The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online Page A

if Kincaid were at the far end of the garden. “It’s Auntie Erika. She wants to talk to you.”
    â€œThen we’ll hope she’s not deaf,” Kincaid said, rolling his eyes as he took the phone and shooed Toby into the house. “Hello, Erika.”
    The auntie was a courtesy title. Erika Rosenthal was, if anything, closer to a grandmother to the children. “What can I do for you?” he went on. “I’m afraid Gemma’s not at home.”
    â€œSo I’ve been informed,” said Erika, amusement clear in her slightly accented voice. “Under the circumstances, I thought you might like me to have the boys over for lunch.”
    â€œLunch? Really?” Kincaid cleared his throat in an attempt to banish the hopeful squeak. “Erika, that’s very kind of you, but—”
    â€œI’m perfectly capable of managing Toby for an hour or two, Duncan. I’ve a pot of beef and barley soup on the cooker. It’s his favorite. And I have chess and checkers at hand.”
    â€œBut Kit—”
    â€œI’ve already spoken to him.”
    Kincaid had to laugh. Capitulating, he said, “Erika, you are more than welcome. What time shall I bring them?”
    â€œI think they are perfectly capable of walking, Duncan. They won’t melt,” she said with a hint of reproof. Then she hesitated. “I would have Charlotte, as well, but I’m a little lacking in entertainments for three-year-olds.”
    â€œNo need to apologize,” Kincaid told her. “You’re doing quite enough. Charlotte and I will have no trouble entertaining ourselves.”
    â€œIt’s my pleasure, Duncan,” Erika said, and he heard the genuine affection in her voice.
    When they’d completed their arrangements, and Duncan had seen the boys off for the short walk down Lansdowne Road into Arundel Crescent, he found himself wondering what he and Charlotte would do with the rest of their day.
    Kitchen and Pantry beckoned, but he told himself the café would be mad on a Saturday, jammed with tourists and marketgoers.
    Then he realized he’d been given an opportunity to pay a much-needed and too-long-delayed visit. He dialed a number stored in his phone. “Louise, it’s Duncan. Can Charlotte and I come to see you today? There are some things we need to discuss.”
    By eleven o’clock, Andy was standing on the curb in front of his Hanway Place flat, his Strat in its case, watching for Tam’s silver Mini Cooper.
    He’d debated about the guitar. He had different guitars for different sounds, and when he knew what he’d be playing in a session, he chose the guitar accordingly. But today he had no idea, and the Fender Stratocaster was both his oldest electric and his favorite. And if he had to admit it, the Strat was his security blanket—the instrument that felt like an extension of himself.
    His favorite amp, however, was still in the back of George’s van. He’d meant to ask George if he could borrow the van this morning, but things had been so frosty between them after the gig last night that he’d accepted Tam’s offer of a lift back to the flat, and then agreed to let Tam drive him to Crystal Palace today.
    Tam had reassured him about the amp. “They’ll have plenty of equipment in the studio, and you’ll not want to be carrying your Marshall up those stairs. Trust me, laddie.”
    And Andy had had no choice.
    Peering down the narrow street, he transferred the guitar case to his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right. His knuckles were a bit bruised and swollen, but he’d followed Tam’s advice, icing and elevating his hand as soon as he’d got back to the flat last night. He’d practiced a bit that morning, and although it hurt, his playing didn’t seem to be impaired.
    But he didn’t want to think about the injury, especially not now, when he was feeling more nervous by