by Alex Gray
‘Did you enjoy being in charge tonight?’ he asked.
‘Naturally,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good programme.’
Lorimer looked at the order of pieces played in the first half.
‘Ah. You’d have played the solo during the Albinoni Adagio, then?’ he murmured.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good gracious. A policeman who isn’t a complete Philistine. Wonders will never cease.’
Lorimer didn’t rise to the bait. It was pure luck that he happened to have a recording of this piece of music. His classical discs rubbed shoulders with everything from Pink Floyd to REM.
‘Can you think of anything unusual that happened tonight before the concert?’ he asked, changing tack again.
‘What sort of thing?’ the woman countered, screwing up her eyes as she exhaled smoke into the air.
‘A change to the normal routine. A crisis of some kind.’
The woman gave a snort. ‘There’s always a crisis of some kind. Concerts rarely run to plan. Sometimes we have to deputise at the last minute. Other times it’s silly things like someone forgetting to pack their evening shoes.’
‘And tonight?’ Lorimer persisted. Why did he get the feeling she was still stalling him?
‘Oh Brenda was flapping about like a wet hen. Chloe, the harpist, had no music on her stand. Brenda had to run round to the library box to fetch her some.’
‘Brenda?’ Lorimer queried, but even as the word came out he guessed what Karen Quentin-Jones would reply.
‘Brendan Phillips, our very own nanny. Orchestra Manager is his official designation,’ she added.
Lorimer flinched. Was the man who had made the discovery of George Millar’s murder also gay, or was the Second Violin simply unable to talk of her colleagues without making some sarcastic remark? He was beginning to wonder about this woman.
‘And that was all? There was nothing else?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes and flicking an invisible speck from her lacy dress. ‘Is that all? May I go home now?’ she drawled as if the interview had begun to bore her.
Lorimer glanced at the notes WPC Irvine had made. Karen Quentin-Jones had given an address in a part of the city that boasted some fine, detached properties, the sort of old houses that required a lot of money to maintain.
Lorimer studied Karen Quentin-Jones briefly, taking in the well-cut hair and jewels at her throat. This lady didn’t look short of a bob or two so her reason for working with an orchestra was hardly likely to be financial. It must be love of music, he mused, though she hadn’t struck him as the dedicated, artistic type. Perhaps it was different once you were on stage.
Lorimer looked again at her home address. She wouldn’t be too hard to find again if he needed her.
‘Yes,’ he answered shortly. ‘Be sure to sign out with Security at the stage door.’
They rose together, the violinist’s black skirts shivering against the carpet. Lorimer held open the door then followed her to the end of the corridor where he again untied the striped tape.
‘Thank you,’ Karen Quentin-Jones gave him a small nod and headed for the stairs that would take her back to the musicians’ dressing rooms. Lorimer watched her go. There was something in her manner that had disturbed him. Either she had told him too much or else there was something she knew that she was keeping entirely to herself.
The music room was flooded with light when Karen Quentin-Jones stepped towards her French windows. She could see the outline of the beech trees, their bark silvered from the light of the moon. A smile hovered around her mouth. What a perfect night this could have been! She’d played her socks off. Even that great bear of a Russian had tapped his baton against the podium. Laying her violin case on an ornate table by the window, Karen undid the clips that kept it fastened then opened it slowly and for a moment she simply gazed at the instrument. Then, like a woman afraid to awake her sleeping lover, she stroked the chestnut-coloured wood with one finger.
Giving a sigh, her eyes turned from the violin nestled within its case and she looked again at the darkness outside. She could have had such a triumph but her performance had been brutally overshadowed. Even in death George Millar had outplayed her. Or had he?
Karen’s smile straightened out and her eyes narrowed into a frown. This would mean some changes all round. She would be asked to fill George’s shoes, she thought suddenly then shuddered at the image. And it would affect other people too, she thought, her lip curling in contempt.
A sudden impulse made her dart across the room. Her fingers dialled the digits she needed and she listened as the number rang out. At the sound of his voice she paused.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘you won’t have to worry about your darling boy any more, will you?’
