Shadows of Sounds

by Alex Gray

  ‘What d’you make of this?’ he began to say, then both men turned their heads as the sound of feet came racing up the stairs.

  ‘Thank God!’ Lorimer breathed as the paramedic crew arrived at the bedroom door, stretcher and oxygen at the ready. ‘Here,’ Lorimer handed over the empty adrenaline pen. ‘I gave him this just before you arrived.’

  ‘Might help. How long has he been in a coma?’ one of the paramedics asked.

  Lorimer shook his head, his mouth a grim line. ‘We don’t know. He was supposed to be meeting me an hour ago and didn’t turn up. God knows how long he’s been like this.’

  ‘OK. We’ve got the rest of his details from the Medicalert database. Come on, fella, let’s get you out of here.’

  The two men watched as Chris Hunter was gently lifted away from his bed. His body, wrapped in double cellular blankets and strapped onto the stretcher, looked ominously still as it was carried out of the flat by the paramedics.

  ‘Think he’ll make it?’ Lorimer asked them.

  ‘Maybe. Depends if he responds to that shot you gave him,’ one of the crew replied.

  Lorimer turned back to see Solly by the window. The psychologist was examining a Christmas card that he’d picked up from the floor. Had it fallen from the window ledge? There were several others there in a row. Curious, Lorimer moved towards the window and looked over Solly’s shoulder

  ‘That’s Tina Quentin-Jones,’ he said, seeing the photograph that had been stuck inside the card.

  ‘See what she’s written,’ Solly showed him. There, under Season’s Greetings were the words, From your new wee sister, with love, Tina. December 22nd. Happy Christmas.

  Lorimer’s mind spun with sudden possibilities. He turned to face Solly. ‘What else could she have given him?’

  Once more he recalled her desperate expression at Karen’s funeral. Did Tina Quentin-Jones imagine that Chris Hunter had killed her mother?

  ‘Could she have deliberately given him something to bring on this reaction?’

  ‘Somebody did,’ Solly pointed to the porridge congealing on the skirting board. ‘Who else lives here?’

  ‘Simon Corrigan, but he …’ Lorimer paused. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly, letting his gaze fall to the window ledge. He picked up one card after another until he came to the one he was looking for.

  ‘What does this tell you?’ Lorimer held it up for the psychologist to see. ‘Not the sort of message you’d write to your mate, is it?’ Solomon read the message on the card, his face serious as the implication sank in. Then he looked up.

  ‘Where is he, then? Why’s Corrigan not here if he’s expressing his undying love to Christopher Hunter?’ Solly asked.

  Suddenly Carl Bekaert’s words came back to Lorimer. ‘Love. It’s not a dirty word?’

  ‘Love. You just said it. That’s what it’s all about,’ Lorimer stared at Solly.

  ‘That’s what it’s been about from the beginning, only we couldn’t see it.’ For a moment there was a triumphant spark in his eye then his expression changed.

  ‘No. Oh, dear God, no.’ Lorimer’s eyes flicked from one Christmas card to the other. ‘He’s gone after the girl. Quick, let’s get out of here.’

  As the flames began their ascent of the heavily embossed wallpaper, Tina struggled to free her hands from their bonds. She could still hear Simon in the lounge, the sound of a glass clinking against a bottle. Suddenly it reminded her of her father and his nightly tipples.

  Dad. Where was he supposed to be this morning? She couldn’t remember. Was it a theatre day? or was he doing rounds? Tina couldn’t remember. They’d had an awful row the other night, and she’d said some cutting things. If only she could take them all back now, unsay them.

  She whimpered as the fire whooshed upwards, the wallpaper dissolving into its yellow tongues. He’d never get to hear her say that she really loved him; that he was her dad and that was all that really mattered. The girl struggled harder, a sudden urge to live, to fight against this terror forcing the adrenalin through her veins.

  From her twisted position at the foot of the stairs Tina could hear the musician as he moved about her home. She heard the door of the stereo cabinet opening and the clunk of Simon’s glass as he laid it down. What on earth was he doing now?

  Her answer came moments later as the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’ crashed at top volume through the rooms. He was mad. The man was totally insane, listening to Tchaikovsky and drinking whisky as he burnt down her house.

