Shadows of Sounds

by Alex Gray

  Simon had clung to him with such passion tonight, his moans interspersed with avowals of love that Chris, to his astonishment, had felt embarrassed to hear.

  But why? a little voice asked him now as he saw the tiny rise and fall of Simon’s chest. Surely this was just what he’d wanted, to be cherished like this?

  Simon had felt soiled after the routine tests had been done, he’d told him. They’d been larking around in the shower when he’d suddenly become serious and started complaining about the police procedure. ‘It’s a bit of me,’ he’d protested to Chris, ‘they’ve got something of mine and of yours. Something that’s going to be on a file somewhere for the rest of our lives,’ he’d raged. It had taken Chris some time to calm him down, but afterwards they’d slipped between the silken sheets and that anger had been translated into quite a different passion.

  Had he done it deliberately, wondered Chris? Had his lover’s raging been quite intentional, working himself up into a frenzy that could spend itself against his own unresisting body?

  Chris sighed. Love was so complicated. He’d never understand it and he wasn’t at all sure that Simon Corrigan would, either. He’d flown into a fury when Chris had refused to stay in Glasgow over Christmas.

  ‘I want to be with my mum because I love her,’ he’d explained with a simple innocence that had seemed to provoke Simon.

  ‘What about our love?’ had been the defiant rejoinder.

  Chris had not answered him then and he was unsure if he could answer him now. Was what he felt for the man slumbering at his side truly love? Or was it an outpouring of some other emotion? Sometimes, as tonight, it felt like some selfish, primeval force that shuddered through his loins leaving him weak and dazed, its monstrous strength overcoming his very reason.

  Loving George had been so different. There he had felt safe and secure, pampered almost by the older man. George had beguiled him, he knew, but he’d gone willingly down that road of charming seduction. They all had, he thought ruefully, remembering Carl’s tense face earlier that night, Simon’s outburst in the shower.

  He was the only one of them who had maintained his usual easy control, Chris realised. Did that say something about him? Was he lacking in something? Tina certainly didn’t seem to think so, he thought, fondly recalling his friend’s flattering comments. A small frown creased his forehead.

  Tina had not been there tonight though she’d promised she would be at the Christmas concert. Usually the girl came backstage and sought him out after a concert.

  Maybe she’d known about the testing being done and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Or had there been another reason? Chris had wanted to give her the gift he’d wrapped up that morning, a glass musical box with Mozartian figures that waltzed around together in a storm of fake snow. It was totally kitsch but he’d thought she’d have liked it nonetheless.

  Now he probably wouldn’t see Tina at all. He would have to get cracking if he were to catch that flight on Wednesday.

  Chris looked back at Simon. He hoped they’d part amicably. His mind was quite made up now. There was no way he was going to stay here. After tonight his life might become increasingly complicated and it was time to bring certain things to an end.

  Lorimer sat by the window gazing out at the pinpoints of stars that pierced the darkness. It would be night time in Florida too, he reckoned, almost eight o’clock on a Sunday evening.

  Maggie had been invited to a colleague’s home for a festive dinner, she’d told him. Lots of them would be there and carol singers were expected to show up early in the evening. It happened every year, she’d explained, her voice wistful for the kind of Christmases they’d never known. Even the Salvation Army had cut down its activities in Glasgow following an outbreak of thuggish violence towards the bands’ traditional Christmas offerings. That didn’t happen in America, Maggie had assured him firmly. Over there folk could leave out a host of decorations and Christmas lights and no one would dream of touching let alone vandalising them.

  Lorimer made a face to the reflection in the glass. What else would be better over there? Would he be bombarded with comparisons the whole time or would his wife have any longings at all for Scotland?