Chapter Three
The blue lights of Buchanan Street lent an eerie glow to the hill that sloped down from the steps of the Concert Hall all the way down to Saint Enoch’s Square. Oblivious to the drama above them, a crowd of football supporters crossed the pedestrian area on their way from Queen Street Station. Their team had beaten Hibs and the post-match jollies that had begun in the inter city shuttle were continuing in raucous celebration.
Flynn sat on the steps outside the Concert Hall cowering into his parka. They were far enough away to leave him in peace. Sometimes he’d take the risk of touting for loose change from the football crowds. They were unpredictable in their response. Flynn knew he could be the butt of abuse from the more belligerent of the fans; sometimes, though, a handful of coins would be spilt into his empty plastic cup. It didn’t even depend on whether they’d won or not. Tonight Flynn didn’t feel like taking the risk. He watched them in the distance as they disappeared down the stairs of the Underground, wondering if they had ignored the overtures of the Big Issue seller outside.
Flynn turned to look longingly at the main doors. They were late coming out tonight. Must have been a good show, with lots of encores keeping the punters in their seats, he told himself hopefully.
Maybe they’d be in a generous mood and he’d have enough dosh to score later on? One of Seaton’s mates had been around earlier, tempting him with talk of some good gear. It wasn’t too cold tonight and he’d rather spend the next few hours getting smashed than cowering into the dubious comfort of a narrow bed in the hostel.
His eyes searched the glass panels that flanked the beech wood doors. He could make out dim shapes of people moving. That was good. They’d be opening the doors any minute now. Flynn stood up, his body aching from sitting on the stone steps. Suddenly he stiffened. one of the shapes beyond the door was only too familiar; its chequered cap and dark suit showing the presence of the Busies. Flynn put one foot onto the lower step then hesitated. It could be anything, really. Maybe he’d wait and see what was up when the punters streamed out.
The doors swung open to reveal two officers and a lady in steward’s uniform. Flynn shrank into the shadows, still watching, still uncertain of his next move. But it was too late. Even as he tried to camouflage himself against the grey walls he saw a man in a raincoat come between the officers and look his way. The man’s beckoning finger was impossible to ignore and so Flynn moved grudgingly into the light.
‘Been here long, lad?’ Raincoat asked him.
Flynn shrugged. Something was up. Two uniforms and now a plain clothes cop. He cast a wary eye towards the detective. It wasn’t anyone he recognised.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ the question held a note of steel. This one meant business. To mess him around might be more bother than it was worth. All the same, they pissed him off, did the Busies.
‘It’s a don’t know. As in I don’t know ’cos I don’t have a watch,’ Flynn replied.
The man grabbed his arm suddenly making Flynn wince.
‘Look, pal, I haven’t got time for wisecracks. You can answer my questions here or I can send you down to the station. It’s up to you.’
Flynn’s arm was released but Raincoat’
s face told him that this was serious. His eyes flicked past the detective to the foyer where he could see people beginning to make their way towards the entrance.
‘Aye. well Ah’ve bin here since they all went in, y’know. Like before the show began.’ Flynn looked desperately at the punters leaving the Concert Hall. This cop was getting in the way of his bread and butter, not to mention the bit of Afghan he’d been fantasising about all evening.
He sensed rather than saw a change in the cop’s attitude.
‘That right, eh? Well, well. Maybe you and me should take a wee daunder inside and talk about just how you spent your evening, son?’
Shit! Someone had seen Seaton’s mate talking with him earlier on. The wee bastard must’ve got bust. Flynn made to do a runner but that vice-like grip was on his arm again and he found himself being led into the bright lights of the Concert Hall. Curious eyes turned their way as the cop led the dishevelled youth across the foyer and into the interior of the Hall itself.
Flynn had long been desperate to see beyond the doors of his patch but it wouldn’t do to let the Busy notice his eyes roaming around like an over-eager schoolboy. He tried at first to act as if he couldn’t give a toss what it looked like, concentrating his attention on the pattern of the carpet as he followed the cop, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into this time.
