Shadows of Sounds

by Alex Gray

  Lorimer smiled. If Flynn was as easily impressed as this then he’d be OK about the house. He had done his best to make the place homely, even remembering to switch on the heating to warm up the rooms.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from the Southern General Hospital during which time Flynn had asked Lorimer things about the job.

  Why had he become a Busy in the first place? How had he come to work in CID? What was his wife doing abroad? The questions seemed to cover everything except the murders in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, the very reason for Flynn being with him at all. Strangely, Lorimer was grateful for that. The case had caused him too many sleepless nights lately. As he turned into the driveway a few flakes of snow were beginning to smudge the windscreen. The security light beamed on, revealing the red door of the garage and the white painted front door beyond the porch.

  Flynn fell silent as he stepped out of the car and regarded his new home. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected, a two-storey house on the corner of a street full of similar properties. Somehow he’d thought Lorimer would live in a bigger, grander place, a house in keeping with the smart old car.

  There was a brass nameplate by the side of the door with the single word LORIMER engraved upon it, and some evergreen plant growing up the wall, its tiny yellow flowers like wee stars shining in the overhead light.

  ‘This is it,’ Lorimer told him, turning a key in the lock. ‘Home.’

  Joseph Alexander Flynn hesitated for a moment. It had been years since he’d stepped over any threshold that he could call home. What must it be like for Lorimer to come back here night after night, knowing a warm bed was waiting for him?

  Interpreting his hesitation as reluctance, Lorimer put out a hand. ‘Come on in. It’s freezing out there.’

  Flynn followed the tall policeman into a long hallway, pushing shut the door behind him. A waft of cold air crept up his back, making him step further into the house.

  ‘This is the dining room and the kitchen’s in here,’ Lorimer was saying, striding away ahead of him. Flynn looked around him. The room stretched from the front to the back of the house, divided by a pair of wooden doors that had been left wide open. Lorimer had disappeared into a kitchen beyond and he could hear the sound of a kettle being filled.

  From where he was standing the dining room was at the far end, a round wooden table and four chairs placed in the centre. Here the two walls on either side were lined from floor to ceiling with books. Flynn’s eyes roamed up and down the shelves. How could anyone find the time to read all that in one lifetime? Then he remembered what Lorimer had said about his wife being a teacher. Well. They always had their noses stuck into a book didn’t they? There was a desk under the window by the door where he’d come in. It held a laptop computer surrounded by heaps of paper and a framed photograph beside a green reading lamp. Flynn picked up the photo. It was of a woman, her head thrown back, dark curly hair blowing behind her. She was laughing into the lens, looking at the photographer as if they’d just shared a joke. Flynn replaced it on the desk exactly where it had been, wondering what it must be like to have a woman look at you like that.

  ‘That’s Maggie,’ Lorimer had come up unheard behind him, holding a tray with mugs of tea and chocolate biscuits. ‘My wife,’ he added. Flynn glanced at the man, catching sight of something softening in these hard blue eyes as he looked at the photograph.

  ‘Come on upstairs. That’s where the lounge is.’ Lorimer pushed open the door with his foot and re-entered the hallway. Flynn saw the light suddenly flooding the hallway and heard him pad upstairs. He turned his attention back to the laughing woman and gently touched the frame.

  ‘D’you know ah’m here, missus?’ he whispered.

  Lorimer sat nursing a glass of whisky, listening to the rain pattering steadily against the upstairs windows. Flynn had been asleep for hours now. He’d wolfed down the meal that Sadie Dunlop had thrust upon Lorimer earlier in the day. (‘Chicken broth and steak pie. Naethin’ tae beat it!’) Then the two of them had watched some television before the boy’s eyelids had drooped shut, signalling an early night. He’d left Flynn to decide whether to close his own bedroom door or not and had been surprised when the boy left it ajar. The hospital room had been open at all times for security. Perhaps he’d simply become used to that, he mused. Tomorrow he’d be off duty and there would be plenty of time to see to Flynn’s immediate needs.

