Shadows of Sounds lab-3

by Alex Gray

  The psychologist had insisted that the killer was still in the area, still working at a profession, still appearing to be a respectable member of society.

  ‘Are you wanting your breakfast?’ A voice interrupted Lorimer’s thoughts and he squirmed around in the bed to see Flynn’s grinning face at his doorway. In his hands the boy held a tray with cereal and toast and two large mugs of tea.

  ‘A wee treat seeing as it’s my last Sunday here,’ he went on.

  Lorimer sat up suddenly, pulling the duvet around his naked form. Of course. The day after tomorrow Flynn would be going to his new flat.

  ‘Shove over a bit,’ Flynn said, plonking himself down by Lorimer’s side, tray still balanced in his hands. ‘Watch you don’t spill the tea,’ he added, as Lorimer heaved himself up into sitting position.

  ‘You sound just like my wife,’ Lorimer groaned.

  ‘Miss her, don’t you?’ Flynn asked, giving Lorimer a shrewd stare.

  ‘Aye,’ came the short reply as Lorimer bit into the slice of toast and marmalade.

  ‘I wanted to say, well, thanks for everything. You know? It was dead nice of you to let me stay here,’ Flynn stuttered to a halt and picked up the mug of tea to hide his embarrassment.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s been good for me to have you here. Meant I couldn’t keep the place a tip the way it was after Maggie left.’

  ‘Doubt if I’d’ve noticed,’ Flynn grinned. ‘Don’t suppose housework’ll be a priority when I get the keys tomorrow. Still, you never know. It’ll be nice to have my own pad, all the same. Shame about the TV I’ll miss that,’ he added, giving Lorimer’s arm a dunt with his elbow.

  ‘Aye, well, you’ll just have to save up for one of your own. And a licence,’ Lorimer told him. ‘That job with the parks department isn’t bad at all. You can decide later on if you want to take a college course. I found out about the grants. You’d be eligible for the maximum allowance if you decided to go.’

  ‘That right? I might just do that, ‘ Flynn said. ‘Know what, though? They’re going tae keep me in the office for the first few weeks, just till they think ah’m fit for the heavy stuff. I get to do the odd jobs and find out all about how the parks are run.’

  ‘Anyway, how about finishing this lot through in the lounge and letting me get up?’ Lorimer asked.

  Flynn grinned at the policeman and scooped up the tray. It was funny how life worked out, he thought, as he wandered into the sunlit lounge. Here he was, living the life of Riley, a new flat and a new job awaiting him, things he’d only ever dreamt about. And all because he’d run into that van. If he hadn’t, if he’d been caught by Raincoat that day, what might have happened? Would Lorimer have put the screws on him? Made him tell all about Seaton? So far he’d body-swerved that line of questioning, though he knew fine that the police still wanted him to name names. Well, Allan Seaton was far too tricky a customer to cross, safe flat or not. Glasgow was just too wee for comfort. He never knew when he’d run into Seaton and his cronies. And if he’d grassed them up he might as well have stayed under that van.

  Lorimer knew it, he mused. He’d not pressed him too sore for information, guessing that Flynn was afraid of what repercussions could ensue. He’d made one mistake in telling that big ape, Greer, what he knew about George Millar. Life was suddenly a precious commodity to Flynn, something he wasn’t about to endanger by any more loose talking.

  ‘What are you up to today?’ Lorimer asked, appearing at the door of the lounge, pulling his arms through his shirt sleeves.

  ‘Dunno. Don’t have a whole lot of packing to do, have I? How about you? Do you have to go into work?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘’Fraid so. We’ve got a hell of a lot to do before I disappear on Wednesday.’

  ‘I’ll miss it here,’ Flynn mumbled, turning away so that Lorimer couldn’t see his face.

  ‘No more of Sadie’s soups, eh? You’ll just have to frequent the station canteen,’ Lorimer chuckled. Sadie Dunlop might be the scourge of the Division but she had a heart of gold and had kept thrusting cartons of home made soup into Lorimer’s hands every day since Flynn had come to live with him.

  ‘Nae fear. You won’t catch me doon there. Not for any reason.’

  Lorimer grinned. ‘I’ll not tell Sadie that. She’d be raging at your ingratitude.’