It was no use. Flynn’s eyes were drawn towards the walls as naturally as a moth to the light. He gazed at the huge pictures as he passed them. what the heck was that one? He wondered, marvelling at a painting of some woman with a giant sticking plaster under her mouth. Flynn sniggered to himself. Maybe it was a symbolic way of keeping folk quiet. He knew all about that, didn’t he? They passed a large, brightly coloured picture next and then he slowed down, recognising the familiar style in the frame beyond. It was a Howson. The belligerent eyes of the fighter made Flynn take a step sideways, but he still gazed. This picture was great but the one of the big drums was his favourite. You could near enough hear the music of an orange walk, flutes, an’ all. He’d seen other Howsons in the Gallery of Modern Art. It didn’t cost anything to look at stuff in Glasgow and Flynn liked to look.
‘In here,’ the Raincoat was ushering him around into a sort of corridor with a Bar at one end where Flynn saw crowds of folk queuing up against the wall. were they getting their money back or something?
‘Right, you, over here,’ Raincoat directed Flynn to a corner in the Bar area where there were little round tables and plastic chairs arranged in groups as if people had been sitting having a drink sometime earlier. Flynn suddenly felt like a drink himself.
‘Any chancy a cuppa tea?’ he asked with a nervous lick of his lips.
‘Aye, why not. Milk and sugar?’ Now that he’d got him in here, Raincoat had obviously decided to be his pal. Flynn wasn’t sure if he preferred this to the previous hard-faced version.
‘Aye,’ he replied, watching Raincoat’s every move as the man spoke to a wee lassie behind the counter.
It was only a couple of steps away and Flynn thought about doing a runner. But by the time he’d considered it, Raincoat was back, sitting opposite and looking at him with some interest. Was this about Seaton, after all? Flynn glanced at the lines of people edging towards a table where there were uniformed Busies taking down notes. No, he decided, this wasn’t about him and Allan Seaton. This was something a lot bigger.
‘Use this pitch often, son?’ the Busy enquired, passing a teacup over to Flynn.
‘Aye. An’ they lot in here know me as well so you can jist ask them if you like,’ Flynn answered. He took a slurp of the hot tea, one eye on Raincoat.
‘I will,’ he said, then seemed to lose interest in Flynn, letting his gaze wander over the folk lined up beyond the tea bar. Flynn followed his gaze. Raincoat knew what was up, all right, but what had it to do with him?
‘Has the band cancelled, then? Is that it?’ Flynn asked, drawing Raincoat’s eyes back to his own.
‘Something a bit more serious than that,’ Raincoat answered. ‘Someone got hurt tonight,’ he paused for effect, staring at Flynn as if trying to see how he’d react to this titbit of information. ‘We’re here to find out how it happened.’
Flynn shivered, despite the heat from the cup clutched in both his hands. There was a tone of menace in the Busy’s voice that he didn’t like at all.
The detective took out a notebook and pen from his coat pocket.
‘Right. Let’s make a start. Name.’
Flynn sighed. How often he’d been through this rigmarole. The mischief-maker in him wanted to say ‘Mickey Mouse’ or something daft. Down the Nick it could raise a laugh but here it would just sound stupid. ‘Flynn. Joseph Alexander Flynn. No fixed abode,’ he delivered the words in a monotone.
‘OK, Joseph Alexander-’
‘Flynn. Just Flynn. All right?’
Raincoat looked up, surprised by the vehemence in the lad’s voice. ‘Sure. I’m Detective Sergeant Wilson. Sergeant to you.’
Flynn regarded the man warily. Was he trying to wind him up or butter him up?
The dregs of Flynn’s second cup of tea were cold by the time Wilson had finished with him. He’d asked him the same questions more than once. Who’d passed by the steps that evening? Had he seen anyone emerge from the Buchanan Street entrance? It was obvious to Flynn that they were on the lookout for a villain. Someone who’d had a go at one of the performers, he guessed; maybe it had been a famous bloke. That was what all the fuss was about. If his guess were correct, then he’d be one of the first to see it shouted from the news stands in the morning.
