by Alex Gray
‘Did you kill Karen Quentin-Jones?’
‘No,’ the Dane shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Never. I would never do such a thing!’
‘Even although she might have told the police something you wanted to hide?’
‘No,’ the man’s protest came out high and strangled. ‘I tell you everything. About George. About my viola. Now you know I take the cocaine!’
He was less in control of himself now, Solly realised. Lorimer was in complete command of the situation.
‘So you won’t object to a police surgeon examining you?’
‘Why? Why examine me? What do you want to do?’
Lorimer spread his hands in an open gesture. ‘Simply to take some samples. Then we may be able to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
Solomon frowned. Lorimer sounded so plausible, but as far as he knew Rosie had no real DNA samples to work on. What was Lorimer up to?
The policeman’s words seemed to have an effect on the musician however, for he slumped back in his chair with a sigh.
‘Sure. Go ahead. Then can I go home?’
Lorimer smiled briefly. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Why didn’t you charge him?’
‘With what? Doing a line in the gents’ toilets? We have no evidence even of that! There’s absolutely nothing we can do until we have something concrete. Being the last man out doesn’t even help. The security man was still there. The murderer had fixed the CCTV cameras once. Who’s to say he couldn’t have done it again?’
‘You think whoever killed George Millar also killed the woman?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer sounded surprised at the psychologist’s question then frowned. ‘Why? Don’t you?’
Solly was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip. ‘There are reasons for supposing it might be. The locus is the same. The murder weapon on each occasion was part of a musical instrument. There were many people about so it looks as if he is a risk taker. Not too many of those, I shouldn’t imagine.’
Lorimer grinned. Solly had his engine up and running. Any minute now, though, he’d throw a spanner into the works.
‘But?’ Lorimer prompted.
Solly looked up at him. ‘You see it too?’
‘Nope. I could feel it coming though.’
‘Ah. The But. Yes there is a But, I’m afraid. Someone tried to hide the woman’s body. There was no effort to do the same for George Millar.’
‘And no opportunity, either. Come on, Solly. Don’t you think the first murder was carefully planned? Think of the duster over the CCTV camera. It would have been easy for a tall man like him to place it there with the bow. And wouldn’t he have known that the Leader would be on his own in Morar?’
‘Ah, that’s just it. I do believe the first murder was planned out. It’s the second one I’m having difficulty with.’
‘You think he just happened to have a harp string in his pocket? Give us a break.’
‘No. But he might have lifted it from that library box on impulse.’
Lorimer frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I think,’ Solly began measuring his words carefully, ‘that the second killing was a matter of opportunity. Not planned, not thought out at all. She was in the right place at the right time. And hiding the body was a stroke of sheer luck. The trap door on stage provided that.’
‘It also suggests someone who knew their way about the place, doesn’t it? And even you can’t seriously suggest that this is the work of a different killer.’
‘No,’ Solly admitted, ‘but it’s something I think we ought to consider.’
Lorimer shook his head. He didn’t want to consider anything of the sort. As far as he was concerned there was one person to profile and one person alone. OK the modus operandi was different but in his view that wasn’t as crucial as the fact that two musicians had met their ends in the same place, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And if Carl Bekaert’s DNA matched any trace on Karen’s body, he’d have him charged with murder.
Chapter Fourteen
Brendan Phillips watched as the Conductor took the Orchestra through their paces. Poliakovski was rehearsing the programme as if nothing had happened. Were they all such cold-blooded types? Brendan wondered. He’d always felt a stirring in his soul from listening to Russian musicians. And, watching the Conductor, Brendan realised that Poliakovski exuded such passion. Funny how some people changed the minute they walked off a platform. Like Karen, a voice came unbidden into his mind. Brendan shuddered. Concentrate upon the music, he told himself, watching the Conductor once more.
The rehearsal was well under way and the musicians caught in the Russian’s spell. Poliakovski did not hold a baton but guided the players only with his hands.
Brendan stared at him, fascinated as the Conductor’s fingers rose and fell rhythmically like a puppeteer commanding the movements of his dolls from invisible strings. They’d been lucky to have the Russian’s help at such short notice. Their own resident conductor had been in a car crash and would be out of action for weeks. Poliakovski had agreed to come over to Scotland for the remainder of the year, thus solving Brendan’s problem. There were other problems still to be resolved, however.
Simon and Carl were both being questioned by Strathclyde CID and the Third Fiddle was obviously nervous about taking the Leader’s position.
‘I don’t know, Brendan,’ the man had told him in all seriousness. ‘It’s a risky business stepping into the shoes of two dead people.’ The police presence on each of the exits had done little to reassure his musicians. If anything it served merely as a stark reminder of their murdered colleagues. Brendan had urged the Chief Executive to cancel all the remaining concerts for the year, but his boss’s argument about keeping a sense of normality for the players as well as the public had won the day. The Orchestra Manager had hoped the shambles beneath the stage might go some way to cancelling all their commitments, but the backstage crew had assured Brendan that this lower area was OK now. He’d had a hard time explaining the Executive’s decision to Derek Quentin-Jones, though. The man had been beside himself with rage when he’d learnt that the Christmas concert would go ahead as scheduled. Listening to his tirade on the telephone, Brendan could only sympathise.
