The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie

level,” said Tam, consulting a note as Andy retrieved the Strat from the back of the Mini.
    â€œGood God.” Andy stared. “How’d they get the equipment up there?”
    â€œStronger backs than yours or mine, I expect.” Tam winked at him and led the way.
    Andy held the railing in one hand and the guitar in the other. When they reached the first landing and ducked into a dark doorway, Andy felt like he’d stepped into a hobbit hole.
    Caleb Hart was waiting for them in a tiny, cluttered anteroom.
    He shook Tam’s hand, but not Andy’s, which suited Andy well enough. He gave Hart credit for knowing that guitarists could be tetchy about having their hands touched.
    â€œI’ve booked us three hours in studio one, but first an hour in rehearsal space, so you can get a feel for each other.” Hart glanced at his watch. “Poppy’s running a bit late. Saturday trains.”
    â€œFrom London?” asked Andy, frowning. He knew the train from Victoria like the back of his hand. It usually ran regularly and unimpeded on Saturdays.
    â€œTwyford to Paddington.”
    â€œTwyford? Why the hell is she coming from Twyford?” Andy felt Tam shift uncomfortably at his tone, but it was too late to call it back.
    â€œPoppy lives outside Twyford,” said Hart. He glanced at Tam as if wondering whether there was some miscommunication. “Her dad’s a vicar in a village near there.”
    Andy just stared at him for a moment before he found his tongue. “She lives with her parents?” He turned to Tam. “She’s a bloody schoolgirl and a vicar’s daughter? What were you—”
    â€œI was thinking that she’s twenty years old and that she can sing,” Tam snapped. “Don’t make a complete arse of yourself, laddie. What girl that age can afford to live on her own in London?”
    â€œAre you talking about me?” came a voice from the doorway.
    They all turned, and Andy saw a slight figure, backlit.
    â€œPoppy. Good to see you,” said Hart with a smile.
    â€œBloody trains.” She stepped into the room, and Andy saw her clearly. She wore fur-lined boots, bright flower-patterned tights, and a tiny ruffled skirt beneath a puffy jacket. Her short hair, stuck up in unruly spikes, was the color of his cat’s fur, and slung over her shoulder by a strap was what looked like a case for an electric bass. No one had told him she played an instrument.
    â€œHi, Caleb. Tam.” She nodded, then gave Andy an assessing stare. “You must be the hotshot guitarist. I’m Poppy.” She held out a hand encased in a purple fingerless glove, and he shook it awkwardly.
    â€œI’m Andy, yeah. Andy Monahan. You’re freezing,” he added as he felt the tips of her fingers.
    â€œNobody told me I’d have to climb Mount Everest. This is a cool place, though.”
    It was a steep hike from Gipsy Hill Railway Station up to the Crystal Palace triangle, but Andy noticed that she didn’t seem the least bit winded. And she’d come up the outside metal staircase as quietly as the cat she resembled.
    Caleb Hart, however, went into solicitous mode. “Let’s get you upstairs, and warm. I’ve already got the heaters going in the big rehearsal space.”
    â€œI’m fine, Caleb,” she said with a shrug. “But I want to see it. We’re going up?”
    â€œNext level.”
    Poppy led the way out, taking the stairs as if she had springs in the heels of her boots, her instrument case bouncing against her hip.
    â€œYou didn’t tell me you’d met her,” Andy whispered to Tam as they brought up the rear.
    â€œI went to hear her at the Troubadour. You didn’t think I’d get you into something without being sure she was a goer? She’s something special, I’m telling you. A bloomin’ prodigy.”
    That probably meant spoiled rotten, in Andy’s experience.