Shadows of Sounds lab-3

by Alex Gray

  In the end it had been fairly straightforward to arrange for the boy to stay for a short time. Flynn could at least apply for a benefit book now that he was to have some sort of an address, then it would be transferred to his new flat. That way the social services could recoup the housing benefit. There had been no mutterings about setting a precedent and disregard for correct procedure, as Lorimer had feared. In fact the senior emergency services officer had been more than helpful; a community nurse would be calling on a regular basis, he was told. Flynn’s neck injury was healing and the broken ribs and fractured skull no longer required quite so much in the way of pain relief.

  Lorimer experienced a sudden twinge of guilt. Would Flynn be better off in some country nursing home? Somehow he doubted whether he’d be able to keep tabs on the boy if he were to be hauled out to Mearnskirk Cottage Hospital or wherever they went these days. This was an ideal opportunity to let the boy open up to him, to reveal what he could of the life he’d been living in the streets of Glasgow. That hadn’t been his underlying motive, though the thought had come pretty hard on the heels of his offer to stay, Lorimer admitted.

  They’d reached an impasse in this case now, a state he’d never contemplated happening in the beginning. With a wealth of forensic material and hundreds of statements, he had been pretty sure that an arrest would have been made by now. Solly was busy drawing up a profile on what evidence there was, though there had been little feedback from the psychologist so far.

  In some ways there was simply too much to handle. Much of the work done was now on computer, and the IT boys had sorted things into a variety of patterns for Solly to see.

  Several of the instruments in the City of Glasgow orchestra had been bought from George Millar and their provenance was being investigated. It was clear that most of the musicians had been genuinely astonished by the First Violin’s scam. Over and over their statements expressed a gratitude at having a decent instrument made available by instalments to a colleague whom they had trusted.

  As Lorimer had foreseen, the overtime bill on this case was massive. Today was the first whole Saturday he’d spent in the house since that night at the Concert Hall. Working practices were quietly ignored at times like this, despite Mitchison’s continual attempts to bring them into line with maximum shift times.

  A ring on the front doorbell startled Lorimer from his thoughts.

  Solomon Brightman stood on the doorstep, a tentative smile on his face.

  ‘Solly, what on earth?’ Lorimer began, then, ‘Has something happened?’ he frowned, opening the door and ushering Solly inside.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Solly smiled again, catching sight of the instant irritation his words produced.

  Lorimer ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well, let’s have it, then.’

  Solly unravelled his long knitted scarf and set it down on the edge of a settee before removing his heavy black overcoat.

  ‘Come, on, sit yourself down.’

  Solly pulled aside a plastic basin full of cleaning materials before sitting down. His eyebrows were raised in a silent query that Lorimer deliberately ignored.

  ‘It’s the profile,’ Solly began. ‘Mitchison has been on at me to draw something up. Oh, I know,’ he said, gesturing with his hand in the air as if to ward off any verbal assault. ‘It’s your case and he’s interfering. But be that as it may, I do have a duty to provide some form of paperwork on this.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have,’ he replied, simply. ‘There’s not such a mystery over all of this. It’s not as if it’s a stranger killing. You should have no fears that we are dealing with some damaged person who has an escalating hit list.’

  ‘I never thought we were.’

  ‘No,’ Solly looked thoughtful. ‘There wasn’t a very strong reason for my presence in all of this, except your Superintendent wanting to be certain that there was no outside element involved. No loner attaching himself to the Glasgow music world.’

  ‘Himself. You’ve established that, then?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm was cutting.

  ‘A large man,’ Solly went on, oblivious to Lorimer’s tone. ‘Somebody with the strength to wield a percussion hammer effectively and to strangle a fit woman with a harp string and dispatch her body beneath the stage. Someone who is conversant with the music world from a professional point of view.’

  ‘Not necessarily another musician, then?’

  Solly shook his head. ‘But it could be?’