  The Christmas concert at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had made him proud of the City of Glasgow Orchestra and Chorus. Even Brendan Phillips had beamed his delight at the final encore. He’d watched and listened to the second half of the programme from the wings, standing by the Orchestra Manager as the Orchestra and singers had filled the hall with familiar music. Echoes of the traditional carols had flowed round the auditorium like shadows from the past, shadows of sounds. Even in the silence of this early hour, Lorimer could still hear their cadences in his head. George Millar would have played these tunes year in, year out, Karen by his side, he mused. As he stood there, Lorimer had the feeling that their music was still going on somewhere out of sight, behind a blanket of darkness.

  Suddenly Lorimer drew the curtains across the window shutting out the stars. It was up to him to silence these faint echoes, if he only could.

  Carl Bekaert twitched the window blind. They were still there, then, those policemen in their unmarked car, watching and waiting. The Dane’s lip trembled as he let the blind fall. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Hadn’t he suffered enough already? There was no George to comfort him any more and even that arrogant dealer, Seaton, had become unavailable to him.

  Carl had not dared to seek out any sources of cocaine while he knew he was being so closely watched. His mouth pursed in a grim line as he realised the irony. He needed a line and he needed it badly. But all the usual sources were closed to him because of Karen’s death. She had been a thorn in his flesh while she’d lived and now it was as if she was taunting him from beyond the grave. The whole night he’d tossed and turned, snatches of the Christmas programme coming and going in his fitful sleep.

  Suddenly Carl heard the rumblings of an early morning dustcart from the next street. In a matter of minutes it would be outside his close, blocking the car across the road from view. The germ of an idea growing in his head, Carl grabbed his coat, stuffed some money into his wallet and headed for the front door.

  The two detectives drew their gaze away from the flat as the dustcart rolled up to the close mouth, blocking the view from across the street. One of them stretched, clasping his fingers together and flexing them in front of him. The other yawned and blinked. It had been a long night but their relief would be here pretty soon. Then they could get some decent kip in their own beds.

  The refuse collector nodded at the tall blond man as he hurried past but did not receive as much as an acknowledging glance.

  ‘Aye, an’ a Happy Christmas to you too, mate,’ he grumbled, pulling the wheelie bin towards the waiting vehicle.

  ‘He’s done a runner,’ Lorimer said, watching the pained expressions on the faces of his team. ‘Despite what Doctor Brightman’s profile tells us, I want Bekaert arrested.’

  ‘Do you think he killed them?’ Jo Grant ventured.

  Lorimer scowled at her. What he thought and what he had to do were often at odds and she knew it.

  ‘We have to act on the evidence, Detective Inspector,’ he said shortly, ‘And right now the evidence suggests that Bekaert’s taken to his heels for some reason.’

  ‘But not because of the DNA testing being done today, surely?’ she reasoned. ‘He had a sample taken ages ago and it hasn’t shown any significant match.’

  Lorimer sighed deeply. ‘Look, just find him and bring him in, OK? He’s going to be charged eventually with receiving stolen instruments and being involved in this European drug ring. But tread carefully. When he’s found I’d like to know where he’s been and whom he’s been with. That’s if you find him at all,’ he added darkly. Right now he’d give a lot to know the whereabouts of the missing viola player and even more to know the results from the lab.

  ‘Look at this,’ Rosie lifted up two papers with bar coding shapes for Solly to see.


  ‘What is it?’

  Rosie screwed her eyes up and held the papers out at arm’s length. ‘Evidence,’ she said in a tired voice.

  ‘Evidence of what?’ Solly asked, his head to one side, wondering at the lack of excitement in her manner.

  ‘Paternity, I should think,’ she replied. ‘Look at the birth dates.’

  Solly pored over the details of names and dates of birth then he whistled softly.

  ‘Well, that’s one mystery solved,’ Rosie remarked tiredly.

  ‘Or another one just beginning,’ Solly said, his eyes gazing somewhere in the middle distance. It had been a dreary Monday, the darkness barely leaving skies that had lowered over the city in what passed for daylight at this bleak time of year.

  The artificial lights in the lab had hurt his eyes and more than once the psychologist wanted to lay his head down and drift off to sleep but Rosie and her team had just kept going, aware of the need to produce results for the investigating officer.

