Free The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie

bereaved—paroxysms of grief or the stunned silence of shock. At least with hysteria you felt there was something you could do, some comfort you could offer, some calming gesture you could make. But the paralyzed ones . . .  She shook her head, gazing at the blank face of Vincent Arnott’s wife.
    â€œMrs. Arnott, is there someone you can call to be with you?”
    The woman just stared, apparently unable to comprehend Gemma’s question.
    â€œMrs. Arnott?”
    A slight shudder went through Mrs. Arnott’s body and she gave the same odd blink Gemma had noticed before. “I don’t understand. Vincent will be home soon.”
    â€œOkay,” said Gemma, catching Melody’s eye and giving a little shake of her head before turning back to Mrs. Arnott. “Let’s make some tea, shall we? And then we’ll have a little chat.”
    Melody rose with her and they stepped into the work area of the kitchen. “I’ll try to find out if there’s a relative, and if so, get a number,” Gemma said quietly. “You ring headquarters, tell them we’ve got a positive ID. And get an FLO here as soon as possible.” She thought for a moment. Both male and female family liaison officers worked regularly with her team, but in this case she thought a woman was definitely the best option. “See if we can get Marie Daeley.”
    While Melody excused herself, phone already to her ear, Gemma filled the kettle and quickly found tea bags and mugs, milk and sugar. There was a shopping list fixed to the shiny stainless steel door of the fridge with a magnet. The handwriting looked masculine, but a few things had been added in the margins in an almost illegible scrawl. Peering, she decided one said “birds,” another “boots.” Odd items for a grocery list.
    The tea bags were plain-Jane Tetley’s. When Gemma poured the boiling water into the mugs, the liquid turned instantly orange and smelled comfortingly malty. When the tea had steeped, she carried the three mugs to the table with the milk and sugar, and sat down across from Mrs. Arnott.
    Although she hated sweetened tea herself, she added milk and a generous helping of sugar to Mrs. Arnott’s. “This’ll perk you up a bit,” she said as she slid the mug across. When Mrs. Arnott made no move to take it, Gemma leaned over and lifted her limp hand from the tabletop. It was icy cold, and Gemma chafed it between her own for a moment, then wrapped it round the warm cup. “Have a sip now,” she encouraged gently, and slowly Mrs. Arnott gripped the mug with both hands and raised it to her lips.
    â€œThat’s better,” said Gemma. “Do you have children, Mrs. Arnott?”
    The woman seemed to make an effort to focus on Gemma’s face. “No.” Her voice was a whisper. “No,” she said again, more strongly. “We wanted them, but . . . ”
    â€œDo you have sisters or brothers?”
    â€œMy sister. Sara. She lives in Florida.” More animation now, as if this was an often repeated source of pride.
    Gemma, however, controlled a grimace. The sister would be no help any time soon. “Do you have her phone number?” she asked.
    â€œVincent keeps a book for me. It’s in the drawer.” Mrs. Arnott glanced towards the work area in the kitchen; then her face creased in distress. “But I don’t—Vincent rings for me. The codes—I can’t remember—”
    â€œNot to worry,” said Gemma quickly. “I’ll ring her for you, in just a bit. You drink some more of that tea.” She waited until Mrs. Arnott had complied and her color seemed a bit better. Then she added, “I’ll bet you remember which pub Vincent goes to on his Friday evenings.”
    â€œOf course.” Mrs. Arnott looked at her as if she were daft. “The White Stag, at the top of the hill. Where else would he