Part 6 (1/2)

Gemma frowned. ”Did you see Arnott after that?”

”I served him another drink, maybe a bit before eleven,” Reg said, brow furrowed as he thought about it. ”Lost him in the crowd after that.”

”And this guitar player?”

”His manager made him put an ice pack on his hand. I know because I got some from the bar for him. Then, the band played another set and I think he left with the manager. c.r.a.p band, but the guitarist was good.”

”Any idea where we could find him?” asked Gemma, thinking that any lead was better than none.

”Matter of fact, I do.” Reg looked pleased at being able to offer something helpful. ”Only reason we put the band in last night was that Caleb Hart, the record producer, is a regular here and he wanted to hear the guy play. He's got him recording today at the studio down the hill. I can give you directions, if you like.”

CHAPTER FIVE.

August 1852 saw the rebuilding work begin and in June 1854 Crystal Palace was reopened in its new location by Queen Victoria . . . The whole building was enormous-1,848 feet long and 408 feet wide including two huge towers and many fountains with over 11,000 jets rising into the air.

-position? It was jazzy, bluesy, unique, and a little rough. When Andy had the words down, he came in on backup, adding his own riffs on the Strat, and the song began to mutate into something more polished. She was good, but together they were better.

After a while, he realized Caleb Hart was filming them with a video cam, and that they'd gone well past the time Caleb had allotted for the rehearsal s.p.a.ce. But he also knew no one wanted to burst the bubble. There would be time for that later.

What they were making, in this finite moment, was magic.

Gemma and Melody emerged from the warmth of the pub into a fierce wind blowing up Westow Street. The clouds were in tatters now, the temperature noticeably lower. Gemma b.u.t.toned her coat, then pulled up an area map on her phone.

”Shall we get the car, boss?” asked Melody. ”Drive back to the scene?”

Frowning, Gemma thought for a moment. ”I think one of us should check out this guitar player. So far he's the only person we know of that had any interaction with the victim.” Westow Street, where Reg the barman had said they would find the recording studio, ran to their right. Belvedere Road, where they'd left the car, to their left, Church Road and the Belvedere Hotel, straight ahead. ”Why don't you go to the recording studio,” Gemma continued. ”I'll walk down to the hotel, see if Shara or the techies have made any progress. Then we can meet back at the Arnotts' house. Maybe by that time the FLO will have Mrs. Arnott settled, and we can have a look through Arnott's things.”

”Right, boss.” Melody didn't look thrilled at the allocation.

”Maybe you can get an autograph,” Gemma teased. ”I could have sworn you had the makings of a groupie.”

When Gemma reached the Belvedere Hotel once more, the coroner's van was gone. The crime scene van was still parked in the road, however, so she decided to check in with the SOCOs before she compared notes with Shara MacNicols and talked to the hotel staff.

The younger constable, Gleason, stood guard at the propped-open fire door. When she reached the room, she found that the fresh air and the removal of the body had alleviated a good deal of the stench, although an unpleasant odor still lingered.

Mike and Sharon, the techs, had bagged the victim's clothing and the bedding, and were in the process of lifting prints from the room's surfaces.

”b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare,” said Mike as he transferred a strip of tape to a card. ”Prints everywhere. And fibers. The cleaning staff in this place don't exactly do spit and polish.”

”I'd never have guessed.” Gemma glanced in a tiny cubicle that she suspected was referred to as the ”en suite” bathroom. While the basin and toilet looked fairly clean, there were drifts of hair along the skirting boards. ”Ugh.” She found it interesting that a man as fastidious in his home and about his clothing as Vincent Arnott could have frequented a place like this.

”We did find something,” said Sharon. ”A spot of what looked to be fresh blood on the sheet.”

”Any corresponding injuries on the victim?” asked Gemma.

”Not that were readily visible. Ras.h.i.+d will be able to tell you, of course.”

That was something, thought Gemma. a.s.suming they could get DNA, or at least blood type. If the blood was not Arnott's, and the hotel cleaner would testify that she had changed the linens after the previous guest, they might be able to tie a suspect to the time and place. a.s.suming, that is, that they found a suspect.

It was time she had another word with the staff.

”Cancer?” Kincaid said, on a rush of dread.

But Louise shook her head. ”It's TB. Apparently it's on the rise in London, especially among the immigrant black and Indian communities. My clients, in other words.”

”But TB's treatable.” His relief was not mirrored in Louise's expression.

”Yes, but.” She gave him a tired smile. ”There's always a 'yes, but.' It seems there are more and more antibiotic-resistant strains. They've started me on the most consistently effective drug, but it will be a couple of months before they'll know if it's working.”

”Months?” Kincaid said in dismay.

”The normal course of treatment is at least a year on antibiotics. And that's a.s.suming the drug works from the beginning. And rest. Lots of rest. Not my cup of tea.”

”Will you be able to keep working?”

”I'll do as much from home as I can for the time being. I've hired an a.s.sistant, and I'll go into the office a few hours a week. But there's the contagion issue.” His alarm must have shown in his face because she shook her head. ”I'm not coughing, and I've been very careful with my hygiene,” she added, gesturing at his coffee. ”I think my hands may fall off from all the b.l.o.o.d.y was.h.i.+ng. So as long as we don't have 'intimate' contact”-she made a wry face-”they say there's little risk. But I thought it better not to have Charlotte in the flat.”

”And Michael and Tam?”

”Not likely to be any 'intimate contact' there.” Louise gave a hoa.r.s.e chuckle. ”At any rate, I've told them they should just leave me alone, the old biddies, but they won't hear of it. They'll need to be tested every few months, just in case.”

”If there's anything we can do-” he began, but she was already waving away his offer.

”Just get Charlotte settled.”

Next door, he found Michael and Charlotte had already returned from their walk. As often as he'd visited Louise, he'd never been in Michael and Tam's flat. The rooms were mirror images of Louise's, but considerably more tidy and organized. Potted plants the size of small trees filled the front windows, while one long wall held neatly shelved books and CDs. Several guitars on stands were tucked into a corner, and two large rectangular dog beds were positioned opposite the sofa and armchairs.

Charlotte sat in the middle of one of the dog beds, arranging dog toys neatly on the other. Jagger and Ginger lay nearby on the polished wood floor, watching her with expressions of bewilderment.

”They're very patient,” Kincaid said as Michael ushered him in.

”They love kids,” Michael answered. ”Interesting, isn't it, how they know? They knew about Louise, too,” he added more softly. ”That's why we insisted she see a doctor. d.a.m.n good thing.”

”How did they tell you something was wrong?” Kincaid asked, curious.

”Well, generally Louise is sort of tolerantly affectionate with them, and vice versa. But the last month or so, they've been glued to her, nudging, whining, then coming to us as if they expected us to know what to do. Finally, even we began to see how bad she looked. Then we bullied her into going to a clinic.”

”How bad is it, really?” murmured Kincaid, with an eye on Charlotte, who was still absorbed in her game.