by Alex Gray
‘I’m always available for you, pal. You know that,’ he replied, his hand covering hers.
‘Aye, for coffee and sympathy,’ she groaned. ‘Just as well I don’t fancy you, isn’t it?’
‘Bit of a waste of time that would be,’ he laughed in reply.
A shadow blocking out the light from the circular floor made Chris Hunter look up but it was just someone pausing to look around. Possibly looking for a seat? Chris twisted round and watched the figure disappearing in the direction of the escalator. Funny, he thought to himself. Just for a moment he thought he’d recognised the man. Don’t be daft, he told himself. It’s just shadows playing tricks with your imagination. Anyway, wasn’t he bound to be jumpy after what had happened?
‘That’s right,’ Brendan told her. ‘He changed his address recently and it was scored off my original list. No problem, Constable. Anything else I can help with, just ring me.’
Annie Irvine slotted the name neatly into its correct alphabetical place. Hunter Chris, c/o 135 Ingram Street. Not a permanent residence, she saw. Fairly new to the Orchestra, Brendan Phillips had told her. Funny he’d had two addresses already then, wasn’t it? Maybe digs were hard to come by for musicians, she supposed. They weren’t all that well off, were they? Still, he’d been interviewed at the Concert Hall. There wouldn’t be much cause to call on him at home, would there? Annie flicked the mouse button and the list of names vanished into its file somewhere in the ether.
Alistair Wilson stepped out into the middle of the pedestrian precinct, looking this way and that. Anybody glancing his way would have seen a well dressed middle-aged man out doing his shopping, the Habitat carrier bag part of his camouflage. A strong sweet scent told him he was nearing the corner where the perfume from soaps and bath ballistics wafted out of Lush. Betty loved stuff like that. And it was her birthday soon. He stopped to look at the beribboned boxes stacked by the door. He could always get them to make her up a big box of stuff, couldn’t he? Wilson told himself. But his shopping would have to wait. It certainly wouldn’t be today when he was trying to find one particular boy in all these crowds of shoppers and lunchtime diners.
Outside TGI Fridays there was often a wee lassie selling the Issue. She had a special knack of appearing to be on her last legs and Wilson always gave her the obligatory £1.20. She wasn’t there today and still there was no sign of Flynn.
The area outside the Concert Hall had proved fruitless. The Big Issue sellers were there all right, but there had been no sign of any beggars who might look like Flynn. He hadn’t been daft enough to go back to his usual haunt around there. It was probably a waste of time but he’d make his way down to St Enoch’s underground station before calling it a day. Wilson thought ahead to how he might join the queue at the cash point in order to scan the area around St Enoch’s Square. The policeman strode past Fraser’s shop windows. There was a distinct chill in the air that lent itself to the winter display in the windows of the department store. He paused for a moment to scan the dresses and sparkly accessories strewn artfully behind the glass then set off towards the Underground.
Wilson stopped as he reached the corner. To his right, just protruding from a shop doorway he could see the familiar bundle that told of yet another down and out. Abandoning the crossing, he moved towards the huddled figure.
As he approached the beggar, his eyes widened. It was Flynn. He was sitting with his back against the steps to an upstairs restaurant, polystyrene cup in one hand and a ragged blanket tucked over his legs. Wilson ducked behind a woman weighed down with bags of shopping in both hands. But it was too late. The boy had clocked him.
In one swift movement, Flynn leapt up from the pavement discarding the blanket as he ran, loose change scattering all over the pavement. Wilson broke into a run, dodging between the shoppers, barely pausing to apologise as they were elbowed out of his way.
As the boy headed off along Argyle Street, Wilson was aware of passers-by turning to see what it was all about. It was only a short burst to the next junction and the lights were at red. The boy put on a spurt, turning into Mitchell Street, his boots thudding on the cobbles. Wilson’s face broke into a grin. Just around the corner, concealed by the bend in the road, a Police car was waiting. They’d corner him then, for sure. Wilson saw his breath fog out in the frosty air as he thundered after Flynn. The backs of warehouses and the department store leant over them.