  If only she could reach the front door again! The panic button was at waist height, next to the chain that was hardly ever used, she thought, crazy tears filling her eyes.

  Tina crawled towards the foot of the stairs. The fire had got a hold of the carpet between where she was now and the door. She’d have to roll her body through the lines of flames if she were to make it.

  The pain shot through her legs as she inched down, elbows taking her weight.

  The thump as her body landed on the floor made her stop, head craned to see if her attacker had heard, but the music had evidently drowned out the noise. She could see his back to her as he drank down her father’s whisky, one arm conducting the unseen orchestra. Heart thudding, Tina grasped at hope. At least the cigarette lighter was laid aside for the moment.

  With a jerk Tina rolled over the line of flame, her head bursting with the effort. Would her dressing gown catch fire? Or would she smother the flames? She could smell the burning carpet beneath her even as her body felt the heat.

  Hardly daring to look, Tina forced herself against the corner of the wall beside the door, her spine protesting as she wrenched her body upright. The strain on her wrists and ankles made her wobble dangerously.

  With a sigh she let her head fall forward towards the small steel box, forcing her face sideways so that her nose dipped under its rim.

  For a moment nothing happened then she saw the man turn towards her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

  ‘What the hell?’

  No. She would never do it now.

  As he lunged towards her Tina pushed her face against the space beneath the box with the last remnant of her strength then the whole world exploded in a shrieking wail as the alarm went off.

  The sound of exploding canon fire roared from the house when Lorimer pushed open the door. He caught the girl’s body as it fell towards him. Smoke billowed out in grey clouds from the house.

  ‘Quick! Get her out of here!’ Lorimer dragged the girl over the doorstep as Solly hurried to take her in his arms.

  Fanned by the sudden draught from the open door, the flames leapt higher. Through the layers of smoke Lorimer could just make out a figure moving inside.

  ‘Lorimer! No!’ Solly’s cry went unheeded as the policeman thrust his way back into the burning house.

  Coughing, Lorimer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. The flames were shooting up into the stairwell now, shrivelling the walls like a rising brown tide. Still the music thundered, the crackle of fire a deadly counterpoint. Still he struggled into the lounge, the smoke coming at him in waves.

  Simon Corrigan turned to face him, his arms raised as he beat time to the music, one hand holding a half empty bottle of whisky. Through the smoke he could see the musician laughing aloud, his face shining with a delirium of pleasure. With each sweep of his arms the whisky splashed to the ground, flames shooting out around his feet.

  Lorimer coughed, waving his free hand to clear the air between them.

  ‘Get out!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Now. Before it’s too late!’

  With a final crash the music rose to its climax and the musician gave a grandiose bow.

  His screams as the flames caught his red-gold hair urged Lorimer forward. He grabbed the man’s arms and hauled him backwards in the direction of the open door, Corrigan’s heels dragging on the burning carpet, hampering them both.

  The smoke was so thick now that Lorimer could barel
y make out the outline of the front door. There was a shower of sparks above him, making him look up as the walls seemed to move.

  Choking, Lorimer pulled the musician out of the hall just as the banister above them gave way with a sickening wrench of timber.

  ‘Over here!’

  Blindly, Lorimer stumbled forwards, other hands taking Corrigan out of his grasp. He was dimly aware of the flashing blue lights and the uniformed officers crowding around him.

  ‘Here,’ Solly was saying, ‘Over here!’

  Lorimer allowed himself to be led away from the roaring behind him, his eyes smarting from the smoke. His legs felt weak as he was helped into the back of the police car.

  ‘The girl?’ he coughed as the words stuck in his throat. ‘Is she OK?’ he croaked.

  Solly nodded, his hands on Lorimer’s shoulders. He was looking at Lorimer with an expression he had never seen in the psychologist’s face before.

  ‘You could have been killed!’ Solly was shaking Lorimer by the lapels of his coat, tears brimming in his large, dark eyes. For a moment neither man spoke then Lorimer gently drew Solly’s hands from his collar.

  ‘What about Corrigan?’