  ‘Of course. Many of them had the opportunity. It remains to be seen if they might also have had a motive. There was forethought into George Millar’s death, the evidence itself shows that. The crime passionel it was not, and yet …’

  Lorimer drummed his fingers impatiently against the leg of the chair. Solly’s ponderous silences maddened him.

  ‘There could well be some high emotion behind this. There’s a personal motive. George Millar was careless with his relationships.’

  ‘Was he also careless with his business affairs?’ Lorimer asked. ‘Could it be that his colleagues in the dealing of stolen goods or those in the drug scene had a reason to put out a contract on the man?’

  ‘But it is the instrument itself that causes me to question our killer,’ Solly murmured into his beard.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There is a certain amount of irony, is there not, in a killer choosing a musical instrument as a means to kill a musician. We agree that this was a well-planned murder. So.’ Solly counted off on his fingers, ‘There is the time to think things through. Time to immobilise the CCTV cameras, to know about the technician’s illness, perhaps? He even had inside knowledge of Maestro’s habit of secluding himself in his dressing room, let’s assume. So why not arrive prepared for killing with a more effective instrument than a hammer picked up from the percussion stand?’

  ‘He enjoys the risk?’ Lorimer suggested.

  Solly shook his head. ‘Maybe that happens at the time, but he does not anticipate the thrill. No. We must try to think what goes on inside his head prior to the killing. What his intentions really were.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Lorimer stared hard at him. ‘Are you trying to say that this was not intended as a murder at all?’

  Solly shrugged. ‘One blow to the skull might have felled him to the ground if it had been a massive weapon. In this case the killer was lucky. Or perhaps not.’

  ‘Why attack George Millar, then?’

  ‘To stop him from playing at the concert? Or maybe as a lesson to him from an outside agency, though I don’t really think so.’

  ‘No,’ Lorimer frowned. ‘If it had been a professional hit then he’d have been targeted somewhere far less public.’

  ‘My point exactly!’ Solly beamed.

  ‘But you haven’t made any point yet,’ Lorimer protested.

  ‘He wanted George Millar to be brought down in a public place. And not just any place. It had to be the Concert Hall and it had to be during a performance,’ Solly exclaimed, his eyes shining. ‘Don’t you see? It was part of a performance itself, this drama. Whoever the killer is, he shows a certain penchant for creativity.’

  ‘Sounds a bit unhinged to me,’ Lorimer replied acidly.

  Solly shook his head vehemently. ‘Not at all. He is quite lucid. Clear in his intent and maybe even anticipating the effect his actions will have. He’s making a statement. And there’s a reason for that.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a member of the Orchestra?’

  ‘Could be, could be. Someone fit and healthy, strong, young, too. Early thirties at the most and single.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  Solly shrugged again. ‘He’s willing to take such risks. It is as though there is some youthful bravado to his nature, foolhardiness, maybe. An older person is more inclined to worry about the consequences of their actions. And I feel he’s unhampered by any ongoing relationship. A single person has more freedom. He’s not worrying about what a partner might think of him if he’s caught.’
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  ‘Carl Bekaert, maybe?’

  Solly frowned. ‘I don’t think the Danish man has enough irony in his soul. But that’s just my own feeling. He certainly fits any physical profile I’d draw up.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ Lorimer said. ‘You don’t want him arrested, is that it?’

  ‘What evidence have you against him?’

  ‘He was the last musician out of the Concert Hall the night of Karen’s death.’

  ‘There’s no forensic evidence, though. No DNA at either scene of crime to match up to anything on Bekaert.’

  ‘We’ve arrested folk on less than that before,’ Lorimer reminded him.

  ‘And what good would it do? If Bekaert’s not your man the real killer will simply breathe a sigh of relief and continue with his life. unless he feels threatened by anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, that’s something I’ve been concerned about,’ Lorimer frowned.

  ‘Flynn?’

  Lorimer nodded silently. Joseph Alexander Flynn of no fixed address, who was to be his house-guest until Christmas, might easily be a target if he still had some knowledge about George Millar. And Lorimer was certain that he did.

