summarily dismissed. But remembering the music they’d been making, she felt a stab of regret as well for the bubble she’d burst. She somehow doubted that they would all come together again in the same way, at least on this day.
    â€œIf you could just give me your contact information, Mr. Monahan and Mr. Moran. I think that will be all for now.” She was brusque, determined to put herself back in charge, but the harder she tried for authority, the more she felt she was making a fool of herself.
    Monahan patted his jeans pockets, then, looking around, said, “Tam, have you got a card?”
    His manager took a slightly weathered business card from a case in his jacket and passed it to him, along with a pen. Monahan slipped off the guitar and placed it on its stand, then walked over to the piano and used the flat surface of its top to scrawl on the back of the card. He brought it to Melody with a flourish.
    â€œName. Address. Mobile,” he said, and there was a hint of challenge in his look as he handed it to her.
    She gave her own card to Tam, then Monahan, and told herself it was an accident when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks. You’ll let me know if you think of anything else,” she added, making it a statement. “Thanks for your time.”
    Turning, she walked to the door, very aware of the clickety-clack of her heels on the floor and of four pairs of eyes on her back.
    She let herself out onto the platform, took a gulp of cold air, then started carefully down the stairs. Halfway, she stopped, hoping to hear the music start again, but there was not a sound from above.

CHAPTER SIX
    Locally the place name is often [used] as an alternative to Upper Norwood or the postcode area of SE19. If you ask a London taxi driver to take you to Crystal Palace he will usually assume to take you to the end of Crystal Palace Parade at the top of Anerley Hill, which used to have a roundabout and was the former location of the Vicar’s Oak.
    â€”www.crystalpalace.co.uk
    â€œIt was huge, the Crystal Palace.” Andy threw his arms wide in demonstration, and Nadine, sitting on the far side of the step, ducked away, laughing.
    â€œI believe you,” she said. “Really. I do. Be careful with that guitar,” she admonished. “You might actually be good at playing it, one of these days.”
    Flushing, Andy settled the Höfner more firmly across his knees. It was the first time anyone had given him the least bit of encouragement, and coming from Nadine it meant more than anything. He practiced every day, and had taken to playing on the front steps when he knew Nadine would be home soon. A lame excuse for keeping his observation post, but she didn’t seem to mind him being there.
    They’d developed an unspoken routine. When Nadine had parked her rattletrap of a Volkswagen, she’d put her handbag and work things in her flat before coming out again with lemonade or fizzy drinks for them both. Sometimes she changed from her dress into shorts, and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. She