by Alex Gray
Quentin-Jones looked steadily at Lorimer, meeting his blue eyes. What he saw there made him glance down with a small sigh of resignation. ‘Yes. I think I understand what you’re saying, Chief Inspector. And of course I’ll do anything in my power to help.’
Lorimer lifted the phone and dialled Jo Grant’s extension. His DI was just the woman to make the Consultant feel calm enough to give a proper statement.
After Quentin-Jones had left in Jo’s wake, Lorimer dialled another number.
‘Glasgow Royal Concert Hall,’ the switchboard operator announced.
‘DCI Lorimer. Put me through to Brendan Phillips, please.’
There was a knock on his door just as Lorimer heard Brendan Phillips’s voice answering. The DCI was aware of Annie Irvine hovering in the doorway, her face crumpled into its customary worried look. Lorimer waved his hand in irritation, signalling the policewoman to go away, but much to his annoyance she remained, hand on the door as if in a dither of indecision.
‘I’m looking for Karen Quentin-Jones. She was at your rehearsal last night, wasn’t she?’ Lorimer swung his chair away from the policewoman’s gaze.
‘Of course. What seems to be the problem?’
‘I don’t know if there is one yet. Her husband thinks she’s disappeared.’
There was silence on the other end as the Concert Manager digested this piece of information.
‘Sorry. She was here last night, all right. Had to be, seeing she’s taken over as Leader. It’s in her contract. Do you want me to ask around, Chief Inspector? See if anybody saw her after the rehearsal?’
‘Could you? I can rely on your discretion, of course,’ Lorimer replied.
‘Of course,’ Phillips answered, both men knowing full well that Lorimer was telling, not asking.
Lorimer swung back in his chair. Annie Irvine was still waiting by the door, her impatience barely concealed.
‘OK. What’s up?’
The policewoman moved swiftly towards Lorimer’s desk and, putting her hands on the edge, sat down in front of him without being asked. Taking a closer look at her, Lorimer realised that she was seriously agitated.
‘It’s Sergeant Wilson. He’s at the Southern General.’
‘What?’ Lorimer was half way out of his seat when the policewoman waved her hands at him.
‘No. It’s not him. There was an accident. That lad he was after. The one he spoke to at the Royal Concert Hall. He was knocked down. He’s in a bad way, seemingly. Can you go down, sir? Sergeant Wilson wanted me to ask you right away.’
But Lorimer was already on his feet, pulling his jacket from the coat stand.
‘Thanks, Annie.’ He noticed her white face and suddenly felt guilty. ‘Don’t know how you put up with me sometimes,’ he added, patting her shoulder as he strode past her.
‘Me neither,’ Annie whispered under her breath, closing Lorimer’s door behind her.
Chapter Ten
Being dead was the biggest buzz that Flynn had ever experienced. There was an absence of pain, an absence of any kind of feeling in his body but a real burst of fireworks inside his brain. He’d not expected it to be so white or that the white could be full of such brightness as if someone had switched on a 1,000 watt light bulb in his head. The sensation was of floating weightless in a sea of shining clouds. Flynn knew instinctively that this would go on forever. Eternity was here and now, moving slightly forward towards another light even more dazzling than the one he was leaving behind. It smashed against the optic nerves like molten metal and he felt the old sensation of screwing up his eyes against the brightness of the sun.
When he opened them the first thing he saw was another pair of eyes gazing down into his own. They were pale blue like a sky washed clean after a rainstorm and they held a question in them. Flynn was helpless in the blueness, his clouds of light melting under him as he answered the question. Yes, he was alive after all. Yes, he was here, wherever here might be. Flynn let the blueness wash over him like a blanket, surrendering to its strength, then a small sigh escaped him and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.
‘There was nothing I could do,’ Alistair Wilson shook his head in despair as the two men walked slowly down the hospital corridor. ‘He just took off like a rocket and before I knew it that van was screeching to a halt. It all happened so quickly.’
Lorimer gave a sigh and patted Wilson’s shoulder. ‘I know that and the folk that witnessed the accident know that but we still have to convince Mitchison.’
