The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Page B

basis,” she said. “Never mind what else he got up to.”
    She examined the house, half hidden behind a fortress of hedges. It was detached, a soft, brown brick with white trim on the windows and doors, and large upper and lower bay-fronted rooms on one side. Behind the shelter of the hedges, the lawn was immaculate, and the shrubs in the beds surrounding the house were trimmed to within an inch of their lives. A late-model silver BMW was parked in the curving drive.
    â€œEminently respectable,” mused Melody, nodding at the house. “In an eminently respectable street. Not a hair out of place.”
    â€œA bit like our man’s clothes and wallet.”
    â€œA barrister’s tidy mind?” suggested Melody.
    â€œWe’ll see.” As Gemma tightened her scarf against the wind, she noticed Melody straightening her already perfectly aligned coat. These were little adjustments to their emotional armor, she knew. No one, no matter how long they’d been on the job, liked doing death notifications. A small part of her hoped that Mr. Arnott had lived alone, but a flash of movement at the sitting room window told her otherwise. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
    They walked briskly up the drive. By the time they reached the front door, it opened, and a woman peeped out. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but my husband doesn’t like solicitors. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses.” She was small, her plain face free of makeup, her short brown hair showing an inch of white at the roots, as if she’d forgotten to have it colored, and she wore what looked like a mismatched assortment of gardening clothes.
    â€œMrs. Arnott?” asked Gemma. She and Melody both had their warrant cards ready. “I’m afraid we’re not selling anything. We’re police officers. Can we come in and speak to you?”
    â€œPolice officers? But you don’t look it.” Mrs. Arnott merely looked puzzled.
    â€œWe’re CID, Mrs. Arnott. I’m Detective Inspector James, and this is Sergeant Talbot.”
    The woman blinked pale eyes and frowned. “Has there been a burglary? I’m sure I don’t know anything that could help you.”
    â€œMrs. Arnott, may we come in? I’m afraid it’s personal.”
    â€œVincent won’t like it,” said Mrs. Arnott, hesitating. She scrutinized Gemma’s ID, then Melody’s. “He says you can never trust a card or a name badge, like those people who say they’re from the gas company but aren’t, really. But it is cold, and I’m sure he wouldn’t object to women.” She opened the door a little wider and stepped back.
    Gemma threw Melody a puzzled glance of her own as they followed Mrs. Arnott inside. “Is your husband at home, Mrs. Arnott?” she asked as they stood in the tiled entry hall. The inside of the house looked as neatly manicured as the outside.
    â€œOh, no. He must have gone to the shops.”
    â€œMust have?”
    â€œWell, I’m not quite sure.” Mrs. Arnott blinked at them again, then looked round as if her husband might appear from out of thin air. There was something childlike about her, and Gemma began to wonder if she was quite all there. “I thought he was still asleep when I got up,” she continued. “But he must have gone out early for his paper. Vincent sometimes likes to go out for his paper and a coffee on a Saturday.”
    â€œIt’s almost noon, Mrs. Arnott,” Gemma said, but gently. “So you haven’t actually seen your husband this morning?”
    â€œNo. No, I suppose I haven’t. We have our separate rooms, you see. Vincent says he can’t do with my tossing and turning.”
    â€œAnd last night? Was your husband out last night?”
    â€œHe walked up to the pub. He usually does on a Friday evening. I don’t care for it myself.”
    â€œDo you know what time he came