  Solly turned to watch as the ambulance drew away from the kerb. ‘Who knows? He was still alive when you brought him out.’

  ‘Sir! Chief Inspector Lorimer?’ A uniformed officer was suddenly standing by the squad car. ‘We’ve just heard that Carl Bekaert’s been picked up at a warehouse outside the city. They found him with a number of stolen musical instruments. He’s been charged,’ the constable added.

  ‘Great. Remember to wish Jo Grant and the team a Merry Christmas from me,’ Lorimer nodded.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ the constable asked, suddenly noticing his superior’s dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Never better, pal, never better,’ Lorimer started a laugh that rapidly turned into a cough.

  ‘We should have you checked out at the hospital,’ Solly began. He turned towards Lorimer and sighed, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘That was one hell of a risk you took. Your wife will have kittens when she finds out.’

  Lorimer’s mouth opened in horror as he looked at his watch. ‘Oh great! I’m supposed to be at Glasgow airport as of ten minutes ago! Forget the hospital.’

  ‘What about Mrs Finlay?’

  ‘Flynn was picking her up by taxi.’ He slumped helplessly against the seat. ‘Just in case I didn’t make it in time,’ he added, his voice heavy with irony.

  ‘Phone him. Tell him we’re on our way.’ Solly signalled to the constable who was still regarding Lorimer with interest. ‘We need a driver. Now!’

  Flynn put down the phone. The flight had been called five minutes ago and Mrs Finlay was fretting by his side, calling her son-in-law all manner of unseasonal names.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘An emergency,’ Flynn told her briefly. ‘He’s on his way now.’

  ‘That’s not much good,’ Maggie’s mother bristled. ‘If I don’t make a move soon we’ll both miss that plane.’

  Flynn looked around the departure lounge wildly. Surely there was something he could do? Over by the door he spotted two transport policemen, their jackets vivid yellow against the dreich December afternoon.

  ‘Wait here a minute. I’ll be straight back. Don’t move. Right?’ Flynn grasped his new mobile phone and leapt out of his seat, grinning slightly at the elderly woman’s astonished face.

  A few minutes later Flynn clicked off the mobile phone that Lorimer had given him. It was a wee cracker, but it just couldn’t be helped. With a sigh he dropped it into the water bucket and turned away.

  He had just time to return to Maggie’s mum before the alarm went off, heralding the calm voice that resounded through the airport asking everyone to evacuate the building.

  Coda

  Christmas day in Glasgow dawned bright and clear with just a hint of frosting to transform the park below Solly’s windows into a winter wonderland. The psychologist had risen early, moving away from Rosie’s warm body as quietly as he could. Now he stood wrapped in his dressing gown gazing down at the scene below him. It was early but there were two little boys playing in the park, their heads bare but their hands brightly mittened. His gaze travelled to where a couple walked slowly behind them, hand in hand.

  Smiling at them, Solly felt in his dressing gown pocket. His hands closed round the tiny box that had been so carefully wrapped by the jeweller. As he turned it over in his palm he gave a sigh, savouring the moment. He’d waken her soon, but not just yet. Solly watched until the family was out of sight before he turned back towards the bedroom.

  Rosie lay sleeping, her hair spread out upon his pillow, the expression on her face so peaceful it almost seemed a pity to disturb its repose.

  Solly’s lips brushed against Rosie’s cheek and he grinned as she wrinkled her nose, as his beard tickled her into wakefulness.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ he whispered, his fingers drawing the box from his pocket. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Derek Quentin-Jones knocked on the door of the room before quietly turning the handle. Tina lay asleep. In the half-light from the window the bruises on her face were like dark shadows, but her split lip was still dark and swollen. He opened the door, fingers to his mouth as he glanced at the others in the corridor behind him.

  ‘Still asleep,’ he whispered down at the man in the wheelchair. ‘Let’s leave her for a while longer.’ He looked up at the person grasping the handles of the wheelchair and at the woman standing by his side. ‘How about it, Maurice? Mrs Millar?’