‘I suppose he’s got steam coming out of his ears, then?’ Wilson asked.
Lorimer didn’t answer for a moment, chewing the ragged end of a fingernail. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about this case. I can’t quite figure it out.’
‘Money, probably. The resources on this one are phenomenal.’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that. He seems to be on a permanently short fuse. It’s as if …’ He stopped as a trio of chattering nurses passed them by.
Wilson looked up, noting the thoughtful expression that flitted across his DCI’s face. ‘As if?’ he prompted.
‘As if he knows something about George Millar. Or Poliakovski. Or Jimmy Greer,’ Lorimer raised his hands and slapped them against his thighs. ‘God! I don’t know. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Imagination playing tricks on me. But I persistently get the feeling that the Super knows more than he’s letting on.’
Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Mitchison? No. I don’t buy that for a minute. He’s too goody-goody. Mr Do-It-By-The-Book. No. You just need a decent night’s kip.’
The two men turned out of the corridor towards the exit. Grey clouds that had built up all day were now leaden in the night sky. Lorimer zipped up his jacket against the blast of cold air that hit them as they stepped out of the warmth of the Southern General Hospital. It was the kind of wind that his mum had always described as ‘blowing off snow’. Looking at the weight of clouds above them, Lorimer thought she’d have been right. It was still only late October but it wouldn’t surprise him to wake up to a white world tomorrow.
The Lexus was parked beneath a street lamp. It had been hours since he’d left it there. Hours that had been passed sitting by the bedside of Joseph Alexander Flynn of no fixed abode, willing him to come back. The boy’s head had been swathed in bandages, his eyes two blackened masses. Lorimer had sat next to the figure beneath the sheets watching his stillness. The longer he remained the more compulsive it became to remain, waiting and watching. It was only when Flynn opened his eyes, screwing them up as if in pain that Lorimer knew he had reached him.
For a moment he wondered if that was what fatherhood felt like, that rush of protection for someone more vulnerable than oneself. Then the moment was gone and Lorimer knew it was time for them to make a move.
As he swung out into Govan road, Lorimer thought about Mitchison. Would he really throw the book at Alistair Wilson or would his Detective Sergeant convince him that there had been no dereliction of duty on his part? He remembered George Phillips, his old Super. Curmudgeonly, loud and sometimes irascible, the Superintendent had nevertheless dealt fairly with each and every one of his officers.
There would never have been this absurd feeling hanging over them, a feeling of uncertainty, as if every move made or initiative taken were somehow going to be judged.
For a time Lorimer had contemplated a move away from mainstream detective work. There had been a job going at Tulliallan for a training officer, but he’d never really got around to applying for it. He’d sent for details, right enough, but that was as far as he’d taken the matter. For now he was stuck with a boss he couldn’t respect and a job he couldn’t abandon.
Chapter Eleven
Solomon Brightman looked out over the skyline of Glasgow as the taxi made its ponderous way through the slushy streets. It was a view he had come to love. He knew this from the first time his heart had lifted on returning from London all those years ago. The train pulling into Central station had c
rossed the River Clyde and Solomon had seen the cranes, the hotels and the familiar spire of Glasgow University. That was the time Glasgow had truly become home to the man with the black beard and shining eyes whose exotic appearance did not excite remarks more provocative than, ‘Y’all right, pal?’ or ‘Aye, son, another lousy day, i’n’t it?’
Today was a lousy day, right enough, but it had begun with a gasp of pleasure as Solly had thrown open the velvet curtains on to a landscape purified by the overnight snowfall. His windows looked out over the west of the city above Kelvingrove Park and the graceful curving terraces that marched up from Woodlands Road. The morning had brought two new elements to sour his outlook, however; a light drizzle had turned much of the snow into a soupy brown mess and Superintendent Mitchison’s ingratiating tones over the telephone had ruffled his senses with an irrational feeling of disquiet.
