Shadows of Sounds lab-3

by Alex Gray

  Lorimer nodded to Neville, the security man, as he entered the stage door and made his way through the now familiar corridors.

  ‘Doctor Brightman here yet?’ he asked one of the stage crew.

  ‘Just arrived two minutes before you, sir. He’s in with Mr Phillips, I believe.’

  Lorimer strode along the passageway that led to the Orchestra Manager’s room. It was barely three o’clock and yet so much had already taken place on this, the last Sunday before Christmas. He glanced at the television monitor set at an angle inside Brendan’s room. The rehearsal was already under way. He could hear the strains of Prokofiev’s ‘Troika’ from the Lieutenant Kije Suite as he pushed the door open to see Solly and Brendan seated at an overflowing coffee table. Several garment bags hung around the room, suspended from the window blind rails or the backs of cupboard doors, revealing the black evening suits that would be donned between rehearsal and performance.

  Protocol demanded that even the administration staff were properly attired and men in full evening dress would drift in and out of Brendan’s room several times before the Christmas concert began.

  ‘Chief Inspector, or should I be addressing you as Superintendent?’ Brendan smiled quizzically but the smile failed to reach his eyes. There was something bothering the man, Lorimer realised. Just what had the two men had been discussing before his arrival?

  ‘Oh, that’s only a temporary designation,’ Lorimer replied smoothly.

  ‘I was explaining to Mr Phillips about what Dr Fergusson would require for her visit later on,’ Solomon glanced at Brendan as he spoke.

  ‘I still can’t believe that you are really going to test everyone for DNA. I mean, it’s as if we are all suddenly under suspicion,’ Brendan protested.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Lorimer replied as he leant casually against the door. ‘It’ll help to eliminate an awful lot of people from our inquiries. That should give your players peace of mind, surely?’ he smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Brendan muttered. ‘It’s gone on for so long now, we all just want things to go back to normal.’

  ‘They’ll never be back to normal for Edith Millar or Derek Quentin-Jones,’ Lorimer reminded him quietly.

  Brendan had the grace to look ashamed. ‘No, of course. And I’m sure the players will appreciate that more than anybody.’

  ‘We are grateful for your cooperation, sir. I know it’s meant a lot of extra work for you, contacting so many people.’

  He pushed himself off the door and nodded towards the television monitor.

  ‘We’ll be starting with the musicians directly after the performance but perhaps the backroom staff would oblige Dr Fergusson by making themselves available from five o’clock onwards.’ Lorimer nodded at Brendan who instantly recognised his words as a command rather than a polite request. The whole procedure was going to take some time unless they got their proverbial skates on.

  ‘I believe you’ve been asked to make rooms one and two available for Dr Fergusson and her staff,’ Lorimer continued.

  ‘And you have given my officers a list of all the participants. You’re quite sure the same people are here, including those who were augmenters on the previous occasions?’

  The Orchestra Manager looked up swiftly, but nodded.

  ‘Yes. Rooms one and two are normally used as a place to relax and have their meals. You know I’ll have a small mutiny on my hands when I tell them they’ll have to restrict themselves to their own dressing rooms for the rest of the day? Chloe Redpath was a bit cross about having to come into the Concert Hall. Said she’d be rushing straight from a church recital,’ Brendan explained. A swift glance at the two men told Brendan that his attempt at pique seemed to be falling on deaf ears yet the Orchestra Manager struggled on, ‘It’s not awfully convenient to cart a harp about all over the city, you know. And she’s not going to be the only one who’ll be put out.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could make it clear that nobody is to leave the building from now until after tonight’s performance. It just makes things a little easier,’ Lorimer told him, ignoring the vexation on the man’s face. Any news that DNA testing was to take place could easily spook their killer; the unspoken words hung there as Lorimer watched the Orchestra Manager flick his gaze from the Chief Inspector to the psychologist.

  Brendan rose to his feet. ‘In that case, I’d better make a start, hadn’t I?’ He smoothed down his dress trousers as Lorimer opened the door for him.

  The door closed behind him with a click.

  ‘Our Mr Phillips isn’t a happy bunny, is he?’ Lorimer said wryly when he was certain the man would be out of earshot.

  ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ Solly said. ‘Did you know he had applied for a post with the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra?’ he added.

  Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Trying to escape from it all, is he?’

  ‘Put yourself in his position. wouldn’t you want a fresh start? It can’t be easy going in there all the time,’ Solly jerked his thumb in the direction of the dressing room along the corridor where George Millar had been murdered. ‘He strikes me as a rather sensitive man, you know. And he did find the body.’