  ‘Aw, man, don’t do that! Och, you’re joking. She’s been dead nice giving us all that stuff. Tell you what. Ask her for the recipe for that chicken soup. I’ll maybe try it in ma new place, eh?’

  Lorimer whistled as he closed the front door behind him. It had been good leaving home knowing that Flynn was safe there. He’d drummed it into the boy to put the chain on any time he was alone. Sure enough most nights Lorimer had to wait for the front door to be opened to him on his return home.

  They’d got into the habit of watching TV together, although Lorimer was careful not to fall asleep on the sofa as he’d done the night of Flynn’s arrival. He’d been mortified to find himself wrapped in the boy’s spare blanket early the following morning.

  The tune in his head beat a rhythm, four more days, four more days, it told him. He glanced in the rear view mirror as he pulled into the street and headed back into town. It was early for churchgoers but there was one red estate car outside a neighbour’s house with two men in the front; a taxi for Mrs Ellis, perhaps? He’d seen nothing of his nosey neighbour these past months and wasn’t sorry.

  As the Lexus turned the corner Lorimer was unable to see the red car creep slowly forward until it was level with his own gate.

  When the front door clicked open Flynn assumed that Lorimer had come back for something he’d forgotten and so the footsteps on the stair didn’t bother him. He was laughing out loud at Tom and Jerry’s latest cartoon antics as the cat splatted against the garden gate but his laugh turned to a cry as the hands went around his throat.

  ‘Havin’ fun in the polisman’s hoose, are ye, pal?’ a familiar voice came from behind him. Flynn wrestled out of the grasp and shot out of the chair, standing panting as he watched Seaton grinning at him. The green eyes narrowed. Like cat’s eyes, Flynn thought, suddenly seeing something flicker in their depths.

  ‘Whit the hell are you doin’ here?’

  ‘Aw, that’s no very nice, Flynn. Can a mate no’ go and visit his old pals, eh?’ Seaton stood laughing at him, arms folded across his chest.

  He was a head smaller than Flynn but his stocky frame was all muscle from years in the boxing ring. He was quick, too and liked to hurt people for fun.

  ‘How did ye know ah wis here?’ Flynn rubbed the sore place on his neck where Seaton’s hands had gripped him moments before.

  Allan Seaton tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ways and means, man, ways and means. Anyway, now that I’m here how about making us a wee cup of tea, eh? That would be nice and friendly, now wouldn’t it?’

  Flynn hesitated for a moment. He didn’t trust Seaton. How did he know he wouldn’t nick something from the room while he was downstairs in the kitchen? But did he really have any alternative? The dealer was sitting down now, casually flicking channels with the remote control, legs crossed in front of him.

  ‘Ah, this is mair like it!’ he said, finding an old gangster movie where the action involved two men slugging it out on screen. He looked up and winked. Flynn got the message loud and clear. With an inward sigh the boy turned and headed for the stairs leaving the dealer absorbed in the movie.

  The kettle was just coming to the boil and Flynn was trying to cut open a new packet of ginger nut biscuits when a noise behind him made him whirl around. In the moment that followed the scissors flew out of his hand scattering biscuits all over the kitchen floor then that searing white light that he’d known once before crashed into his brain.

  Audrey Ellis watched in fascination as the two men came out of Chief Inspector Lorimer’s front porch. What on earth were they doing carrying a carpet out? Did Maggie Lorimer know her husband was rearranging the furnishings on a Sunday morning?


  Her eyes widened. The Lexus was nowhere to be seen! Then one hand flew involuntarily to her pearled bosom at the sight of two stockinged feet protruding from the end of the rolled up carpet.

  For a moment she was rooted to the spot then common sense prevailed and she snatched up her well-used binoculars and hastily copied down the red estate car’s registration. Even as the car sped away, Mrs Ellis was dialling DCI Lorimer’s telephone number.

  ‘He’s what?’ Lorimer paled as the woman recounted what she had seen.

  ‘Removed your house guest by the looks of things,’ came the reply. Mrs Ellis actually sounded as though she were enjoying some drama this Sunday morning. Lorimer listened long enough to copy down the red car’s registration and mutter a hasty word of thanks before grabbing the paper and jabbing out the extension number he needed.