Now the psychologist was heading into town to the Division where he was to meet Mitchison. Lorimer hadn’t been in touch for weeks but Solly knew about the murder at the Concert Hall. It would be hard not to know from the way the media was stepping up its interest, but Solly had information that came from quite a different source. Rosie Fergusson had kept him up to date about the violinist’s death from the start. She’d even suggested that he should be involved in the case, but Solly knew better than to offer his services as criminal profiler until he was asked. Officially. Superintendent Mitchison was one of those vexatious persons the Desiderata on Lorimer’s desk urged one to avoid. It was an irony not lost on Solly that the Detective Chief Inspector had opted to ignore the lofty advice that stared him in the face each day.
The cab swung away from the main road, spraying a fan of decomposing slush from its wheels. Solly leant forward as the vehicle came to a halt, ready to pay the driver. As he stepped out his feet slipped on the uneven surface and he had to grasp the door handle to save himself from falling.
‘A’right, pal?’ the taxi driver grinned from the safe interior of the cab. ‘Mind how you go, now, eh?’
Solomon managed a weak smile in reply and steadied himself. As he drove away from the kerb, the driver shook his head and glanced at the bearded man’s reflection in the rear view mirror.
Elsewhere in the city the early snowfall was still making its presence felt. The melted snow had created a steady trickle of water running off the Glasgow rooftops now that the winter sun had penetrated the early morning clouds.
It caused extra work for caretakers who were trying to clear the drifts from doorways and stop the drains choking with debris swept down with the sudden heaps of melting snow dislodged from the roofs above.
That morning the staff at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had to contend with another sort of misfortune than the scandal surrounding the late George Millar. The security guard noticed it first as he tried to flush the toilet downstairs. When nothing happened he listened for the familiar sound of gurgling in the pipes. What he did hear was a low rumbling noise coming from the ceiling. Neville put his hand up as if to ward off the noise then, realising the cause of the rumble, wrenched open the toilet door just in time before the gloss painted ceiling bulged like a naked, overfed stomach. He heard the crash behind him even as he bounded up the steps that led to the ground floor then a gush as water cascaded out of the burst pipes.
Like a tree whose trunk and branches are all that is visible to the passer-by, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall has hidden roots that penetrate deeply into the subterranean spaces. The water that fell from the pipes found its lowest level, as water will inevitably do, obeying the laws of physics. Puddles formed down in the dungeon, covering dark shapes then submerging them completely so that by the time the maintenance crew waded in there was a veritable lake of slimy water. Several bits of detritus bobbed on its surface, illuminated by the flashlights the two men carried.
‘We cannae do this ourselves,’ one of the men remarked in tones of protest. ‘It’s a job fur the Fire Brigade.’
‘Aye. Looks like it,’ the other remarked. ‘Whew! They’re welcome to it, ‘n’ all. That smell’d gie’ ye the boak.’
‘Must’ve been something rotten in the drains, eh?’
‘Well, ah’m no’ waitin’ tae find oot. ur ye comin’?’
As the two men sloshed their way back from the edge of the water their torches made arcs of light against the dripping walls.
Suddenly one of the men gave out a cry, ‘Jesus, Hughie! Whit the hell’s that?’
His companion stopped and turned, following the torch beam directed towards a corner of the cave-like storeroom they called the dungeon. For a moment his eyes stared, uncomprehending, then the shape fixed beneath the torchlight took on familiar proportions. Despite the darkness he could make out a paler shape that could only be a face. He took a deep breath as his innards churned and his breakfast threatened to escape. Then Hughie McCallum swallowed hard and whispered, ‘‘Sno’ the Fire Brigade we’re wantin’, Rab. It’s the polis.’
Solly clipped the visitor’s identity badge onto his lapel and turned away from the reception desk. Mitchison’s office was on the third floor with a view that looked out towards the Kingston Bridge where traffic constantly flowed north and south over the River Clyde. He would wait here until someone came to escort him into the Superintendent’s presence.
For once the psychologist was on time for his meeting at Police headquarters. The snowfall may have caused some chaos early on during rush hour but his journey here had been without incident.
‘Doctor Brightman?’ A young WPC stood at the entrance to a corridor, holding back the door for him to follow her.
‘Terrible day. You got here alright, though?’ she commented.
