"Okay," Kincaid agreed, thinking that trying to conduct an interview with a cripple and a three-year-old would have to go down on his list of firsts. Especially when the interviewee was a friend. "I'll pick you up in about half an hour. We'll get lunch."

"Right-ho." Doug sounded only marginally more cheerful.

"Doug, what's bothering you? You're not just bored." Kincaid walked on, waiting for a response.

He'd begun to think the line had gone dead when Doug said, "There was something . . . The way Melody talked about that guitar chap yesterday-did you notice? I didn't like it. Something's up, and I want to know what it is."

Melody was still shaky with relief as she followed Gemma and Maura Bell out of the flat. Not that she'd suspected Andy of having anything to do with Vincent Arnott's death-of course she hadn't. But the fact that she'd been consorting-consorting? Good G.o.d. The very word made her damp down a hysterical desire to laugh.

Whatever she chose to call it, she'd crossed the line with someone connected to their investigation, and the fact that she knew that Andy Monahan had a solid alibi for the time of this victim's death made her feel both giddy and horribly awkward. If the subject of Andy's whereabouts came up for any reason, she was going to have to come clean with her boss. She flushed at the thought.

And G.o.d forbid someone mentioned it to Doug. Not that she and Doug had that kind of relationship, but she'd let him down last night, and even without that, she knew that he would think less of her.

How she felt about what she'd done, she had yet to figure out. In the meantime, however, she'd better concentrate on the business at hand-although even that admonition didn't stop the little shiver of remembered desire that ran through her.

Gemma and DI Bell were talking to a woman who stood behind the low iron railing of the flat next door. She was stout, gray haired, and tweedy, and in her arms she held a Yorkshire terrier with a pink bow in its hair.

"It's Verne," she was saying, her honking voice raised to a decibel level that indicated she suffered from hearing loss. "Myra Verne. Lived here since 1972. The garden flat. Cheap in those days, the flats round here, though you wouldn't think it now."

"Mrs. Verne," said Gemma, "if you could-"

"It's Miss. Never married. Never saw the point in being saddled with a man to look after."

"Quite right, I'm sure, Miss Verne." Gemma gave her a conspiratorial smile. "But about last night-"

"Something's happened to that young man next door, hasn't it? The one in the ground-floor flat. Spells his name S-h-a-u-n instead of S-e-a-n. b.l.o.o.d.y pretentious, if you ask-"

"Miss Verne," interrupted Maura Bell, "if you could just tell us-"

"That's exactly what I'm doing, young woman." Myra Verne's tweedy shoulders stiffened in offense, and the Yorkie gave a sympathetic growl that might have been mistaken for a mosquito whine.

Gemma gave Bell a quelling look. "Miss Verne, you were saying?" Accustomed, Melody knew, to the boisterous good nature of her own dogs, Gemma reached out to stroke the Yorkie.

"Princess doesn't like strangers," warned Miss Verne. "She didn't like him, either." She jerked her head towards the next-door flat. "He had the nerve to complain about her barking in the garden. It's her garden, isn't it? She has every right." She clutched the dog to her bosom more tightly. "Yuppies," she added with venom, and it took Melody a moment to realize she didn't mean the dog. "They've taken over the square, with all their flat conversions and German appliances."

Gemma tried again. "Miss Verne-"

"So what sort of fix did he get himself into? I know there's something, with that woman coming out of the flat this morning howling like a banshee and then the cavalry arriving in full force."

Melody could see that even Gemma was losing patience. "Miss Verne," said Gemma firmly, "we're not at liberty to say. Did you see or hear anything last night that led you to think that Mr. Francis might be in some sort of trouble?"

"He was off to the pub when I went out to put my rubbish in the bin. About seven or half past, when I'd finished my supper. Every night he was there, even on a Sunday. I think he ate all his meals at the place, too." Miss Verne sniffed in disapproval.

"You mean this pub?" Gemma gestured towards the pretty place in the corner of the square. "The Prince of Wales?"

Having seen the appealing menu on the pub's outdoor blackboard, Melody shuddered to contemplate Miss Verne's idea of a proper meal.

"It used to be a nice quiet place. But now, even in the winter, people bring their dogs and carry their beers into the square as if it was a public park. It drives Princess mad."

"Quiet, all right," muttered Maura Bell. "Supposedly in the sixties it was the hangout of the Richardsons, the rival gang to the Krays. If you ask me, the lawyers and politicians are an improvement, although maybe not any more honest," she added.

Gemma gave Bell a startled glance. "Lawyers?"

"It's all lawyers and MPs round here these days," answered Miss Verne. "As I was saying. d.a.m.ned yuppies."

"Shaun Francis was a lawyer?"

"Trainee barrister, or so he said. Although I don't see how a trainee barrister could have afforded that flat."

"Barrister?" Gemma repeated faintly, looking at Melody. "Surely not-" She caught herself and turned back to the neighbor. "Miss Verne, will you excuse us? You've been most helpful and we will want to get a full statement from you in writing, if you'll just bear with us for a few minutes."