  Jimmy Greer had hinted as much and the journalist had sounded a tad put out that the boy hadn’t opened up to him completely.

  ‘Couldn’t you put an officer to watch the house?’

  ‘Nobody outside the investigating team will know he’s here; even the ancillary staff at the Division have been warned to keep quiet. No, he’ll be safe enough. Anyway, I expect he’ll be watching TV all day. He’s not fit to go out. In fact there’ll be a nurse coming in to see to that head wound. It’ll still need dressing for a while.’

  ‘So,’ Solly smiled as he indicated the plastic basin. ‘You’re preparing for his visit?’

  ‘Aye. Och, the place was becoming a midden. I should’ve asked you for a loan of that cleaning woman you have in. Maybe I still will,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘D’you think she’d come in after Christmas?’ he asked.

  Solly laughed then his face became serious again. ‘To get back to Bekaert. what are you going to do?’

  ‘We’re not intending to arrest him. Yet. If you must know, we’ve had a tail on him since his interview, hoping that he could lead us to whoever supplied the cocaine. Probably the same source as George Millar used.’

  ‘And, anything?’

  ‘No. Seems he’s turned over a new leaf,’ Lorimer grinned wryly. ‘Maybe we frightened him off.’

  ‘But, what if my profile should be seen by your Superintendent? He’d jump to the conclusion that Bekaert was the killer.’

  ‘Maybe you need to work on it some more?’ Lorimer suggested.

  ‘Oh, I do. I do,’ Solly wagged his head then, catching sight of Lorimer’s grin, continued, ‘but Mitchison wants a progress report.’

  ‘Ach, make him wait. Tell him you need more time.’

  Solly sighed loudly. ‘You know I talked to Poliakovski and asked him about the musicians. Remember I said he was quite forthcoming? Didn’t really notice anything that would be incriminating? But since then I’ve had another thought.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What if George Millar’s killer was a member of the Orchestra? Would he be on stage then or not? Weren’t there others who were only needed for the second half?’

  ‘True. Among them were the percussionists. We’ve already spoken to them.’

  Solly was silent for a moment, contemplating the carpet. ‘Hm,’ he said at last. ‘There’s one other thing. Did Poliakovski see anyone playing in the first half who was suddenly inspired?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The aftermath of a successful killing; it might produce an adrenaline rush of quite a different kind than you had anticipated.’

  ‘And how would the Conductor know?’

  Solly shrugged. ‘Perhaps he wouldn’t. He doesn’t know the Orchestra members well enough for such subtlety.’

  ‘Then who would?’ Lorimer asked and before the question had even left his lips he thought of two men right away: Brendan Phillips and Maurice Drummond.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simon Corrigan sprayed the last shelf then polished it in a rhythmic motion before scrunching the duster in a ball. There. It was as clean as he could make it. He looked at the pile of books laid neatly on the carpet. Each one had been carefully wiped clean of the offending dust that had gathered over the past few months. He’d put them back in alphabetical order, leaving a wee space at one end of the shelf for Chris’s ioniser. Simon’s eyes fell onto the rust coloured silk covering the bed. He’d even vacuumed the mattress and hauled out the bed so he could suck up all the dust balls from underneath.

  Simon sat back on his heels, his imagination fast-forwarding to the evening ahead. There was no rehearsal tonight so they could have some of that Thai curry he’d defrosted before settling down for the evening. It would be just like old times again. He heaved a huge sigh that was somewhere between relief and tiredness. He should never have let Chris leave in the first place, he told himself. That had been so stupid. Well, he was coming back now, wasn’t he? Poor old George was well and truly out of the way. There’d be nothing else to come between them, would there?

  Brendan Phillips put down the phone with a shudder as if it were something alive in his hand. Just what were they asking him, now? He sat staring at the desk for a moment trying to conjure up a picture of the stage on the night of George’s death. But he’d not been out front, he’d told Lorimer. The Director and Maurice had been, though. Why didn’t he talk to them? Lorimer had said that he would.