There was a sense of unease throughout the whole Orchestra. It would go away in time, he supposed, but he might not wait around that long. Already the Orchestra Manager was casting his mind to other jobs away from the Glasgow music world. Brendan Phillips wanted a fresh start in a place where he was not constantly reminded of that blood-stained body on the tiles of his dressing room or the coiled harp string that had been stretched around a woman’s throat.
Victor Poliakovski strolled into his dressing room. The rehearsal had been awful but he’d kept his temper as he made the players go over and over the same bits of score.
They had further rehearsals before the Christmas show and by then their confidence would have returned. The familiar old tunes would steady their nerves, no doubt. Still, he thought as he towelled his sweating face, there were quite a few who looked as though they’d not slept since the night George Millar had been found dead in his room. Poliakovski gave an involuntary glance towards the wall that separated Lomond from Morar. That policeman asking questions had given him lots to think about. For instance, who had alibis for the time when the First Violin was being killed? It didn’t bother the Russian too much that he himself had little in the way of an alibi. For he was Maestro, and nobody questioned his judgement, not even a tall policeman with fire in his eyes.
A knock on the door made Poliakovski turn.
‘Your tea, sir,’ one of the women in tartan uniform came across and laid a tray on the main table by the window. Her eyes did not meet those of the Conductor as she performed her task and hurried out. Poliakovski tossed the damp towel over the back of a chair and sat down to enjoy his pot of tea. It was not so bad then, having to stay on awhile in Glasgow if the people became familiar with his little ways. His tea, for instance
, was something they brought up automatically when he came off stage. Victor heaved his huge frame onto the leather settee and began to pour out the strong brew. He spooned four sachets of sugar into the teacup and stirred, his mind going over the Orchestra’s listless performance and what he would do about it next time. Even the brass section, which could normally be relied upon to liven things, had failed to come up to scratch. The First Trumpet’s rendering of a horse’s neigh at the end of ‘Sleigh Ride’ had sounded more like a hyena with a bad cold.
Victor frowned a little. He could have been at home now with Valentina and their grandchildren instead of sitting in this overheated dressing room sipping black tea.
Christmas was coming, the snows had carpeted Moscow and there were things he’d need to do before the family took its customary holiday to the dacha. Lady Claire MacDonald and her husband had been kindness itself towards the Russian conductor, he mused, letting him bask in the warmth of their country house hotel. And such excellent cuisine! Victor swallowed a mouthful of tea as memories of Lady Claire’s table came back to him. It had been some compensation, truly, for his enforced stay here in Scotland. Brendan, the good fellow, had an open ticket for his return via London Heathrow. Surely by the time he’d conducted the Christmas show in a few weeks’ time there would be no need to detain him further?
Another knock interrupted the Conductor’s thoughts and another face appeared in the doorway. Poliakovski scowled at the intruder, then his face cleared as he saw the man’s dark beard and twinkling eyes. This was a compatriot, no?
‘Mr Poliakovski? May I come in?’
‘Sit down,’ Victor drawled, curious to know the identity behind the London accent. Not a Russian, then, but a Jew, by the look of him.
The stranger held out his hand, then, realising he was still wearing gloves, hastily removed them. He held his hand out once more, a shy smile playing about his lips.
‘Solomon Brightman. I’m helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.’
‘Ah. Another policeman,’ Poliakovski made a dismissive face.
‘Oh, no. I am working on the investigation but my role is somewhat separate from that of the police. I’m a psychologist.’
Poliakovski’s bushy brows rose in renewed interest. ‘Psychologist,’ he rolled the word thoughtfully around his mouth as if he could taste it. ‘You do the profiling of the criminal mind, then? Eh?’
Solly nodded, his smile less shy now, his dark eyes already absorbing the Russian.
‘Are you free for the moment, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the Russian answered slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I thought perhaps you might be my guest for dinner this evening. I’d like to hear your views on the Orchestra and thought we could talk while we eat.’
Victor Poliakovski did not reply at once but sat fingering his own beard as if considering the psychologist’s invitation.
‘Very well. But please allow me to pay for dinner.’ He gave a sudden grin that transformed his sombre face into that of a caricature villain. ‘They hold me here on a contract that includes my bed and board,’ he added, seeing the psychologist’s doubtful expression.
An hour later the Conductor was sitting across from Solomon Brightman contemplating the menu in Café Rogano. He had remarked on the black and white portrait photographs of celebrities lining the walls and the pithy texts that accompanied them. From where he sat, Solly was aware of Nancy Astor’s beaky disapproval looking down upon the diners.
I married beneath me, all women do, her words declared.
Solomon glanced around at the other diners. One or two, like him, were intent on reading these famous quotations from another era.
A bottle of Gerwutzraminer rested in the ice bucket at the side of their table, its contents already well depleted by the Conductor. Solly sipped his wine carefully, taking in his companion’s mood as Poliakovski chose his dinner.
‘Back home my wife already prepares for Christmas with the baking of cakes and pastries,’ he said. ‘She does it every year at this time. This is what I am missing.’