  ‘Get a check on this one would you?’ He rattled off some more detailed instructions before adding, ‘And find Alistair Wilson. I need him. Now.’

  Lorimer pulled his coat off the stand in the corner and headed for the door. He was almost at the foot of the stairs when the Detective Sergeant appeared, clattering down behind him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They’ve got Flynn,’ Lorimer answered shortly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Thank God for the Mrs Ellises of this world,’ he breathed. ‘She saw someone snatch him. We’ve put out a call for any available squad cars to track them. Meantime I want someone over at my place, see what’s there. Here’s the keys,’ he added, handing over the bundle.

  ‘Doubt if I’ll need them,’ came the answer and Lorimer nodded briefly. He was probably right. Whoever had taken the boy away wouldn’t have bothered about niceties like locking up. He cursed himself. Why hadn’t he told Flynn to put on the chain like he always did? It had become like a mantra every time he’d left the boy alone in the house.

  The red car sped along the dual carriageway, oblivious to the notice that speed cameras lay just ahead. The driver took the roundabout at fifty screeching the tyres as the car wobbled between lanes. There was a straight stretch of road just ahead then he would turn along that country road just like Seaton had told him.

  He put his foot on the accelerator and grinned as the rev counter flipped forward.

  Then his face changed suddenly as a familiar sound drowned out the car’s whine. For a moment he was tempted to hit the pedal again but the flashing blue light ahead and a glance at Seaton’s angry expression told him he’d be wasting his time.

  Flynn came to as the car thudded to a halt. For some reason he could hardly breathe and it was dark, wherever he was. Was this a nightmare? Was he going to wake up in his hospital bed? The blankets were stifling him and for some reason he couldn’t pull them away. His legs were tucked under him but he wanted to stretch them out. Suddenly the memory of another man curled into a duvet invaded his jumbled thoughts. He remembered the feel of the tray handles in his hands as he’d carried in the breakfast.

  Lorimer!

  Flynn groaned aloud as memory came flooding back bringing with it an ache in his head. He heard car doors slam and voices rise in protest. Then suddenly the light came back as the boot was wrenched opened and unseen hands pulled his twisted body from its cocoon of carpet. Trembling, Flynn closed his eyes, waiting for another blow to fall.

  ‘Flynn? You all right, son?’

  Flynn opened his eyes and saw the familiar blue gaze of Lorimer staring anxiously down at him. The boy nodded then groaned as the policeman lifted him out of the car boot and tried to help him to stand upright.

  ‘Aw, ma heid,’ Flynn moaned, his hands investigating the recent scar. He did not resist as Lorimer’s fingers ran lightly across his scalp.

  ‘It’s OK. No apparent damage. But we’ll get you checked out just the same.’

  ‘Ah feel sick,’ Flynn swayed suddenly and turned away, grasping the boot of the car for support. Lorimer flinched as the boy’s breakfast exploded over the red paintwork.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me all about it,’ he said gently, helping Flynn to straighten up.

  ‘Where’s …?’ Flynn’s question was answered as his gaze fell upon Allan Seaton and a fellow he knew only as Mick. They were being pushed into the back of a police car, their hands well and truly cuffed behind them.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Just how did you know where he was?’ Lorimer asked, his face grim.

  Allan Seaton shrugged, ‘The big man, big Carl, he told us,’ he replied, avoiding Lorimer’s angry stare.

  The policeman sat back. How the hell had Carl Bekaert known his home address? Or that Flynn had been staying there?

  ‘What’re your dealings with Bekaert?’ Lorimer asked, silently adding, as if I didn’t know.

  Seaton shrugged again. ‘Ach, he was a pal, y’know. We met up from time to time.’

  ‘Listen to classical music together, did you, Mr Seaton?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm even made his detective sergeant wince.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Seaton’s attempt at a grin failed as his eyes met Lorimer’s.

  ‘You were his supplier, son. We have this on good authority so don’t give us any of your nonsense.’

  ‘Flynn tell you this, did he?’ Seaton sneered suddenly.

  ‘Not until you cracked him over the head in my kitchen,’ Lorimer thumped the desk between them. Seaton’s expression changed, his sudden belligerence gone.

