Part 10 (1/2)

”That's definitely Arnott,” said Melody. ”But I can't even tell if that was a man or a woman with him.”

”Back up just a couple of frames,” Gemma asked, then frowned as she watched the sequence again. ”A woman, I think. There's something slightly possessive about his posture, and something in the way she-if it is a she-moves . . . ”

Melody started to back the tape up once more, but Gemma said, ”No, go on. Let's see what else there is. All we know for certain now is that Arnott did leave the pub with another person, probably a woman.”

The tape ran on, and almost immediately, another group of people came out of the pub, milling about for a moment before splitting off in different directions, some to the left towards Westow Street, some to the right towards Belvedere Road. One, presumably male, with hood up and head down, crossed the intersection, but the fog swirled in and obscured him after that.

Then, from around the corner, where Melody remembered the pub had a side entrance, came an instantly recognizable figure. Andy Monahan, in a dark peacoat, head bare, guitar case over his shoulder, pulling an amp on a trolley. And with him, a thin, dark-haired young man carrying a longer, thinner case and pulling an amp as well.

A white Ford Transit van pulled up, and when the heavyset driver got out, Melody realized she'd seen him in the group that had walked towards Belvedere Road. He conferred with Andy and the dark-haired bloke, then disappeared towards the side entrance and returned carrying a drum kit. All three loaded equipment into the van, then seemed to argue for a few moments.

Then the drummer-or so Melody a.s.sumed-got into the driver's side, the dark-haired bloke got into the pa.s.senger seat, and their doors slammed shut with what seemed unnecessary force. The van sped away, leaving Andy Monahan standing with his guitar at the curb. A moment later, a Mini Cooper pulled up. Andy leaned in the window, apparently conferring with the driver. She saw him shake his head and gesture, as if reluctant or unhappy. But then he got in and the Mini zipped round the corner into Westow Street and disappeared.

Melody sat back, feeling a rush of relief she wasn't sure she could justify. ”That seems to bear out what Andy-the guitarist-and his manager told me yesterday. Still, I'll confirm the make on the manager's car. And I'd like to talk to the other members of the band. They were arguing about something, and I want to know what it was.”

Kincaid rang the bell at Doug's house in Putney, stamping his feet against the cold, for the day had set in crisp and-for the moment-clear. He held a paper bag from which rose the enticing aroma of hot beef burgers from the Jolly Gardeners just up the road.

He was about to ring again when he heard Doug shout, ”Coming. I'm coming,” then the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Surveying his erstwhile partner's rumpled hair, heavy-lidded eyes, and booted foot, Kincaid said, ”You do look a sight.” He held up the bag. ”I thought you might like some lunch.”

”Oh, G.o.d.” Doug hobbled out of the way so that Kincaid could come in. ”I'm starving. There's no food in the house. Melody offered to get something this morning, but I knew she'd already gone out of her way to fetch me from hospital and I didn't want to hold her up any longer.”

Kincaid followed him into the sitting room, where Doug levered himself back into his armchair and propped his booted ankle on the ottoman. An old episode of Top Gear was playing soundlessly on the telly, and Kincaid suspected Doug had been napping. Then he took in the tipped ladder and the spilled paint. ”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!”

Doug gave a disgruntled sigh. ”I think I'm going to be apologizing for my stupidity for the rest of my life. At least, as Melody reminded me, I was going to tear the carpet out anyway. I thought you were minding the kids, with Gemma on a big case,” he added as Kincaid pulled up another chair and unwrapped the burgers.

”Betty invited us all for Sunday lunch. I took advantage. Told her I was sure you needed some TLC. Although Melody seems to have done pretty well in the caretaking department, I must say.”

”She feels sorry for me.” Doug shrugged, but he looked pleased nonetheless.

Glancing at the front window, Kincaid saw a bright blue Renault Clio pull up to the curb. ”Speak of the devil.” He grinned.

”Melody? Here?” Doug looked round for someplace to set his burger and began to push himself out of the chair. ”She said she was coming back but I didn't think she'd manage it.”

”Stay put. I'll go,” Kincaid told him.

”I see we have a party,” said Melody when he greeted her at the door. She held a bag identical to the one Kincaid had brought, and when she came into the sitting room and saw their burgers, she laughed. Holding up her bag, she said to Doug, ”I brought you the Gardeners' Sunday roast chicken. I thought you could save half for your dinner, but now you can have the whole thing tonight.”