Pedestrians stood back to let them pass as Wilson gave chase, their faces registering alarm.
He felt his feet slipping on the icy stones but he could afford to slow down now that he was certain Flynn would be caught in their trap.
Just as the squad car came into view, Flynn turned round and stared wildly at the Detective Sergeant. The boy hesitated for a moment then looked towards his left. Wilson could read his mind. Flynn was thinking of making a dash into the NCP car park. But how could it offer a hope of escape? They’d get him in there just as easily. Surely he realised that?
Flynn suddenly swerved away towards the car park then, to Wilson’s horror, a white van emerged from the shadows of the off-ramp.
Wilson made to dash after him but a squeal of brakes rooted him to the spot.
As Flynn’s body made contact with the bonnet, the policeman heard a collective gasp of anguish from the folk standing opposite. It was like seeing a bundle of rags tossed skywards then coming to earth with a sickening thud.
‘Oh, my God! The poor laddie!’ a woman’s voice exclaimed. Wilson put out his hand to stop anybody crowding around the broken figure lying in the road.
‘Police. Keep back, please.’ The words had their intended effect though there was a marked reluctance amongst those who had witnessed the accident to move away. The two uniformed officers further up Mitchell Street had left their car and were heading towards him as Alistair Wilson bent over Flynn’s body.
‘Ah couldnae help it. He jist came like a bat oot o’ Hell!’ The driver had slid from his seat and was standing over Wilson, white-faced and shaking. He was a young guy with cropped hair and a silver cross dangling from one ear.
‘Aw naw. Whit’s he done?’ The van driver clutched Wilson’s arm. ‘This is terrible. Ah’ve only just got this delivery job, no’ right used tae the van yet, but it wisnae ma fault.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I saw what happened. The lad didn’t see you coming. He just dashed right in front of your van,’ Wilson assured him.
‘Ah wisnae goin’ fast or nothin’,’ the driver’s voice cracked.
Wilson nodded. He’d not been going fast, but even so, the van had travelled those few agonising yards towards the running figure. Then there’d been that awful thump as human flesh and bone met 3,000 kilos of metal. From experience Wilson knew that would be the memory to stick in the driver’s mind.
It wouldn’t be the sight of the body on the road but that noise as he’d braked, pulling on the steering wheel as if to rein in a runaway horse.
The man let go of Wilson’s sleeve and leant against the van door for support.
‘No, son. Not your fault,’ Wilson answered him shortly, one half of his mind wondering if in fact the fault lay at his own door.
Flynn’s body lay twisted, his arms flung out like a sawdust-filled doll. There didn’t seem to be any motion visible from his chest so Wilson lifted one wrist to feel for a pulse. There it was. A flicker, but at least he was still alive.
‘Get an ambulance!’ he barked as the first officer joined him beside the body.
‘He’s not …?’
‘No. But I don’t rate his chances much,’ muttered Wilson. ‘Keep this place clear, will you?’ he added, indicating the folk hovering in the edge of this tragedy.
Lorimer touched the breast pocket of his jacket. The feel of the tickets tucked away gave him a tingle of pleasure just to know they were there. It had cost him a whack, though. He’d have saved plenty, the wee girl at the travel agency had informed him, if he’d booked up sooner. Everyone wanted to go to Florida for Christm
as these days, it seemed. Anyway, it was done now and Maggie’s mum would be pleased. And what about Maggie herself? Lorimer made a mental note to phone her later on when the time difference linked his bedtime with his wife’s evening meal. Would she be glad he’d booked the trip?
Lorimer’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. WPC Irvine hovered in the doorway, one hand on the handle as if she were too afraid to come right on into the lion’s den.
‘You know that woman you wanted in for questioning, sir? Mrs Quentin-Jones?’
Lorimer looked up. Annie’s expression was a dead giveaway that something was wrong.
‘Yes?’ he drawled out the word slowly, leaning his elbows on the desk and folding his hands beneath his chin.