  For now, Lorimer realised, he needed a bit of quiet to himself to sort out his own thoughts. He’d been struck by how Flynn had reacted to Maggie’s photograph. OK, maybe he took her for granted, but seeing his wife through the eyes of another man made him realise just how lovely and desirable she was. Only three and a bit more weeks, he told himself. Then young Flynn would be happily ensconced in a wee flat of his own and he’d be off to sunny Florida.

  But before that happened, would he be any further forward with solving this double murder? Perhaps that depended upon the boy sleeping across the landing. He took another gulp of whisky, remembering his recent interview with Derek Quentin-Jones. At least he still had a wife, he’d reminded himself, even if she was several thousand miles away. The Surgeon had been so terribly bereft, crying once more as Lorimer had revealed his wife’s infidelity as gently as he could. Had he known about it?

  Lorimer pursed his mouth into a thin line as he recalled the man’s words.

  ‘I’m sterile, Chief Inspector. Now I know that man fathered not just one but both of Karen’s children.’ Seeing Lorimer’s scepticism, the Surgeon had assured him it was true. A urinary infection had led to other, more discreet tests, confirming that the Consultant Surgeon could not have been the father of the child he had believed to be his daughter. He’d never asked Karen for the identity of her lover, choosing instead to engage a private detective to have her followed. With no further signs of her infidelity, he had eventually settled back into what he’d believed to be a secure marriage.

  Having the identity of Tina’s father made known to him was obviously a fresh blow and Lorimer had let him linger in his office until he could regain his composure.

  Far from blaming the acting Superintendent for being the bearer of bad news, Quentin-Jones seemed positively grateful to have another man to talk to. All the anguished emotion poured out. Behind his words of sympathy, Lorimer was taking a professional note of the man’s behaviour: this wasn’t the kind of man who committed a crime of passion. He might be brave enough with a scalpel when it came to saving lives, but Lorimer would lay money on it that Derek Quentin-Jones was incapable of any act of violence.

  As he drained his whisky, his eyes fell on the telephone out in the hallway. Should he try to speak to Maggie? Best not, in case he woke the boy, he thought. His eyes closed and he let the glass slip from his fingers onto the carpet. Another minute and he would shift, just another minute.

  Flynn saw the light on in the lounge and from the doorway of his bedroom he made out the sleeping form of the policeman curled into the sofa. Glancing back into the room he noticed the extra blanket that he’d tossed onto the floor.

  As he draped the thick blanket over Lorimer, the policeman muttered something in his sleep and turned over. An unfamiliar feeling swelled up in the boy as he looked down at the figure under the blanket. He swallowed and blinked, staring at this man who had taken him into his own home. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he switched off the table lamp and quietly tiptoed back to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jimmy Greer grinned with satisfaction as his fingers flew across the keyboard. There! That would fix the smarmy bastard! Weeks had gone by since his encounter with Lorimer but the event still rankled with the journalist. It had given him some little pleasure to see the lack of progress in the Concert Hall case although as time went on it was harder to find copy relating to the two murders. He pressed the print button as he reread his piece.

  POLICE FAILURE TO MAKE CONCERT HALL ARREST

  Despite the time and manpower spent
on the recent murders of George Millar and his colleague Karen Quentin-Jones, Strathclyde Police have failed to make any significant progress in this case. Lack of concrete evidence seems to be the underlying problem, according to police sources, although extensive forensic testing has been under way since the first murder. Even the presence of Doctor Solomon Brightman, criminal profiler, has made no apparent impression on this case.

  A senior Strathclyde officer insisted that reports that the Crown Office had insufficient evidence to arrest a prime suspect were not true.

  ‘There is no prime suspect in this case,’ acting Superintendent William Lorimer claimed. ‘The case is ongoing and there are many aspects still under investigation.’