  There was something, though, that he hadn’t thought of, wasn’t there? CCTV footage would give a clear picture of that half concert. Didn’t Lorimer have the tapes impounded still? If he could have them back and see the concert again, maybe he’d be able to answer the DCI’s questions.

  Brendan picked up the brown envelope and pulled the folded pages out. For a moment he thought about their contents then he let them slide back into the envelope. He’d read the letter over and over until he was certain it was perfect. If they took him, fine, if not, he’d want to know why. An Orchestra Manager of his calibre and experience was not to be sniffed at. After Christmas, he thought. They’ll let me know after Christmas. Brendan breathed a sigh. What a relief to be out of Glasgow and all it had come to mean for him! If they took him, a little voice reminded him.

  The telephone’s ring made Brendan start from his reverie, reminding him that there was still work to do before he could make good his escape.

  ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’ was sounding out the brass when the doorbell rang. With a curse, Maurice Drummond pressed the hold button of the video recorder, leaving his Chorus open mouthed across the frozen screen.

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’ he rasped into the intercom.

  ‘DCI Lorimer, DS Wilson, Strathclyde CID. We’d like to see Mr Drummond.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Maurice grumbled. He picked up a discarded jacket and slipped it on, then straightened his tie before pressing the buzzer to let them in. Living on the first floor didn’t give him too much time to prepare for unexpected visitors, he thought ruefully.

  As he opened the door he remembered the DCI. It was the same man he’d seen at the Concert Hall, a man easily as tall as himself and with him a solid looking chap in a raincoat who looked every inch the plain clothes copper.

  ‘Come in,’ Maurice stood aside to let the two men into the darkened hallway and closed the door behind them.

  Stepping into the light, the first thing that Lorimer saw was a grand piano placed in the bay window of the huge lounge. It was one of those older flats with ornate cornicing around the high ceiling that gave an impression of a more graceful era. Apart from the piano, however, there was nothing graceful about Maurice Drummond’s furnishings. A couple of ancient easy chairs covered in shabby cotton covers sat either side of a television and video. The screen was blurred, showing that they’d caught the Chorus Mas
ter in the middle of watching something. Piles of musical scores were stacked against the wall by the piano and other papers spilt across the carpet as if by design.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. We wanted to ask you some questions in connection with the death of George Millar,’ Lorimer said.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Maurice picked up the piano stool and hauled it towards the two chairs so that it was facing them then sat down on it, leaving Lorimer and Wilson no option but to sink into the easy chairs or perch on their edges. Lorimer chose to do the latter.

  ‘Now, what can I tell you?’ Maurice asked abruptly.

  Lorimer nodded to himself. The man was trying to be helpful in his own way but it was clear he’d much rather get back to whatever he’d been doing.

  ‘Did we disturb you, sir?’ Wilson asked, his eyes travelling towards the television.

  ‘Yes, actually. You did.’

  ‘Watching something interesting?’ Wilson continued, feigning innocence.

  ‘A recording by the City of Glasgow Chorus. ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’, if you must know.’

  ‘Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting,’ Lorimer quoted.

  Maurice Drummond’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes. He hadn’t expected a mere policeman to know the scripture text, Lorimer thought to himself.

  ‘The fall of a great king. The rejoicing of a persecuted people,’ Maurice said slowly, taking a closer look at the tall man whose eyes met his in a sardonic smile.

  ‘You’re performing it soon?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Next May. But we begin rehearsals straight after Christmas.’

  ‘Could you cast your mind back to the performance the night of George Millar’s death?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.

  ‘Hard to forget. Don’t think any of us will ever get over that.’

  ‘The actual performance is what I’d like you to focus on, if you will, sir,’ Lorimer persisted. ‘The first half of the programme when Mrs Quentin-Jones took over as Leader of the Orchestra. What can you remember about the quality of the performance?’