‘Well, she’s gone. I mean she’s not at her own place and Mr Quentin-Jones doesn’t know where she is.’
‘Why don’t you just sit down and give me the whole story, eh?’
The young policewoman closed the door behind her and came to perch on the edge of the chair that faced Lorimer across his desk.
‘She was at some late rehearsal in the Concert Hall last night and she didn’t come back home, he says. Her husband, Mr Quentin-Jones, is a consultant up at the Southern General and was late getting back from an operation. He didn’t realise his wife hadn’t come home until this morning. Says he was so tired he just went out like a light. Woke up and she wasn’t in the bed beside him. He was going to phone the Police when he got a call from us asking for his wife. Poor man was in some state when we spoke to him. Thought we were going to tell him she’d been in an accident or something.’ The policewoman’s earnest expression made Lorimer wonder. Did Quentin-Jones have any inkling of what his wife had been up to? In fact, did anybody really know?
It was only Greer’s dirt-raking that had brought her name into the equation. And Lorimer still wasn’t sure if the journalist had got all his facts correct.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Downstairs, sir. He insisted on coming over. Asked for you personally, sir.’ WPC Irvine sounded apologetic, as if the Consultant had no right to have called on someone of Lorimer’s rank.
Lorimer sat and thought for a moment. If Quentin-Jones was as overbearing as his lady wife had been, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to deal with him. Maybe she was in the throes of some extra-marital fling. It wasn’t his job to find out things like that.
On the other hand, if Karen Quentin-Jones had read an early edition of the Gazette, could she have done a bunk? Lorimer considered this. Maybe she’d risen before her husband had awoken, seen the front page and high-tailed it?
‘OK, tell him I’ll be down to see him shortly. Take him into the canteen and let Sadie look after him,’ Lorimer suggested.
‘Aye, right, sir,’ The WPC was grinning as she left. Sadie Dunlop never stood on ceremony with folks, be they consultants, chief inspectors or whoever. Mr Quentin-Jones would just have to sit and take his tea and toast like the rest of them.
Derek Quentin-Jones was pacing up and down in the corridor when Lorimer arrived. He was a man of middle build whose grey hair added to his distinguished appearance. He’d taken the trouble to don a double-breasted pinstriped suit, Lorimer noticed. Was he trying to create a good impression or was that just the normal workaday clothing of a consultant?
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer. Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer offered the man his outstretched hand. Quentin-Jones took it at once, gave it a firm shake, looking the policeman straight in the eye. The Second Violin’s husband was clearly a worried man if the creases between his eyebrows were anything to go by.
‘What’s all this about? You called my home to ask me about my wife.’
Lorimer indicated the stairs to their right, ‘We can talk up in my office, sir.’ The two men were silent on the short flight up to the CID rooms.
‘In here,’ Lorimer ushered the man into his own room, pulling a chair from its position against the wall so that they were facing one another.
‘I take it you had some tea or coffee downstairs?’
Quentin-Jones shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was kind of them but I couldn’t take a thing right now.’
Lorimer nodded briefly. If Sadie Dunlop had failed to force her canteen hospitality down this bloke’s throat, then he was certainly not faking his anxiety.
‘I suppose this has something to do with George Millar’s death.’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Have you seen today’s Gazette?’
‘No. It’s not a paper I read. Why? What’s going on?’
Lorimer fished a copy out of the waste paper bin and handed it over. The front page carried a photograph of George Millar and Quentin-Jones stared at it for a few moments before opening the page out to read the article alongside.
‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘That’s why he was murdered. Drug-related. But what’s that got to do with my wife, Chief Inspector?’
‘How long has Mrs Quentin-Jones owned her violin, sir?’
The Consultant’s face turned pale as the implication of Lorimer’s words sunk in.
‘Karen’s violin? You mean it was stolen?’
‘We do have reason to think so, yes.’
‘My God,’ the Consultant leant forward, burying his head in his hands and groaning. ‘I had no idea. I’d never have …’ the man broke off suddenly.