Brendan Phillips was still downstairs. Lorimer hoped he was in a fit state to be questioned but he’d have to wait his turn. Somewhere in this labyrinth the Chief Executive of Glasgow Concert Orchestra was fending off the Press. It was part of Phillips’s job but his boss had relieved him of that under the circumstances.
Slowly the detective walked back towards Morar. The black duster had been removed from the CCTV camera in the corridor, he noticed.
‘Hello again,’ he put his head around the door tentatively. The SOCOs were hard at work gathering fibres from various parts of the room. George Millar’s remains had disappeared into a dark zipped body bag. Already the dressing room had assumed an air of quiet industry. It was as if violent death itself had been swept away by the officers’ zeal. Jim and Rosie turned at the sound of his voice.
‘Anything on that black cloth?’
‘Something sticky this way comes,’ Rosie quipped, holding up the duster in its plastic envelope. ‘We’ll know for certain once it’s back in the lab but it looks like the stuff you get from double-sided sticky tape.’
‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied briefly, marvelling as always at the pathologist’s capacity for levity in the face of brutality. It wasn’t that she was inured to it; it was merely her way of dealing with the daily business of death in all its horrid forms.
The faint sound of music coming through the wall from the next room reminded Lorimer that Victor Poliakovski was still in Lomond. It had been judged that the Conductor could stay there safely until he’d been interviewed. Then, and only then, would he be free to return to his hotel for the night.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lorimer said. ‘Call me in the morning, will you, Rosie?’
‘Sure will,’ she gave a small wave of her hand before turning back to discuss some technical detail with Jim.
Lorimer stood outside in the corridor. The door to Lomond was closed but he could make out the sound of a piano playing within. As he pushed open the door, he recognised the Rachmaninov concerto at once, its runs descending in a tinkling waterfall of sound. Lorimer expected the sound to falter into silence but it continued even when he walked from the dressing area into the reception room where he saw Victor Poliakovski seated behind the grand piano.
Lorimer quickly realised that the Russian wasn’t ignoring him, but he seemed so totally absorbed in his rendition of the concerto that he simply cou
ld not see anyone in the room despite the mirrored wall in front of him. Lorimer raised his eyebrows. Some witness this one was going to make!
As he listened, he tried to put himself into the position of the Conductor on the podium, his back to the audience, his eyes on the performers.
‘What is it you want?’ Poliakovski’s voice broke into Lorimer’s reverie. The music had stopped abruptly and the Russian was rising from his position behind the grand piano.
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer, sir,’ Lorimer was beside him in two strides, his hand outstretched. Poliakovski shook it, a brisk up and down then gestured for Lorimer to sit on one of the easy chairs that were placed around the sitting room. It was, Lorimer mused, a very civilised way to begin a discussion about murder.
‘I’m very sorry that you’ve been so inconvenienced tonight, sir, but under the circumstances…’ Lorimer shrugged and smiled to let the man know that he wasn’t sorry at all and that he was merely being polite. He was a policeman doing his job. Poliakovski was a man who had been stopped halfway through his own evening’s work. Being a famous conductor didn’t come into it, for Lorimer.
‘So. They tell me the First Violin is killed. Here, in the room that is next to mine. And you wish to know if I had a hand in it, eh?’
Lorimer sat up. Was he joking? The Russian’s bearded face was inclined towards him, the eyes beneath the bristling brows devoid of any sign of humour.
‘I’d certainly wish to know that. If you did,’ added Lorimer, his eyes meeting those of the Russian. For some seconds they stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Poliakovski looked away first then sank back into the armchair. It gave a leathery creak that failed to mask his theatrical sigh. Lorimer still searched the man’s face with his blue gaze.
‘No. Chief Inspector. I cannot give you such a simple solution to your search for a murderer. I did not even know of the matter until the interval.’
Lorimer listened intently to the man’s every word, delivered in near perfect English. There were overtones of an American accent and only a trace of the sort of voices he’d come to associate with John Le Carre’s characters. But then he wasn’t big on Eastern Europeans of any sort. What he heard told him that this was a clever and sophisticated man. It remained to be seen if he was also a suspect.