‘You’re with the Orchestra as guest conductor until Christmas, then?’
‘That is so. My wife is so used to me being away for work and so we value the times when we can be together,’ he growled, taking another gulp of the dry wine. ‘You are married, Doctor Brightman?’
Despite his best intentions, Solly blushed and shook his head.
Lowering the menu, Poliakovski caught his expression and grinned wickedly, ‘Ah. But you have a lady friend, no doubt. Is she pretty, then?’
Solly tried a smile and nodded. Yes, Rosie Fergusson was pretty, all right. He had a sudden vision of his flat full of the smells of baking and domesticity, Rosie in an apron stirring something that they’d share for Christmas dinner. Is that what she’d like, he wondered, realising for the first time that the pathologist had not mentioned any plans at all for the festive season. Or would the lovely blonde rather dress up and be taken to one of the city’s many fine restaurants? Solly made himself a promise to ask. Suddenly it was rather important that he shared Christmas day with Rosie.
A waiter approached and took their order, Poliakovski asking about several of the dishes with the authority of a practised gourmet.
‘Now,’ began the Conductor once the waiter was out of earshot, ‘you want to know about the City of Glasgow Orchestra, yes?’
‘Can you cast you mind back to the performance on October 22nd?’
Poliakovski smiled wryly, ‘You think I could forget it, then?’
Solly shrugged. ‘Tell me what you remember about the Orchestra’s performance that evening.’
‘Hm. Damn sight better than today, I assure you, my friend,’ he remarked. ‘This is a good orchestra. I tell this already to your Chief Inspector Lorimer. They have style. Panache. And always ready for the good time afterwards,’ the Conductor grinned conspiratorially. ‘But today,’ he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair, ‘the nerves, the mistakes, the lack of life.’
‘On October 22nd,’ Solly reminded him gently.
‘They play well, you know, the programme is varied, it shows off their virtuosity.’
Solly stared into space for a moment. Lorimer had clued him up about this meeting with Poliakovski. Ask him what he saw from the podium, the Chief Inspector had urged. That was what Lorimer had meant to ask that first night, he’d told Solly, but somehow the question had been lost in the conversation.
‘You have a unique insight into their playing, do you not?’ Solly began. ‘You face the musicians as they play. You are totally aware of every nuance, every note that trembles in the air?’
Poliakovski smiled. ‘You should have been a poet, my friend. Such depth of perception.’
‘It’s what a psychologist requires also,’ Solly told him gravely.
‘Yes. I see all these things. I hear every shade within the music. But what of that?’
Solly paused before answering. ‘Was there any particular player who seemed to be off form? Did any of the musicians make uncharacteristic errors?’
Poliakovski pushed back his chair and crossed one leg over the other, staring at the psychologist.
‘You think I can identify a person with a guilty conscience, is that it?’
‘Perhaps.’
The Russian looked down at his hands, examining the fingertips carefully. His silence, Solly knew, suggested that he was remembering something that he now saw as significant. But would he reveal this to the stranger sitting opposite?
Poliakovski closed his eyes and leant back with a sigh. At last he spoke, slowly, as if he were trying to see the City of Glasgow Orchestra in his mind’s eye.
‘The violinist. She plays like the angels. Now, alas, she is with them for all eternity. The brass section, they are full of spirits. These horns! Ah, such jokers!’ The Russian shook his head as if recalling some incident. Then his expression grew sombre. ‘Yes, Doctor, I do recall mistakes. So. A trombonist slides too earl
y? A viola is off the beat. What else? I think the harpist shows the nerves. Yes, she trembles when I look her way.’
Solly hid a smile. It was not difficult to imagine a nervous player buckling under the Russian’s sweeping gaze. The harpist had been in a flap before the performance too, he remembered from Lorimer’s notes. But was the DCI looking at this the right way? The psychologist considered his question to Poliakovski. Perhaps he had seen a few musicians off form but would poor playing necessarily have been the response of a killer? Would there not have been some elation in their demeanour, an extra verve to their playing?
Solomon knew he would soon be voicing this point of view to the DCI even although it cast him in the role of Devil’s advocate. Again. Still, he’d made a promise to Lorimer so he pushed on with the policeman’s idea.
‘And the Chorus?’
‘Ach, they do what they must do. They look at Maestro and they sing their notes. No mistakes, Doctor. The tenors, well, they could be more forte, you know. It is not unusual for a weakness in that section. But the sopranos, ah, they have the passion!’
‘What sort of weakness, exactly?’ Solly asked, wondering about the tenors and if any of them had been friendly with the late George Millar.
‘Numbers. Always numbers. It is so hard to recruit sufficient for the balance of sound. They are not the professional Chorus, you know?’
Solly shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know. You mean you use an amateur choir in the Concert Hall?’
‘But of course. There are so few groups of singers who are professionals. Your own Scottish Opera is one, of course. Amateur, you use this word. It means only that the singers themselves are paid nothing. In all other ways they act as professionals, I assure you. And that is why we have these particular rehearsals at night, you see. The singers, they are mostly at work during the daytime.’