by Alex Gray
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. It was good of you to come,’ Quentin-Jones replied, his words gracious enough, but his voice husky with emotion.
He looked suddenly older, the handsome face drained of colour. Lorimer guessed the man hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in the weeks since Karen had first gone missing.
He recalled the Surgeon’s guilt as he’d agonised over his purchase of the stolen violin.
‘If only I’d told her. If only I’d known!’ he’d cried to Lorimer in his storm of remorse. Lorimer had kept silent. How could he placate the man when his own suspicions were that Quentin-Jones’s dealings with George Millar might indeed have led to Karen’s death? Suddenly Lorimer regretted his impulse to follow the funeral party. Surely the very sight of the policeman was heaping anguish on the bereaved man. Besides, he should really be getting back to work.
Lorimer was almost at the door of the hotel when a touch to his sleeve made him turn. It was the girl with the long dark hair, Karen’s daughter.
‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Miss Quentin-Jones.’ Lorimer put out his hand but the girl seemed not to notice. She was looking at him in a distracted manner.
‘I just wanted to ask you. Will you find him? Whoever killed my mother?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Oh!’ Suddenly the girl appeared more agitated than before. ‘But how would you be sure that you’d got the right person? I mean … what if you made a mistake?’
Lorimer frowned at her, unsure of how to reply, wondering what had prompted the strange question.
‘Tina!’ a voice called from within the room.
‘I’d better go. Sorry.’
Lorimer watched as she practically ran across the room to where her father was standing then he looked up to meet the Surgeon’s gaze.
There was no disguising his expression of utter hostility. But to whom was it directed, to his daughter or Lorimer himself?
Pulling the door towards him Lorimer felt that Karen’s funeral had raised more questions than ever, not least about the relationship between her husband and her daughter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Play something to me, will you?’
‘Like, what?’
Simon rolled over onto his side, considering. ‘Something sad. Sad but not morbid,’ he added, qualifying his request with a grin that lit up his eyes.
Chris tucked the fiddle under his chin and paused for a moment, bow in the air, his eyes looking beyond the man on the bed and out towards the grey patch of sky framed in the window. Then he looked back fondly at the strings and began to play.
The strains of the music filled the room with their sense of unfulfilled longing as ‘The Dark Island’ reminded the two men of a people who had been bereft of their homeland so long ago. As the music trembled and died, Chris lowered his bow and smiled.
‘Will that do you?’
‘Ah, such sweet music! You’re a born romantic, so you are, Hunter!’ Simon teased. ‘All that Scottish sentimentality, it’s really got to you, hasn’t it?’
‘We learnt that at school,’ Chris told him. ‘Lots of the old pipe tunes were standard fare for violin lessons down in Bristol. That one’s always stuck with me for some reason, though.’ He smiled a secret smile to himself.
‘Thinking about when you were wee?’ Simon asked, watching the other man’s face.
Instead of replying to his question, Chris picked up the bow again and began a lively reel. He swayed from side to side in exaggerated sweeps, his foot tapping wildly on the bedroom carpet.
Simon leapt to his feet, clapping his hands and twirling around in time to the music, sending out the occasional ‘Heuch!’ The music became louder and faster as the violinist changed the tempo, jigs and strathspeys following in rapid succession until Simon fell, exhausted and laughing, back onto the rumpled bedclothes.
‘Oh, man,’ he said, weak with laughter and the effort of prancing around the room, ‘That was just what we needed!’ Simon sank back onto the pillow, one hand behind his head, his cheeks flushed and the red-gold hair clinging damply to his forehead. ‘The perfect antidote to a funeral,’ he murmured.
Chris Hunter turned away to put the violin back into its case.
‘Blast!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I need a new bow. This one’s a wreck. Look at it!’
Simon yawned and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Forget it. Come to bed. Brendan’ll get you something tomorrow if you ask him.’ He looked over at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, noting the sudden slump to his shoulders. ‘Wish you’d taken up George’s offer, now?’ he asked, a malicious glint in his eye.