  ‘No irony in his soul, then?’

  ‘If he has, then he’s doing a remarkably good job of hiding it,’ Solly answered slowly.

  Lorimer was suddenly reminded of Brendan’s uncharacteristic, probing question to the Chorus Master after Karen’s funeral. He had seemed almost a different man, then. Was that a mask slipping? Or did Maurice Drummond simply bring out a less savoury side to Brendan’s nature?

  ‘You’re going to be attending every test?’ he asked Solly.

  ‘Most of them, hopefully. I still think that the behaviour displayed by each person could provide something tangible.’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Especially if anyone tried to refuse being tested.’

  ‘Hence the warrant?’

  Lorimer patted his jacket pocket. ‘Right here. Full authorisation. Signed and dated.’

  The possibility that DNA material could match the traces found on Karen’s violin had given him new hope. Perhaps the events of the coming evening would prove extremely fruitful.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lorimer had been offered a seat at the back of the balcony. The show was a sell-out and even the Choir Stalls were full but somehow they’d found an empty seat for the DCI. He suspected that it was the one Maurice Drummond usually occupied during concerts. The Chorus Master had been backstage with his singers all during the time between the rehearsal and the moment when they filed onto the stage. It was quite a sight, thought Lorimer, the entire platform covered with rows of singers above the ranks of the Orchestra.

  As he settled down to watch the first half of the Christmas concert, Lorimer had the sudden realisation that he was seeing the whole Orchestra and Chorus for the first time almost as it would have been on the night of George Millar’s death. A stranger to the city would never suspect the aching void left by two of the Orchestra’s leading violinists. As if to show that things were back to normal, the lights dimmed and Victor Poliakovski strode towards the podium amidst thunderous applause. In the weeks he had been guest conductor, the Russian had evidently endeared himself to Glasgow audiences, Lorimer realised.

  The First Trumpet sounded a clarion call then the Chorus burst into a fanfare of ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo’ that resounded around the Concert Hall. Lorimer watched the singers’ faces.

  Even from this distance he could see their clear enjoyment of the music and, as the Conductor lowered his baton to more applause, various members of the City of Glasgow Chorus were smiling with pleasure. The programme continued with ‘The Shepherds’ Farewell’, a quieter piece that showed off the sopranos’ delicate upper register to advantage. Lorimer’s gaze was drawn to the Conductor. Poliakovski’s hands were making graceful motions as he drew out the slightest of crescendos then brought a finger near to his lips to signal a pianissimo. Lorimer found his lips twitch
ing into a smile. There was no doubt about who was in control on this platform, he thought.

  It was easy to relax as the Orchestra rolled out its old favourites in a medley that included ‘Chestnuts roasting by an open fire’ and ‘Sleigh Bells’. For the first time that day Lorimer felt a pleasant tiredness wash over him. Christmas was coming and in three days’ time he’d be on a plane winging his way to Maggie, her old mum by his side. Mrs Finlay had been marvellous, insisting on staying at Lorimer’s house for the next two nights with Flynn.

  ‘He needs someone to keep an eye on him,’ she’d told her son-in-law when she’d heard about his latest injury. He was OK, really, more shaken than anything else, and had not objected when Mrs Finlay had bundled him into a taxi at the Southern General Hospital’s A amp;E Department. Lorimer had been gratified that Maggie’s mum had taken such a shine to the lad. She might be an opinionated old so-and-so but her heart was in the right place. Trying to tell her as much had been met with the gruff reply, ‘Och, it’s Christmas!’ Nor would Flynn be alone over the festive season; there had been several offers of hospitality from folk within the Division that Lorimer intended to take up on the boy’s behalf. Christmas seemed to be bringing out the best in even the busiest of people.

  Suddenly a murmur from the audience made Lorimer look down towards the stage. A small boy in school uniform had appeared and was now standing on the Conductor’s left, his young face turned expectantly towards Maestro, waiting for a signal to begin. The lights deepened to twilight blue and, as the piano music began, snowflakes whirled magically around the walls of the Concert Hall.