  What these aspects are Superintendent Lorimer refused to say but there is a feeling of disquiet within the force over the failure to make an arrest almost two months after the first murder. The two murder weapons, a percussion hammer and a harp string, are believed to be crucial to the investigation and sources close to the case believe that the perpetrator of the killings is still in the city. The victims were both killed in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall within days of one another and extensive police work was required in and around the area. George Millar, Leader of the City of Glasgow Orchestra, and Karen Quentin-Jones, his second in command, were well known figures to Glasgow concert goers and their loss to the city’s musical life has been immense. Despite the tragedies, the Concert Hall’s programme continues as normal and the Orchestra will be performing their usual Christmas Classics concert this Sunday.

  Although several of the Orchestra members have been questioned by the police, it seems that Superintendent Lorimer, who continues to lead the case, is no nearer to finding the killer.

  A source at the Crown Office claimed to be under pressure to release the bodies for burial with the result that the funeral service for Karen Quentin-Jones is scheduled to take place in Glasgow Cathedral this Friday.

  Greer smirked as he picked up the newly printed page. That would be one in the eye for Lorimer! Lorimer was perfectly aware that the Crown Office had deemed it possible to release the body of Karen Quentin-Jones for burial before Christmas.

  Of course cremation would have been out of the question given the circumstances of her death. It was three days since Greer’s piece in the Gazette and Lorimer was poring over the latest memo from Edinburgh. As he read the document in his hand, he wondered if there would ever be a need for an exhumation. He hoped not. Rosie and the forensic scientists had amassed a huge quantity of material that could be used as evidence if they were ever lucky enough to come up with the other half of its equation. Carl Bekaert had given swabs for testing but so far there was no matching DNA trace. If he could have his way, Lorimer would have the whole damn Orchestra tested, the Chorus too, if need be. He knew fine, as Greer had so unsubtly hinted, that the trail had gone cold.

  The only good thing about that, he thought to himself, was that he’d be able to take his holiday to Florida. Five more days and he’d be picking up Maggie’s mum and heading for the airport.

  Lorimer felt in his pocket for the black tie that he’d folded this morning. The service was at two o’clock in Glasgow Cathedral and there would be a considerable police presence there, not just representatives from the investigating team but with uniformed officers providing security measures.

  He’d made his peace with the Consultant Surgeon, thankfully. At first the man had been outraged at the Orchestra’s decision to carry on with their Christmas programme, demanding that Lorimer make them stop. Quentin-Jones had shouted at him, his anger reaching a peak then he’d broken down again. Now, with the revelations about Karen’s past and the seeming insensitivity of the Orchestra, he simply seemed exhausted by it all.

  Lorimer was used to grown men weeping in his office, one of the more unpleasant aspects of this job. Sometimes emotional storms would result in a confession, just like on television, but that didn’t happen often enough in real life. He wondered briefly whose tears would fall today for Karen Quentin-Jones.

  The clouds that had threatened rain all morning seemed to have shifted to the east letting a pale shaft of sunlight filter through the stained glass windows of Glasgow Cathedral. Lorimer heard the sonorous notes of the organ and felt its vibration through the soles of his shoes as he made his way forward. Glancing towards the Choir Stalls, Lorimer saw the members of the City of Glasgow Chorus. Someone had pulled out the stops for Karen’s funeral, he realised, wondering if Brendan Phillips’s hand was in this. He looked around, recognising several members of the Orchestra before taking a seat near the back.

  Whether or not Karen Quentin-Jones had been a popular member of the community, the turnout at her funeral was certainly respectable. Most of the congregation were middle-aged or older but there was a row of youngsters near the front. Beside the Consultant Surgeon sat a girl with long dark hair falling down her back. As she turned her face towards Quentin-Jones, Lorimer saw the pale face with its firm jaw. Younger and perhaps even prettier, there was no question whose daughter this was. what else might Tina Quentin-Jones be feeling, apart from the obvious grief at losing her mother? Lorimer ground his teeth. There were so many victims never taken into account in a murder case; children, parents, friends, a whole gallery of suffering.