She walked away before their witness could protest, motioning Melody and Maura to follow. When they were out of Miss Verne's hearing, she hissed, "Another barrister? Strangled? Dear G.o.d. This is turning into a royal b.a.l.l.s-up. What the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

"Something Shakespeare would have loved," said Melody.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Spitalfields takes its name from the hospital and priory, St. Mary's Spittel that was founded in 1197. Lying in the heart of the East End, it is an area known for its spirit and strong sense of community. It was in a field next to the priory where the now famous market first started in the thirteenth century.

-www.spitalfields.co.uk When Kincaid had rung Tam, asking if they could meet, Tam had suggested not his and Michael's flat near Columbia Road, but the Canteen restaurant at Spitalfields Market.

Kincaid had insisted on leaving Doug and Charlotte by the Lamb Street entrance while he parked the car, to put less stress on Doug's ankle, and now as he caught them up and they crossed the central s.p.a.ce in the market, he could see Tam seated in the outside area of the restaurant. Because the market was covered and at least partially enclosed, the restaurants were able to maintain a semblance of pavement cafes, with a little help from outdoor heaters.

"Will this suit?" asked Tam, standing. He pumped Kincaid's hand, then Doug's, then shook Charlotte's hand and Bob the elephant's plush paw very solemnly.

He'd already had the staff bring a booster seat for Charlotte, and as he lifted her into it, he said, "I think there's a wee surprise for you, la.s.sie."

Carefully arranged at Charlotte's place were an activity book, crayons, and a paper lion badge. "See, there's a place to put this fellow in the book." Tam showed her where to put the lion. "And the next time you come, you can get a different animal to add to your collection."

"There's a place for an elephant," said Charlotte, entranced. She looked at Kincaid. "Can we come again soon, Papa? I might get the elephant."

"I should think we could manage that." Kincaid gave Tam a curious glance. "What did we do to deserve such largess, Tam?"

"Ah, well, it's not entirely in your honor, I have to admit." Tam settled his faded hat a little more firmly on his head. "But I felt the need for a celebration, and who better to share it with than such friends? But let's order-I could eat a horse."

The restaurant specialized in traditional English food, so after some discussion on the nature of rarebit-Kincaid a.s.suring Charlotte that it was a cheesy sauce and had nothing to do with rabbits-he chose the Welsh rarebit with a poached egg for her and the smoked haddock for himself. Tam and Doug went the whole hog-so to speak-for the roast pork of the day.

When the waiter had taken their orders, Kincaid scrutinized his friend. "So, what's all this, Tam?" A spark of hope flared. "Is it Louise? Some good news about her diagnosis?"

Tam's face fell. "No, things are just the same there, I'm afraid. Michael's cooking for her every night. We'll rub along as best we can."

"What, then? You've won the lottery?"

Tam grinned, although his Scottish dental work was a sight perhaps best not seen too often. "Close enough, maybe, for my business. Maybe as close as I'll ever come, and I've seen a good few musicians come and go over the years. But this time, Duncan, I just may have hit the pot of gold."

"Someone new?"

"No, it's my lad Andy. I got him a gig playing guitar for a girl singer, and her manager filmed them-just rehearsal time, mainly, and a bit yesterday in the studio. He did some editing, then put it up on YouTube just to see what kind of response it would get." Tam shook his head. "I'd never have believed it. The b.l.o.o.d.y thing is going viral. In a day. We're scrambling now to get the contracts in place so we can get the song up for downloads. It's- I've never seen anything like it." For a moment, Tam looked as if he were going to cry. "I havenae even told Michael yet. Afraid to jinx it. That's why I didn't want you to come to the flat."

Kincaid saw that what had seemed a simple enough errand had suddenly become much more complicated, not to mention that at Tam's mention of the guitar player, Doug had begun to glower.

He plunged in. "Tam, I didn't ring you about Louise. In fact, it was Andy Monahan I wanted to talk to you about."

Tam stared at him. "You've seen the video already?"

"No. It's about the man who was murdered in Crystal Palace. The one that Andy had the row with in the pub on Friday night."

"What?" Tam stared at him. "There wasn't any row. The daft b.u.g.g.e.r came up and shouted at Andy during the break."

"Did you actually see it?"

"No." Tam sounded less certain. "I just came in on the aftermath. I'd walked Caleb-that's Caleb Hart, the girl singer's manager-to his car. Andy had blown him away in the first set, in spite of the other two acting like prize pillocks."

"The other guys in the band, you mean?"

"Oh, they're all right, those lads, but they're not in the same league and they know it, and everyone was out of sorts over a gig that was meant to showcase Andy. Look, Duncan, what's this all about? We've already spoken to that sergeant la.s.sie that came to the studio on Sat.u.r.day-bit prim, but the lad seemed taken with her. And I thought you were off work looking after the wee one here." He glanced at Charlotte, who was still immersed in her activity book.

"Tam, it's Gemma's case. I told her I'd talk to you."

"And that 'sergeant la.s.sie' is Detective Sergeant Melody Talbot," put in Doug, obviously offended on Melody's behalf. Kincaid was tempted to kick him under the table.