  ‘I’m walking in the air,’ the small, pure voice rang out clear as a bell sending a shiver of wonder through those whose eyes were fixed on that slight figure caught in the spotlight. Lorimer listened as the voice cast its spell over the audience, watched as the strings swept the music along on a tide of sound and heard his own voice cry aloud with delight as the clapping began. The string sections tapped their bows appreciatively against the music stands as the lad took his bow. For a few moments Lorimer let his eyes rove over certain of the other musicians to see if they, too, were responding to this highlight in the programme. Simon Corrigan was looking towards the boy, his French horn by his side, hands clapping in obvious delight. Now Poliakovski was shaking the soloist’s hand to more tumultuous applause. Surely Maurice Drummond would be standing out of sight applauding this young singer? The Conductor waved a hand towards the wings and a woman came forward, took the boy’s hand in hers and bowed in recognition of the youngster’s rendition. His singing teacher, then, thought Lorimer. She deserved to be included in the audience’s adulation. It would be surprising if the boy were not asked to repeat his solo later on as an encore.

  Finally the first half of the concert concluded with the resounding ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.

  As the lights went up, Lorimer made his way along the corridor towards the doors leading backstage. The rest of the audience would return to find a Christmas cracker laid on each of their seats, but the detective would not join in such niceties; there was too much work to be done on the DNA testing for him to remain out front. If he had hoped to see a sign of weakness from any of the musicians then he had been disappointed. There was nothing in their manner to suggest a guilty conscience. But was that what he should have been expecting? Lorimer could almost see Solly’s dark head shake in disagreement. Wasn’t he looking for someone with irony in his soul? Well, there had been no sign of that either.

  He could never tire of gazing at the woman’s face as she proceeded with her work, thought Solly. Rosie Fergusson had somehow become a feature of his life, as necessary to his continued existence as breathing. There had been no sudden explosion of fireworks, no moonlight serenade cascading through the inner reaches of his imagination, only a quiet but growing assurance that the woman before him was the person he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.

  Rosie had come to the last member of the Orchestra to be tested. She’d shown no fatigue whatever, dealing with each person as professionally as Solly had expected she would. His own remit, to note the reactions of those members of the Orchestra undertaking a DNA test, was far more tedious, Solly was sure. Nobody had caused a fuss nor had there been any refusal to comply with the request to volunteer, obviating the need for the warrant. Yet there had been some interesting behaviour from a few of the musicians, something he would discuss with Lorimer.

  The Chief Inspector had been off and on his mobile phone all evening, checking up on Flynn and his minder. Solomon grinned. Maggie’s mum might have been a traditional Jewish mother the way she’d fussed over Flynn. The boy didn’t stand a chance of missing a meal or staying up later than he should. Mrs Finlay was staying over at Lorimer’s home for the next couple of nights so Flynn would feel more secure. The lad was still determined to move into his flat, despite this morning’s traumas.

  Solly looked thoughtful as Rosie called ‘Goodnight’ to the last musician on their list.

  ‘OK. That’s it,’ she said, stretching her arms widely as she yawned. ‘But I promised you-know-who that I’d have the results back from the lab as soon as humanly possible.’ Her face held a mute appeal for Solomon’s understanding.

  ‘That means an all-nighter, doesn’t it?’ Solly asked. Rosie nodded ruefully, her face putting on that little-girl expression that didn’t fool him for a moment.

  ‘Fifteen hours from the time these babies hit the lab,’ she replied. ‘There’s no way we can have them ready before tomorrow night at the earliest.’

  ‘Fine,’ he went on, ‘but you’re going to have some company tomorrow, unless we can make a start on them tonight?’ Solly’s face creased in a beatific smile. He didn’t feel at all sleepy, in fact the very thought of spending a whole night in bed alone seemed suddenly wasteful, especially when he was rewarded by a sudden hug.

  ‘You’re a sweetie, y’know that, Doctor Brightman?’ Rosie murmured into his shoulder. ‘But I really think we’ll need to leave it till the morning. Come on, let’s get these down to the lab then I’ll take you home.’

  Solly shrugged. DNA testing had come a long way in recent years but even Rosie couldn’t perform miracles in the next twenty-four hours. And in that time there was the danger that their killer might well disappear from the city. Yet instinct told the psychologist that turning tail and bolting did not fit the profile he had so painstakingly drawn up of the person who had killed those two musicians.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chris Hunter felt the warmth of the arm around his neck as he came to drowsily. Slowly he shifted his position, leaving Simon’s wrist free against the pillow. He propped himself up and gazed at his companion sleeping by his side. The red-gold hair had fallen back from his face. In sleep he looked like a child, his lips slightly parted, the pale blue veins of his eyelids so delicate, so very vulnerable that Chris wanted to reach out with his finger and trace each tiny line.

  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 si
ghed. 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.