”Thanks,” Doug called out as she went to the kitchen and popped the bag in the fridge. ”But what about you? No lunch?”

Melody came back into the sitting room and perched on the edge of a chair. ”Sandwich at the station. And I can't stay long. Just wanted to make sure you were coping.”

”How'd you get away?” Doug asked.

”Skiving.” Melody gave a dimpled smile. ”No, really, I've got interviews, and Putney wasn't that far out of my way.”

”Interviews? Where?” Doug, obviously more interested in keeping Melody there than in eating, managed to find a spot for his half-eaten burger. He nibbled absently on a chip.

”Well, the thing is,” answered Melody, ”I'm not exactly sure.” She outlined the morning's developments, then added, ”Gemma has Shara going round the pub in Crystal Palace again-her reward for having to watch the p.o.r.n videos this morning-just in case any of the Sunday patrons were there on Friday night and might remember seeing Arnott talking to, or leaving with, a woman who might possibly fit the description of the person on the CCTV. And, of course, it's always possible that someone might admit to having had a previous liaison with him.”

”Of course?” said Doug. ”Is it really all that likely?”

Melody shrugged. ”You never know. A lonely woman, she might see it as a chance at a little attention. Maybe even an inch in the Evening Standard: My Encounter with the Victim.”

”Cynic,” said Doug. He looked much more chipper than when Kincaid had come in.

”What about Gemma?” asked Kincaid, wis.h.i.+ng she had rung him with an update.

”Still slaving away at the station. The results of the search of Arnott's car should be coming in, and she's hoping the computer techs will have something from his home computer. Oh, and I think she's tracked down the clerk from Arnott's chambers. Someplace in Battersea. The clerk, I mean, not the chambers.”

Doug rolled his eyes. ”Obviously. And you still haven't told us where Putney was on the way to.” He frowned at his garbled sentence, and Kincaid thought he was tiring. ”I mean-Well, you know what I mean.”

For the first time, Melody seemed a little hesitant. ”I've already spoken to the guitarist-the one that Arnott shouted at-but I want to talk to the other guys who were playing in the band on Friday night. There was something going on with them-they seemed to be arguing after the gig. It may not have any connection with the case, but I want to know what the row was about. I rang the manager, Tam, and confirmed that it was his Mini we saw on the CCTV picking up the guitarist. And I got phone numbers and home addresses for the ba.s.s player and the drummer. The ba.s.s player, Nick, lives in Earl's Court, and Tam said if I wanted to catch him I'd better go toot suite. His term, not mine. So I should be on my-”

”Melody,” Kincaid broke in. ”The band's manager is named Tam? And he drives a Mini?”

”Yeah. Funny little guy, but nice. He said his name is really Michael, but he wears this ratty old Scots tam-”

”Jesus.” Kincaid shook his head. ”I should have realized-I would have realized, if Gemma had told me . . . ” He frowned at Melody. ”This guitarist-what's his name?”

”Andy. Andy Monahan.” Now Melody was looking puzzled. ”Why?”

”Because,” said Kincaid. ”I know Tam Moran. And I know your guitarist, too.”

CHAPTER NINE.

Recording studios started setting up in the 1960s, and it was then that Denmark Street's name was etched into the archives. Denmark Street's impact on the contemporary music scene is widely regarded as far greater than the more populist location of Abbey Road.

-munity with its own communal garden flanking the river.

Kershaw was a thin, balding man in his forties, with a pleasant face. Now, he hesitated for a moment, glancing back into the flat, then said, ”Do you mind if we talk outside? It's just that it's Sunday, and all the kids are at home.” Gemma heard the sound of a piano being laboriously practiced, then a woman hus.h.i.+ng a childish shriek. The lingering aroma of a Sunday roast wafted out.

”Not at all.” Gemma smiled, wis.h.i.+ng she'd worn a warmer coat. ”It's not exactly a suitable discussion for the family.”

”Won't be a tic.” Kershaw shut the door, reappearing a moment later, slipping a heavy anorak over his cable-knit pullover. ”We can walk round the garden.” He led the way along a path through the low buildings. When they reached the riverfront garden, the wind hit Gemma full force.

”How many children do you have, Mr. Kershaw?” she asked, suppressing a s.h.i.+ver.

”Three. In nursery, primary, and secondary.”

”Oh, really? We have three as well. Quite a handful, aren't they?”