  As the clock ticked towards midnight Solly felt his eyes drooping until at last Rosie gave him a nudge.

  ‘Come on, better get these to our man. See what he makes of our find, if anything,’ she smiled wanly.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  Lorimer stared in surprise at the two figures on his doorstep. He held the door open wide, not speaking but looking intently at Rosie’s face as if trying to read what she had to tell him. He hardly noticed Solly closing the door quietly and slipping past them into the lounge. Then Lorimer’s eyes took in the bulky envelopes in Rosie’s arms.

  ‘You’ve got someone, then?’

  As Rosie smiled a wintry smile and shook her head, Lorimer’s mouth closed in a thin line of disappointment.

  ‘There is something we want to show you, though.’

  Rosie Fergusson sat clutching a cup of coffee, her sheepskin jacket tucked around her shoulders. She had driven straight to Lorimer’s home from the lab, Solly in the passenger seat at her side clutching the envelopes that contained the test results.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ Rosie raised her cup, ‘we needed it.’

  ‘My pleasure. Least I can do after your efforts tonight. I just wish you’d brought me some good news,’ Lorimer sighed heavily.

  ‘No. Sorry. There’s no match for any DNA material taken from Karen’s violin. It was a pretty long shot anyway after all this time and the handling that instrument must have had.’ She sipped her coffee, catching Solly’s sympathetic glance.

  ‘So, why come here at this hour in the morning?’

  ‘Rosie made an interesting discovery tonight,’ Solly spoke quietly so that neither Flynn nor Maggie’s mother, sleeping upstairs, would be disturbed.

  ‘Maurice Drummond shares his DNA with another member of the Orchestra. Christopher Hunter.’

  Lorimer whistled softly. ‘Another violinist. What does that tell us?’

  For a few moments there was silence in the room as three people concentrated on the implications of Rosie’s discovery. Outside it was still pitch dark. No sounds came from the street, not even a sigh of wind at this dead hour of night.

  ‘Maurice Drummond must have known he was Hunter’s father,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And Karen. She knew. I know she did,’ Lorimer punched his fist into his open palm. ‘I sensed the night of George’s death that she was holding something back, something important.’

  ‘But does this man, this Christopher Hunter, know the identity of his real parents?’ Solly mused. ‘Nobody else seems to have known. Edith Millar had no inkling of the fact that her husband was sitting only yards away in the Orchestra from Karen and Maurice Drummond’s son.’

  ‘C. Maurice Drummond,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘C for Christopher.’

  Rosie looked up suddenly from the depths of her collar. ‘C also stands for Christina,’ she remarked.

  ‘Of course,’ Lorimer sat up suddenly. ‘Tina Quentin-Jones. Christina! Derek Quentin-Jones told me that Drummond must have fathered his daughter. He’d found out some time back that he couldn’t have kids himself. Karen deliberately named her children for their natural father.’

  ‘Grounds for murder?’ Rosie murmured.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘I didn’t think so at the time. Quentin-Jones had treated the girl as his own for years and Karen’s affair with Drummond really did seem to have ended.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Solly pointed out reasonably, ‘why would he kill George Millar first? There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to that, in my humble opinion.’

  Lorimer’s eyebrows rose at the psychologist’s words. Solly’s opinion, as they very well knew, was anything but humble.

  ‘Well why don’t you ask him?’ Rosie suggested.

  ‘Which one? Derek Quentin-Jones or Maurice Drummond?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Oh, no, neither of them,’ she grinned, ‘I was thinking of Christopher Hunter, actually.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Isn’t he a better fit for Solly’s profile?’

  ‘What was his reaction on being tested, Solly?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  Solly flipped back the pages of his notebook. ‘There was nothing untoward in his manner. He was calm and relaxed. Like quite a few of the others he tried to crack a joke about it, but it wasn’t to put himself at ease so much as to lighten the atmosphere for the medical staff, I believe.’ The psychologist looked up from his notes. ‘In fact he was so run-of-the-mill that I had to look this up, didn’t I?’ he smiled ruefully.

