The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Page A

But she had balls for a vicar’s daughter, he had to admit. At twenty, he’d been tough and independent in a street-smart way, but this girl had a poise and confidence he still hadn’t managed to achieve.
    Her speaking voice, however, while pleasant, was straight Home Counties middle class, and he hoped to God she didn’t sing in that little-girl-breathy indie style that made him want to grind his teeth. Or even worse, some sort of faux working-class thing like Kate Nash. At least with that accent and her slight stature she was not likely to be another Adele clone.
    They reached the next level and stepped into a space completely different from the cramped anteroom to the studios below.
    â€œVery cool,” said Poppy, taking it in, and Andy had to agree.
    The room was long and open, with light pouring in the large windows that overlooked the tree-clad hillside to the west. There were several guitar amps, a two-mic setup, small-scale recording equipment, and, by the windows, a baby grand piano that reflected the mottled gray sky in its black-lacquered top.
    â€œOh, lovely, Caleb. Thank you,” said Poppy, giving her manager a quick hug that was not the least bit coy. He might have been a favorite uncle.
    She stripped off jacket and gloves, then bent to unlatch her guitar case. When she took out the instrument, Andy gave a low whistle in spite of himself. It was a Fender Pastorius bass, fretless—an instrument only for a very accomplished musician.
    â€œCan you really play that thing?” he asked.
    Poppy shot him a look from under brows that were a dark punctuation to her marmalade hair. “Wait and see, guitar boy.”
    Stung, he shot back, “A nice prezzie from your daddy?”
    She stood, slipping the bass strap over her head, and seemed to collect herself for a moment. Then she looked him directly in the eyes and said levelly, “I have two younger brothers and a younger sister. We manage, but my father is a Church of England vicar, and there is no way he could afford an instrument like this. I worked all the way through school giving music lessons to spotty, hormonal boys to buy this bass, and I bloody well deserve it. So just shut the fuck up, okay?”
    She waited, and when he didn’t reply, she nodded, as if something had been settled between them. Then she plugged the Fender into an amp and said, “Let’s see what you got, guitar boy.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Palace was designed by Sir Joseph Paxton, and after the Great Exhibition finished in October 1851 he had the idea of moving it to Penge Place Estate, Sydenham, as a “Winter Park and Garden under Glass” . . .  Penge Place, now called Crystal Palace Park, was owned by Paxton’s friend and railway entrepreneur Leo Schuster.
    â€”www.bbc.co.uk
    Once the coroner’s van arrived, Gemma left the crime scene techs to get on with things, and DC Shara MacNicols in charge of interviewing the hotel staff. Seeing Shara’s mutinous expression, she’d said, “Unless you’d rather give the death notification? And, Shara, I think you’ll do better with sympathy here. Whether or not the hotel was breaking any rules is not our main concern—at least not until we know how our Mr. Arnott came to be here,” she added, and got a grudging nod in return.
    When Melody had double-checked the address she’d entered for Vincent Arnott, she looped round into Fox Hill and then up the steep incline of Belvedere Road, back towards the Crystal Palace triangle.
    â€œHe could certainly have walked to the hotel,” Melody said as she parked at the curb and pulled up the Clio’s hand brake as an extra precaution.
    Glancing at the vista spread below them as she got out of the car, Gemma wondered if, on a clear day, you could see all the way to the Channel. The view up the hill was pretty impressive, too. “He’d have been fit if he did that climb on a regular