‘Never have what, Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer rapped out.
‘Never have bought it for her,’ the words came out as a whisper.
‘You’re telling me that you purchased the violin from George Millar?’
Derek Quentin-Jones nodded silently. He looked simply bewildered, Lorimer thought. Was he telling the truth, or was this just a desperate attempt to cover up whatever scandal might attach itself to his wife?
‘Karen’s fortieth birthday was coming up.’
‘When was this, sir?’
‘Oh, two, no nearly three years ago, I think. George told me he could get hold of something a bit special. He said he’d been contacted by a friend overseas who was retiring and wanted to make the sale.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Of course. There was no reason not to,’ Quentin-Jones protested.
‘What did you pay him for it?’
Quentin-Jones hesitated but it was the hesitation of a man to whom questions about money are naturally distasteful.
‘Sixty-five.’
‘Sixty-five pounds?’ Lorimer frowned.
‘Sixty-five thousand, Chief Inspector,’ Quentin-Jones’s smile was almost apologetic. ‘It was a Vincenzo Panormo. The 1780 edition,’ he added as if that would explain the matter to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer merely nodded as if he were accustomed to discussing violins that cost more than he earned in a year.
‘How did your wife react when you gave it to her?’ Lorimer asked. Unbidden, a bitter little thought came into his mind; just how much love could a £65,000 violin buy?
‘Well. I don’t remember, really. I’m sure she was pleased with it,’ the Consultant said slowly as if trying his best to recall the moment.
‘Do you think your wife may have known where it really came from?’
The Consultant shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the honest truth, Chief Inspector. I can’t imagine Karen being mixed up in anything underhand. Whether she’d know about the violin’s provenance, well, that’s another matter,’ he said. ‘But I will tell you one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘She didn’t like George Millar. She wouldn’t have bought an instrument from him of her own volition. That I do know. So I didn’t tell her where I’d bought it.’
‘And didn’t she think that was somewhat strange? Wouldn’t she want to know how you’d managed to procure such a valuable instrument?’
Derek Quentin-Jones sighed. ‘I suppose in the light of George’s death it all seems a bit shady, but at the time all I wanted was for Karen to have a lovely surprise. I thought it best not to mention the connection with George.’
/> ‘So you lied to her?’
‘Yes. I told her I had a patient with an interest in violins. She didn’t question me much, now I come to think about it.’
Lorimer grimaced. No, Karen Quentin-Jones might not have asked too many questions but Lorimer wondered if the woman would have recognised that particular instrument.
‘What I’m most anxious about right now isn’t a stolen violin, Chief Inspector, but the whereabouts of my wife!’
‘Don’t you think the two may be linked?’ he asked.
Quentin-Jones frowned back at him, ‘How’s that?’
‘Your wife was approached recently by the journalist who wrote that article. I imagine she may not have been too eager to speak to the police about the violin. Incidentally, do you know if she took the instrument when she left?’
‘It wasn’t in the music room. I looked for any signs that she’d come back from the rehearsal last night. There were none. And I haven’t seen her since breakfast yesterday morning. God, that seems so long ago!’
Lorimer leant back, eyeing the Consultant. The man was sitting on the edge of his chair, hands bunched tightly together, the very picture of anxiety. And it was real anxiety, Lorimer guessed, but whether for his missing wife or for his own involvement with George Millar, it was hard to tell.
‘I think it might be wise to take a statement from you at this stage, sir,’ Lorimer told him.
Quentin-Jones’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Is that really necessary? I mean, I’ve done nothing wrong, so …’
‘It’s perfectly routine, sir. Your statement will help us to piece together other information already received.’
‘Ah,’ the man relaxed just a fraction, adding, ‘you mean I’d be helping the police with their enquiries.’
‘Just so, sir.’
‘But Karen …?’
‘My officers will do everything in their power to find Mrs Quentin-Jones, sir. Given the nature of our current investigation we cannot yet treat her as a missing person. She may have wished to be elsewhere at present.’