‘Hell, no! I couldn’t afford it then and I can’t now. A new fiddle? Any idea what a decent one would set me back?’
‘Aye, poor old Georgie boy. Who’d have thought he was dealing in suss instruments, eh?’
Something in the other man’s voice made Chris Hunter look up.
‘Did you know what he was up to?’
‘Me?’ Simon feigned innocence, his eyes laughing behind their wide stare. ‘A clean-living country boy like me? Come off it!’
‘Did you, though, seriously?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Never suspected a thing. Knew he did the odd line, well he hardly kept that a secret, did he?’
‘No,’ Chris replied. ‘Liked to flaunt that, didn’t he?’
‘Aye, it fair annoyed the old women, didn’t it? Remember how Karen used to go on about it?’
‘Come on, Si, she’s only just been buried, for goodness sake,’ Chris protested.
‘With full honours,’ Simon replied. ‘Wonder how much Drummond charged for the Chorus’s services today.’
‘Surely they’d be singing for free?’
‘You don’t know Maurice Drummond. I bet even now he’s invoicing Quentin-Jones.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Chris replied shortly. ‘Nobody could be that cold-blooded.’
Simon ran a hand through his hair. ‘Someone is, though,’ he said darkly. ‘Someone’s cold-blooded enough to do in two of our orchestra.’
‘You think it might be Drummond? Why?’ Chris twisted around to look at Simon’s expression.
‘There was something between him and Karen.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Chris asked, a frown creasing his brow.
‘Och, I don’t know really. I’d seen them arguing together. There was no love lost between that pair, I can tell you.’
‘Have you told this to the police?’
Simon made a face. ‘Tell them what? That Drummond didn’t like our Assistant Principal Fiddle? There were quite a few who would come in to that category. Come on, let’s be honest, she wasn’t everyone’s favourite person, was she?’
Chris shook his head and sighed. ‘I suppose not, but it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. Especially today.’
Simon laughed, ‘Nothing you or I can say will hurt her now, pal.’
‘I was just thinking of the family,’ Chris protested.
‘Aye, I know. You’re a soft-hearted lad, aren’t you,’ Simon told him, reaching out and grasping Chris’s wrist. ‘That’s one of the reasons I love you,’ he whispered, drawing Chris’s hand up to his mouth. He began sucking gently at his fingertips until Chris gave a groan and swung his body onto the bed beside him.
The light was beginning to fade when Chris finally fell asleep. Simon observed the faint shadow of his chest as it rose and fell in a steady rhythm. There was only that whisper of gentle breathing in the room now and the murmuring hum of the ioniser, mere shadows of sound. Even familiar shapes became blurred and indistinct; the fiddle in its open case was a dull gleam of polished wood. Simon stared at it for a long moment.
‘I wonder what’s happened to her violin,’ he asked himself dreamily, then a sudden shiver made him pull the covers over his naked feet.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘We’ve found the violin!’ Jo Grant stood breathless opposite Lorim
er, her hands on his desk, her face radiant.
‘Well, well! Sit yourself down, Inspector, and tell all,’ Lorimer smiled at her enthusiasm but his own heart had jumped at Jo’s words.
‘It was in Vienna. In the back of a van that was transporting instruments for the Berlin Philharmonic. Can you believe that? I mean they’re one of the best known …’
‘OK, just the main facts. How was it spotted?’ Lorimer cut in.
Somewhat chastened, Jo continued, ‘The truck, van, whatever it was, had been stopped at customs for a spot check on the Austrian/Czech border. Seems they’ve had trouble with drugs coming over from Eastern Europe by way of Prague. The Orchestra had just done a series of concerts in Prague and had returned to Vienna for the next part of their tour.’
‘And the violin was found at the border?’
‘No. The truck was stopped at the border for a check. Nothing was found. Squeaky clean lot the Berlin Phil,’ Jo remarked, ‘unlike some of ours,’ she grimaced.
‘Anyway it prompted the driver and his second in command to take a look for themselves. And, bingo! Here was a violin surplus to their listed instruments.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘Well, we’d posted the violin as missing on a website that’s dedicated to stolen instruments. Company called Smartaction operate it. The Berlin chap cottoned on to that and this fax came through,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘twenty minutes ago.’