  Maurice Drummond bit his lip and smiled. ‘I’ve waited this long for my family,’ he said at last. ‘I think I can wait a wee bit longer,’ he added, his gaze travelling down onto his son’s head. Maybe he would tell Chris one day about Edith’s visit. She had been quite adamant that Chris’s homosexuality had been at the root of the whole business, spurring him on that night to confront his son. In a way she had been right.

  Chris Hunter nodded. ‘I can’t imagine why it took you so long,’ he grinned up at his father.

  The Surgeon watched them. Something new and good was growing there between these two. There were things that Derek Quentin-Jones had come to understand in these past few days that he’d never dreamt of knowing. Like the kind of love that turns to violent hatred or the way that people could share their love for the same person. Looking at Maurice Drummond he wondered if they would both come to love this young man who was Karen’s son, Tina’s brother. And Karen, he thought, remembering the way her loveliness had twisted his heart. Had that too been love? He supposed it had.

  What he felt now was a sense of gratitude towards these people around him.

  Edith had opened her home to him after the fire that had devastated his house in Pollokshields. Her Christian duty, she’d called it in tones that brooked no refusal. Now, on this Christmas morning, Derek had the sense of having found far, far more than those things he had lost.

  Before he followed the others down the hospital corridor towards the day room with its bright paper garlands, Derek turned back to the room. Despite everything that had happened she was still his daughter, his darling girl. He stood there for a moment looking down on Tina as she slept, then blew her a silent kiss.

  ‘Happy Christmas, son!’ Alistair Wilson pulled the cracker with Flynn, the crack of the paper exploding as they both fell back, laughing. Flynn stuck his tongue out at the Detective Sergeant. He hated being called ‘son’. It was dead naff.

  ‘You’re a couple of big weans, so ye’s are,’ Sadie told them. ‘Just as well Betty an’ me are here tae keep ye’s in order, eh?’ she winked as Betty Wilson placed the soup tureen carefully onto the red tablecloth.

  Flynn pulled out the rolled up paper hat, letting the motto fall to one side. He laughed again out of a sense of sheer delight as he placed the yellow crown onto his head. Who would’ve thought it? Having Christmas dinner here with Raincoat and his missus, not to ment
ion the wee woman who had been supplying his meals from the police canteen for all these weeks!

  ‘Wonder what they’re up to in Florida,’ Sadie went on. ‘Bet they don’t have as good a turkey as us,’ she said, grinning up at her hostess.

  ‘Ach, it’s only about eight o’clock there. They won’t have had their breakfast yet,’ Alistair told her. ‘Besides, the boss is probably still recovering from jet lag. Or the panic he had when he thought he was going to miss his flight,’ he added, giving Flynn a meaningful look. Nobody had asked him outright but everyone seemed to guess that Flynn had been behind the bomb hoax at Glasgow Airport.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Flynn giggled, ‘At least he’ll have a merry Christmas, won’t he?’

  Maggie sat up suddenly, hearing Lorimer roll over and groan. Gratefully she sank back against the pillows. The last two days had passed in a dream. After Bill and Mum had arrived (late!) Maggie had taken them back to the apartment to sleep off their journey. Her husband had spent most of the next day ostensibly recovering while she and Mum had busied themselves with preparations for Christmas dinner. She knew fine that Lorimer had been off and on the telephone to Scotland, anxious to tie up all the facts. He had not told them everything about the case until last night, and even then, he’d been considerate enough to leave out the nastier aspects to spare Mum’s feelings.

  Later, they’d sat side by side, his arms holding her close, while he had related the whole story. Simon Corrigan had been a man obsessed by his lover, his outward carefree personality hiding a deeply passionate, jealous nature. When George Millar took Chris as his latest conquest, that passion had been transformed into murder.

  ‘But why kill Karen?’ Maggie had asked.

  ‘He thought she knew what he’d done,’ Lorimer told her. He’d paused, making Maggie sense that he was unwilling to speak ill of the dead.

  ‘Karen was the sort of woman who made insinuations. She liked people to think she knew more than they did,’ he had told his wife. ‘She had secrets of her own so perhaps she assumed that everybody kept things hidden. Anyway, Corrigan saw her talking to me and immediately thought that she was on to him. She was stupid enough to telephone him on the night that George was killed, let him know that she was aware of his affair with her son.’