  ‘What about the others? Were there any reactions worth noting?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Nobody made a fuss about it, really. I mean there were no outright refusals, though that harpist chewed Rosie’s ear off a bit. And some of the men were a bit stroppy.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Simon Corrigan laboured the point a bit about invasion of privacy and all that. Made a comment about Scotland turning into a police state.’

  ‘Did he, indeed?’ Lorimer commented. ‘Wonder who’s been rattling his cage? According to his statement he’s been very cooperative up till now.’

  ‘And he’s the right age,’ Rosie added.

  Solly regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. ‘I hope I haven’t been so dogmatic about the profile’s age, you know. A single, fit male who has no fear of taking huge risks is more likely to be a younger man, that’s all.’ He regarded Rosie fondly. ‘Thanks for being supportive, though,’ he smiled.

  ‘It’s like forensics, isn’t it,’ she said sleepily. ‘Usually makes more sense after we’ve put the whole jigsaw together.’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Lorimer stood up suddenly. ‘Go home while you’re still fit to drive, Rosie. Get some sleep and I’ll deal with this during the day. Give me a note of any of those reactions you think might be worth following up, Solly,’ he added, putting out his hand for the psychologist’s notebook.

  As Lorimer watched the tail-lights of Rosie’s BMW disappear along the street he reflected on the day ahead. This would be the day when Flynn took possession of his new flat, when he’d have to arrange several visits to various persons connected with the case as well as clear the paperwork for the next acting Superintendent and try to find the time to throw some stuff into a suitcase. It was the shortest day, Lorimer thought as he gazed up at the stars still pricking the night sky. But with this early start it looked like being one of the longest in terms of sheer hard graft.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Tina Quentin-Jones stared at her father in disbelief.

  ‘But why? Why leave such a valuable instrument to someone she’d only known for a short time? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You mean your mother wasn’t exactly known for her philanthropy,’ her father replied with a twist to his mouth.

  Tina’s eyes widened. She’d never before heard such bitterness in her father’s voice.

  ‘Perhaps there was a side to her that we didn’t understand,’ she said slowly.

  Derek Quentin-Jones ran an exasperated hand across his forehead.
‘There was quite a lot you didn’t understand about your mother,’ he replied wearily. ‘And I think, my dear, that the time has come to enlighten you about what sort of person she really was.’

  Tina glanced down at the paper in her hand. The simple words Will of Karen Quentin-Jones made Tina realise that even beyond the grave there were things her mother continued to control.

  The trouble was, the name that drew her eyes back to the document, the name she had uttered only minutes before with such astonishment belonged to the last person she had expected to see printed there in black and white.

  ‘She did what?’ Lorimer’s voice rose in astonishment.

  ‘My wife left her violin to Christopher Hunter, her natural son,’ the Surgeon replied, his voice clipped with disapproval.

  ‘And you knew nothing of this until her solicitors made contact with you?’

  ‘Chief Inspector, I didn’t even know my wife had made a will,’ he replied icily.

  ‘But surely her solicitors …?’

  ‘They contacted me when they’d heard about Karen’s death. Of course they did. But I told them I wanted to leave things for a while,’ he looked up at Lorimer. ‘Well, you know what a state I was in,’ he added ruefully. ‘Then last week I instructed my own solicitors to ask for Karen’s documents to be sent to their office.’

  ‘Well,’ Lorimer said slowly, ‘at least this proves one thing. She couldn’t have known the instrument was stolen, could she? Not when she intended her violinist son to have it.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Quentin-Jones agreed. ‘That’s something anyway.’

  ‘Does he know yet?’

  The Surgeon shook his head. ‘That’s the worst bit about it all. Karen introduced this lad to Tina. They’ve become quite good friends, as it happens. Ironic, isn’t it?’ he smiled grimly at Lorimer. ‘Tina was going to contact him today. She said she couldn’t face him at the concert last night.’