‘What took you so long?’ Lorimer asked dryly then smiled as Jo made a face at him. Here was one officer who didn’t feel intimidated by her boss. The realisation came with something approaching delight. Suddenly all his misgivings about DI Grant and Superintendent Mark Mitchison vanished.
‘Have the Germans any idea how the instrument came to be there at all or is that a daft question?’
‘Yes,’ Jo grinned. ‘Not a single soul is putting up their hands for this one, but I will tell you that the First Violin in the Karlovy Vary Symphony Orchestra reported a Vincenzo Panormo missing a few years ago. They’ve collected the insurance now, right enough. There was a certain reluctance on the original owner’s part to identify the violin, I believe.’
‘Aye, I can believe that,’ Lorimer growled, remembering the fantastic price tag that the instrument had carried. With that kind of insurance money the owner would surely have bought some other violin by now. ‘So what’s happening to our instrument?’
‘We’ve got the full cooperation of the Austrian police. They’ve made sure nobody’s touched the violin and just in case, they’ve kindly fingerprinted the whole Orchestra and crew!’
‘Good Lord! You have been busy while I was out enjoying myself, haven’t you?’
‘Was it grim?’ she asked suddenly, remembering the funeral. Then, as Lorimer didn’t respond, she made another face. ‘Well it’s not been a typical Friday afternoon. Never is around here, though, is it? Anyway, they’re bringing the violin over personally. One of their officers is apparently coming across to London for Christmas so she’s arriving at Glasgow Airport some time tomorrow afternoon.’
Lorimer sat back into his chair. If the Vincenzo Panormo hadn’t been too messed about, could Rosie’s team find anything on the violin that would link it to Karen’s killer?
‘Jo,’ he said slowly, ‘Get on to the Crown Office. Tell them we need a warrant to DNA test the City of Glasgow Orchestra and Chorus. Oh, and extend that to the backstage crew and the admin. staff, will you?’
Jo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his request but she rose immediately, giving Lorimer a mock salute as she left his office.
Less than a week to go, a little voice reminded Lorimer as he picked up the telephone. Just six days and he should be with Maggie once again. But would this new lead keep him in Scotland? The thought filled Lorimer with a feeling of foreboding. Would his career drive a total wedge between his wife and himself, destroying their marriage once and for all?
Derek Quentin-Jones put down the telephone, noting the hand shaking as it replaced the receiver clumsily in its cradle. Would this nightmare never end? He pulled open the desk drawer and drew out the bottle of pills. At least they’d stop the shakes long enough to let him concentrate on what he should do next. He hadn’t yet told Tina about the terms of her mother’s will.
Her mother, he thought bitterly, who had betrayed them both for so many years. Or had she? Had Karen been aware that Maurice Drummond had fathered their daughter? Derek slammed his fist down hard on the leather surface.
It was time to stop deluding himself. Of course she had known! And she’d been laughing at him every time she’d looked at Tina and seen something of her lover in the girl’s face.
Beyond the telephone was a portrait of Karen in evening dress, the Vincenzo Panormo clasped across her bosom. Her smile was confident as she looked at the photographer. Here is a woman who knows what success tastes like, she seemed to be saying with her eyes, her smile, the arch of her neck.
Suddenly Derek caught up the picture and threw it with all his force against the wall. It smashed with an unsatisfying tinkle of glass making him spring up and stride across the room to where it lay in fragments. Looking down at the shattered face he saw that her smile was still intact. With a cry of anguish he stamped his foot again and again over the splintered frame finally grinding it into the wooden floor below his heel.
His hands flew to his face, covering his eyes. She wouldn’t make him weep. Not now and not ever again.
‘I think someone’s been following me,’ Tina said, putting down her coffee cup and looking across at Chris.
‘Oh, Tina. You’re just imagining things. It’s the strain of everything, your term exams and your mum’s funeral,’ Chris Hunter placed his hand over the girl’s but she snatched it away angrily.