  ‘Didnae mean tae hurt the boy, know what I mean?’ he whined. ‘Should’a known he was a’right. A misjudgement of character on my part,’ he’d added, trying to retrieve the image of the big man he thought he was.

  ‘Right then, let’s just see what other misjudgements of character you’ve made, shall we? Let’s start with the late George Millar.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon, man, that wis nothing tae do wi’ me! Ah’m not intae killin’ folk.’

  ‘Just whacking them over the head and driving them off in rolled up carpets?’

  ‘We just wanted to scare Flynn, that was all,’ he muttered.

  ‘Your pal, Michael O’Hagan, might have a different version of that story,’ Lorimer warned him.

  ‘No he’ll no’,’ Seaton said shortly. ‘I told him we were jist puttin’ the frighteners on the boy. Wanted to know what he’d been sayin’ tae youse.’

  ‘George Millar,’ Lorimer began again. ‘What was his involvement with you?’

  Seaton sighed. ‘OK. He wis after coke. I supplied it tae him through Flynn.’

  ‘How did Flynn come to know Millar in the first place?’

  Seaton shrugged. ‘Met him in the street outside the Concert Hall. Flynn was high and old Georgie asked him where he could score. Put him onto me. Then the big Danish guy gets in touch, becomes a regular customer.’

  ‘And the stolen instruments?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Seaton muttered.

  For the second time the table between them shook as Lorimer’s fist came crashing down upon it.

  ‘Listen to me, Seaton. This is a murder investigation. Get it? Try to hide one little thing about George Millar and you might find yourself charged with perverting the course of justice!’

  Allan Seaton flinched, his hands flying up as if to ward off imaginary blows.

  ‘OK, OK! Millar was just part of an organisation. He’d pick up an instrument here and there when the Orchestra were out of the country. Like on tour, see? There was someone he knew in Europe who supplied him with the stuff. He’d bring them back and sell them on here.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  Seaton laughed. ‘Old George had a big mouth. Had a few sessions at my place, didn’t he?’ The dealer licked his lips nervously. ‘Told me all about his business. Wanted to know if I could do him a favour from time to time.’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  Seaton’s eyes shifted from one policeman to the other. ‘Like puttin’ pressure on a couple of guys when their payments were l
ate, know whit ah mean?’

  ‘George Millar used you and O’Hagan as his heavies?’ Lorimer’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘Aye, well no’ very often. Word gets round fast when someone won’t tolerate bein’ messed around.’

  ‘And who exactly were the recipients of your persuasive techniques?’ asked Lorimer.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Who did you duff up?’ DS Wilson explained, seeing the blank look appear in the dealer’s eyes.

  Seaton nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘A wee nyaff called Ruskin and another yin called Karger. They’re no’ in the Orchestra onymair, by the way,’ he added. ‘Anyway, this wid be a coupla’ years ago.’

  Lorimer saw in his mind’s eye a younger Joseph Alexander Flynn. He couldn’t have been much more than fifteen when he’d first met George Millar. The streets with their characters like Seaton had shaped the boy into becoming the dealer’s go-between. Yet something had happened to the boy these past few weeks. It was a strange sort of Providence that had thrust him into the path of that van in Mitchell Street. Lorimer would swear that Flynn would never end up now like the man across the interview desk.

  Seaton’s statement had made interesting reading. Not only had Bekaert and Millar been supplied cocaine by the Glasgow dealer, George Millar had been one small part of an international ring, using the Orchestra’s tour programmes as a cover. Lorimer hoped that the Austrian Police would benefit from another known link in what was undoubtedly a complex chain. The question now was, Lorimer told himself as he approached the Royal Concert Hall, whether he wanted to bring Carl Bekaert in for questioning just yet.

  The Orchestra were at that moment rehearsing for the evening’s performance. Lorimer had to remind himself that this was a murder investigation he was conducting. Taking him away to the station now might alert the killer. Solly was convinced that the Dane was not their man and somehow Lorimer’s instinct told him to trust Solly’s judgement. No irony in his soul, the psychologist had said.

  Well, somebody’s dark soul was full of irony and it was up to him to find out who that somebody was. The DNA testing would be undertaken straight after the concert, each member of the Orchestra and Chorus being given little warning of the impending tests. He didn’t want anyone slipping through that particular net.