Free The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Page B

afraid we can’t tell you anything more at the moment,” Gemma had said, and thanked her.
    â€œYou just want to test my legs,” Melody said now as they trudged up Belvedere Road.
    â€œYou’re the runner. I’ll bet your legs are better than mine.”
    â€œYou have the advantage—yours are longer,” Melody shot back.
    Gemma stopped for a moment when they reached the top of the hill, surveying the pub they had passed earlier that morning. It was orange-red brick, Victorian Gothic, with a bank of mullioned windows on the ground floor. She imagined it would be pleasant in the summer with hanging baskets of flowers, and the tables on the pavement in front filled with patrons. Now, it looked a welcome shelter from the cold.
    The wind had picked up as the rain tailed off, and when Gemma opened the front door, a gust pushed them inside. They were met by tantalizing odors of food, the buzz of conversation, and the clink of cutlery on plates.
    A curved bar partially divided the large front room. Behind it, a young woman with curly blond hair tied back with a red bandanna drew pints with cheerful efficiency.
    â€œWhat can I get for you?” she asked, smiling, as they reached the bar.
    â€œJust some information,” said Gemma, returning the smile and holding up her warrant card.
    The girl’s eyes widened. She glanced to either side, checking that the other customers at the bar were occupied. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œDo you know a man who comes in here named Vincent Arnott? Early sixties, trim, white hair?” asked Melody, showing her the driving license photo on her phone.
    The girl shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, but then we serve a lot of people.”
    â€œWe think he came in regularly on Friday nights,” said Gemma. “We were wondering if he came in last night.”
    â€œOh.” The girl looked relieved. “You’ll want Reg, then. I only fill in lunchtimes on the weekends when I’m not at uni.”
    â€œCould we have a word with Reg?”
    â€œHis son had a school football match this morning.” The girl glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. “I should think he’d be back any time now, if you want to wait. This bloke”—she nodded at the photo—“is he in some kind of trouble?”
    â€œYou could say that.” Gemma’s eyes strayed to the menu on a chalkboard and her stomach rumbled. She realized she’d had no breakfast, and that Kincaid’s Friday-night pizza was but a distant memory. “Let’s get some lunch while we wait,” she suggested to Melody.
    â€œI thought you’d never ask. My knees were weak, and not from climbing the hill.”
    A few minutes later they were seated at a table in the front window with coffee and sandwiches.
    â€œNice place,” said Melody as she bit into homemade fish fingers in a roll. “Upmarket shabby chic.”
    Gemma knew exactly what she meant. Mismatched furniture, scuffed wooden floorboards, quirky lamps, but the windows and glassware sparkled, and the food was delicious. She bit into one of the homemade chips that had come with her chicken, cheddar, and smoked bacon club. “I can see why Vincent Arnott liked to come here, but it seems a far cry from the Belvedere.”
    â€œIf a stone’s throw.” Melody wiped a smear of tartar sauce from her lip with her pinky.
    Gemma nodded, wondering if there were CCTV cameras with a good view of the pub. When they had a better idea of the time frame for Arnott’s movements, she’d get the techies on it.
    While they were waiting for their food, she’d checked in with DC MacNicols. Now, she glanced at her phone again, just in case she’d missed a message from Kincaid, but there was nothing.
    â€œWhat were you going to do with your Saturday?” she asked Melody.
    â€œHelp Doug paint his sitting room.”
    â€œThe great