"But I don't understand." Tam's buoyant mood had evaporated like a p.r.i.c.ked balloon. "What do you want with Andy?"

They all fell silent as the waiter brought their food. Kincaid helped Charlotte make a start on her Welsh rarebit, but no one else touched their steaming plates. "The thing is," Kincaid said, "Andy Monahan was the last person known to have had any contact with the victim-Vincent Arnott-before Arnott was found dead. Are you sure he didn't know the man?"

"Why would he? I only booked the band in that pub because Caleb Hart asked me to."

"What about Caleb Hart? Could he have known Arnott?"

Tam frowned. "Well, he didn't say so. But I suppose it's possible."

"You said Hart left the pub after the first set. Do you know where he went?"

"He said he had a meeting. But, Duncan, you can't think Caleb Hart had anything to do with this." Tam sounded horrified.

"The only verifiable thing I know is that Andy played the second set with the band, and that you picked him up outside the pub afterwards. You told Melody-Sergeant Talbot-that you drove him home. I know where Andy lives, and I think it's highly unlikely he could have got back to the Belvedere Hotel in Crystal Palace from Oxford Street in time to murder Vincent Arnott. Anyone else could be in the frame."

Tam dropped his cutlery on the plate with a clatter. "What is this, b.l.o.o.d.y Big Brother? And how do you know where Andy lives?" His raised voice was enough to make Charlotte look up anxiously at Kincaid.

"Is Tam mad at you, Papa?" she asked. "I don't like people being mad."

"No, sweetie." Kincaid shook his head at Tam, then helped Charlotte cut up some more of her rarebit and toast. "Would Bob like some Welsh rabbit, too?" He mimed feeding the plush elephant an imaginary bite, and Charlotte giggled.

"There was a CCTV camera outside the pub," Kincaid explained quietly to Tam. He picked up his own knife and fork and started on his haddock, irritated with himself for having let the conversation get out of hand. He'd needed reminding that he was here as a friend, not a policeman. "And the reason I know where Andy lives is another story that has nothing to do with any of this," he went on. "I knew Andy before I ever met you."

"He never said."

"He'd have had no reason. He was a witness in a case. He didn't do anything wrong, and now I only want to help the both of you if I can."

"I'm sorry, Duncan," said Tam more calmly. "Didn't mean to lose my temper. But you have to understand how important this is." He leaned over the table in entreaty. "Andy-well, Andy's special. I suppose he's a bit like a son to me. I saw him play in a club when he was just barely out of school, signed him then and there. He hadn't any family, so I've always tried to look after him if I could. And now, this thing with Caleb and the girl-I don't know that either of us will ever have another chance like this. If there's anything you can do to clear this up-"

"Well, why don't I talk to Caleb Hart? Unofficially. Maybe I can stave off the official interview if he can account for his whereabouts after he left the pub that night."

Tam took a bite of his pork and chewed thoughtfully. "Caleb and I go back a long way. I know he's had some problems in the past, but he's always been straight with me. And he did me a favor by asking me if I had a session guitarist to work with his girl, when he knew how good she was. So I owe him. If you could do it, maybe, delicate like?"

"Delicacy is my middle name."

Tam looked unconvinced, but he sighed and said, "His office is just round the corner, in Hanbury Street."

Melody could see that Gemma was not amused by her "Let's kill all the lawyers" reference.

"Henry the Sixth?" said Maura Bell. "I did Shakespeare at school, too, you know," she added to Melody, as if Melody had questioned her scholastic credentials.

"Just don't anyone breathe the words serial killer," said Gemma. "There's got to be some connection between these two men, other than being barristers who frequented pubs before they were strangled. But we have got to make certain that no one says anything to the press about the manner of death.

"We couldn't keep what happened at the Belvedere quiet because of the hotel staff. But here, the sister's the only one who saw anything, right, Maura?"

"I've had a PC with her in the car, and I think she was too shocked to talk to anyone."

"Let's try to keep it that way. Melody, can you go have a word at the pub while I speak to the sister? Oh, and look out for a puddle of sick as you go."

"Thanks, boss," said Melody, but despite the sarcasm she was happy enough to have a few minutes to herself.

Melody surveyed the square. a.s.suming Shaun Francis had been at the Prince of Wales, and he had been drunk and ill, would he have gone round by the pavement to get home, or taken the most direct route, across the unfenced garden?

Garden, she thought, even in the dark, so she cut through it herself, walking carefully, eyes on the ground. She saw it about halfway across, rain diluted, but unmistakably a pool of vomit.

"Oi!" she shouted at the constable who'd checked their IDs, motioning him over. "Mark this, will you?" she asked. "And have someone keep an eye on it until the SOCOs can get to it."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," the constable responded, giving her a skeptical look.

"Yours is not to question why," she responded, grinning, and he tipped his cap to her in a mock salute.

"Cheeky sod," she muttered, making sure he heard her as she walked away.

As she neared the pub, cooking odors wafted out to greet her and she realized she was starving. She admonished her stomach to behave itself as she studied the pub.