‘No I’m not! I know there was somebody following me last night after I’d left Dad at home,’ she insisted.
‘Where were you going?’
‘Och, I know it was mean, but I just couldn’t stand being on my own with him in the house any longer. He’s been so odd lately, giving me strange looks all he time.’
‘Come on, Tina, think how he’s feeling. Until they find someone for these murders he’ll not be able to rest easy. I can’t begin to imagine what the pair of you have been going through these past weeks.’
Tina sighed, ‘OK, I know he’s under a massive strain. So’m I. But I’m not imagining things, Chris. That’s the second time I’ve felt someone following me along the road. I was just going down to the underground. I wanted to be over here,’ she swept her hand from the coffee shop’s glass fronted window towards Byres Road.
‘Studentsville,’ the young violinist smiled at her. ‘Why don’t you ask your dad if you can move into a flat after Christmas? Surely you can find some pals to share with?’
Tina shook her head. ‘I can’t leave him on his own just yet; maybe next year when I start Junior Honours.’
‘Anyway, back to your secret admirer,’ Chris teased, in an attempt to lift the girl’s spirits. ‘Did you get a look at him?’
‘No. He was wearing one of these hooded tops. I couldn’t see his face.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Och, it was probably some ned wanting to nick my mobile phone.’
‘So you won’t be going to tell the police?’ he asked.
Tina looked up sharply. ‘Should I?’
Chris shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, but they’ve got a lot on their plate right now, haven’t they?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said slowly, stirring the froth on her latté.
‘Well, if you ask me, it’s about time you passed your driving test then you wouldn’t be wandering about Pollokshields at all hours.’
‘Aye, you’re right,’ she sighed. ‘After failure number three I just couldn’t be bothered. Mum had promised me a wee runabout for my birthday if I passed,’ Tina swallowed suddenly and reached out to grip her friend’s hand.
Chris watched as she bit her lip and held back the tears. She’d been so brave
, coping with all these weeks of horror. He’d have cracked up if it had been his mum, he thought, suddenly remembering the face of the woman who’d raised him and given him such unconditional love and affection. But Karen hadn’t been like that, had she? The impression he’d had of Tina’s mother was of a different character altogether, one for whom success and a wealthy lifestyle were paramount. Still, she’d been Tina’s mum and the girl was obviously missing her. And it was extra hard at this time of year, Chris thought as strains of ‘White Christmas’ floated over the crowded cafe, as if to remind them of the retail countdown to 25th December.
‘Anyway, how is life with Simon?’ Tina asked, her lip curling in a way that startled Chris, it reminded him so much of Karen.
‘Fine. Oh, I know you don’t approve, my pet, but we get along just fine. He had the room all ready for me to move back in. Did I tell you? Even had an ioniser.’
‘You and your allergies!’ Tina mocked. ‘Anyway, I’m just being selfish. Simon Corrigan doesn’t like me so I know I’m not that welcome up at his place.’
‘Don’t be daft. Anyway, it’s my place too. I pay half the rent. Don’t see why I can’t have my friends over when I want.’
‘Maybe he thinks I’m trying to lure you away from him!’ she teased.
Chris laughed, ‘I’ve told him you’re my coffee-mate!’
‘And what’s that supposed to be? The gay equivalent of tea and sympathy?’
‘Of course,’ Chris replied lightly. ‘Everyone knows a girl’s best friend is her gay man. Right?’
‘Mum thought you’d be a lovely friend for me. She told me that the night she introduced you. Did I ever tell you?’
Chris pulled a face. ‘Me? Your boyfriend? I can’t see that happening, can you?’
Tina smiled up at him suddenly. ‘Well maybe you’re right. I will try to get a flat over here next year. And pass my driving test. Then all the nice boys will come flocking!’
Chris Hunter smiled back at her. It was probably true. With her mane of glossy dark hair and these elfin features Tina Quentin-Jones was a real babe. He was happy with Si, and surely he wanted her to have that same, settled feeling. So why did the idea of her having a host of male admirers fill him with a sense of dismay?