‘As you see,’ Solly nodded, unwinding the knitted scarf from his neck. ‘It’s fine now. A trifle slippery underfoot, but that’s all,’ he smiled at the girl, considering the small talk that always centred upon the subject of weather. It might be an idea to throw that into a tutorial with the first years. Could be interesting to make them think about the ways strangers interacted with one another. He could use comparisons from other cultures too, he mused, as they entered the lift. Or he might use the idea of conversations in another way altogether. How did a murderer first approach his victim? By commenting on the weather?
The answer to his hypothetical question remained unanswered as the lift doors opened.
‘Superintendent Mitchison asked me to ask you if you’d like some tea or coffee, sir,’ the WPC told him.
‘Ah,’ Solomon replied, his mind shifting from the tutorial room to the matter of hot drinks. His tongue watered at the memory of strongly brewed tea. Police catering didn’t include camomile or peppermint, he was sure.
‘A glass of water, perhaps?’ he beamed at the girl who raised her eyebrows in surprise. He could almost hear her thoughts as she knocked on the door marked Superintendent M. Mitchison. Cold water? On a day like this?
‘Come,’ a voice commanded.
Solomon stepped inside the beige office. He hadn’t been here since that spring morning when Mitchison had requested his help with a case involving what had looked like stranger killings.
It had been Lorimer’s case, really, but he’d put in his tuppence worth to good effect. Now he’d been summoned here again and he was curious to know what the Superintendent’s request would be this time.
‘Do take a seat, Doctor Brightman,’ Mitchison stood up to greet him, the handshake just the wrong side of perfunctory. ‘I suppose you know what this is all about. Can’t escape it with all the media brouhaha.’
‘The murder in the Concert Hall?’
‘Murders,’ Mitchison answered shortly, ‘There’s been another one.’ He glared at the psychologist as if he were somehow to blame. ‘A body was discovered at the Concert Hall this morning. Lorimer’s there now,’ he added. He continued to look at Solomon, expecting a response, but the man across the desk merely nodded, the ghost of a smile hovering around his lips.
Mitchison leant forward in his seat, wagg
ing a finger toward Solomon. ‘It’s been a shambles of a case up until now. The press have been out of line and so far there’s little in the way of forensic evidence to give us any leads.’ As the Superintendent spoke, Solomon wondered if there was a veiled criticism of Dr Rosie Fergusson contained in his words, a criticism that Mitchison intended to be communicated through him.
For a moment Solomon felt a heat suffuse his cheeks. His relationship with the pathologist was nobody’s business but his own. As he stared back at the Superintendent Solly experienced a sudden revelation. Not only was he acknowledging to himself that he and Rosie were in a relationship but he saw just how ready he was to protect and defend her. The insight made him smile. He decided not to respond, waiting instead for Mitchison to spell out the reason for his invitation to headquarters.
For a second time a cordon was flung around one of Glasgow’s focal points. But as yet it was an invisible cordon as there was no telltale scene-of-crime tape.
The Bath Street entrance to the Buchanan Galleries was closed off, much to the annoyance of its manager. It was a real inconvenience to all his shoppers, he protested, but neither he nor they had any knowledge yet of a body floating deep below the city pavements. Nor would they know if the Police Press office kept the news strictly to itself for a while, Lorimer told himself. All that was apparent was the presence of a Strathclyde Fire Brigade truck, its hoses snaking into the emergency exit at west Nile Street and down into the roots of the building.
Lorimer stood for a minute regarding the grey lines disappearing into the darkness. The steps down into the dungeon looked dank and unwholesome as if the triangular shadows in each corner held some poisonous muck. He could see flickering light from the firemen’s torches down below, somewhere out of sight. The beams they cast made ghosts dance upon the streaming walls. Lorimer’s mouth felt dry as he swallowed. This unnatural fear that had haunted him from childhood seemed to grip him by the throat, rendering his whole body useless for the task ahead. He gritted his teeth, cursing his weakness then forced one foot in front of the other as he began the descent down into the bowels of the Concert Hall. The soles of his shoes squelched against the sodden carpet, its blood-red colour blackened both by the flood and the many pairs of booted feet that had preceded Lorimer down into the lowest levels of the building.