  His eyes slid along the row to where an elderly lady sat, her face veiled from sight. She sat upright, hands crossed on top of a stick, staring straight ahead as if to blot out the murmur of conversation around her. Beside her a woman’s grey head was bowed in prayer. For a moment Lorimer thought he recognised Edith Millar then his view of the front row was masked by the arrival of the undertaker and the request for the congregation to stand.

  He watched as the coffin was brought forward, noting that it was being borne by professionals in their black livery, not by family members. Then, as the coffin was laid across the trestles, a sound like deep organ pipes came from the Choir Stalls as the Chorus began their vocal tribute to the dead violinist. Lorimer listened, moved in spite of himself as they intoned Taverner’s ‘Song to Athene’. As the women’s voices reached the triumphant crescendo, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, then the Basses resumed their sonorous notes, letting the sound fade into darkness. There was a long moment of silence as the notes reverberated into the vaults. After the obligatory coughing and shuffling, the minister began his address.

  Lorimer hadn’t intended to follow the funeral party to the hotel afterwards but professional curiosity managed to subdue any qualms about obeying protocol.

  Quentin-Jones had booked a room at Lang’s, the upmarket hotel directly across from Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, much to Lorimer’s surprise. OK, it was the nearest decent place to the Cathedral, but surely its proximity to the murder scene was in poor taste? Or was the bereaved husband so consumed with grief that such niceties had been lost on him?

  Sipping the whisky he’d been offered by a solemn faced waiter, Lorimer glanced around the room.

  Brendan Phillips was in conversation with the Chorus Master when he caught sight of Lorimer. His beckoning finger and tentative smile were all the invitation Lorimer required. That Maurice Drummond was there under the circumstances surprised Lorimer. How would Quentin-Jones feel about seeing his wife’s former lover there? But, he reasoned to himself, as musical director for the funeral service he might be expected to put in an appearance afterwards.

  ‘Chief Inspector. This is someone I want you to meet,’ Brendan began. His companion tilted his head towards Lorimer in a gesture of politeness. ‘Maurice, Chief Inspector Lorimer. Maurice Drummond, Director of Music for the City of Glasgow Chorus.’

  ‘Actually Brendan, we’ve already met,’ Maurice Drummond replied dryly. He took Lorimer’s hand in a firm grasp. ‘I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of meeting one of Strathclyde’s finest today,’ Drummond said, dropping Lorimer’s hand like a stone.

  ‘No? Well we usually have a presence in such cases,’ Lorimer replied. ‘That Taverner was somethi
ng pretty special,’ he said, swiftly changing the subject. ‘Well done.’

  The Chorus Master shrugged. ‘He wrote it, I only hold the stick.’

  ‘Maurice, the Chief Inspector was asking me some time ago for your first name. I don’t think that’s something I’ve ever known,’ Brendan said teasingly.

  A tiny frown crossed Drummond’s brow. ‘No, Brendan. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to you, have I?’ he said, his voice quiet, belying the obvious disapproval in his tone. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, there’s somebody over there I need to talk to. Nice to have met you again, Lorimer,’ he said politely.

  ‘Oh, dear, looks like I’ve ruffled poor old Maurice’s feathers,’ Brendan laughed, regarding the Chorus Master’s retreating back. Lorimer eyed the man speculatively. Had Brendan Phillips deliberately riled the man? And if so, why? He’d never come across as a particularly malicious individual; in fact he’d appeared quite the opposite up until now, anxiously solicitous for his musicians. But perhaps that was the answer: the choristers weren’t within his jurisdiction, were they? Was he beginning to sense some sort of rivalry between Orchestra and Chorus?

  ‘What does the C stand for, Chief Inspector?’ Brendan asked.

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t want you to know I don’t think I ought to say,’ Lorimer told him, his voice flat and even as though the conversation bored him, then drained the last of his whisky. ‘Better be going. I’ll be in touch.’

  Lorimer made his way across the room to where the Quentin-Jones party stood, placing his empty glass on a convenient table without breaking stride.

  The Consultant Surgeon saw him at once.

  ‘My condolences, sir, once again,’ Lorimer said, taking the man’s hand in a firm grasp.