by Alex Gray
‘Told me what?’ Chris gave a small puzzled laugh.
‘You’re my big brother.’
For a moment the only sound in the room was the ticking of an ancient clock on the wall as Chris Hunter stared at the girl clutching his arms. ‘God! I can’t believe it!’
She nodded. ‘It’s true. Mum left you her violin in her will. She’s known about you for years, kept tabs on everything that happened to you, Dad reckons.’ She paused and smiled tremulously. ‘Only he’s not my Dad. Nor yours.’
‘What? Then who …?’ Chris Hunter’s voiced came out in a whisper as he tried to resurrect some of the world that was crashing around him.
‘A man called Maurice Drummond. He’s the Chorus Master of the City of Glasgow Chorus. He and Mum had a couple of affairs,’ Tina drew a deep breath, ‘and we’re the result.’
‘Are you sure?’ Chris asked, still staring at Tina as if she were the only credible thing in the room.
‘Sure. Dad says these DNA tests were bound to prove it as well.’ She looked up at his face. ‘Did you know you were adopted?’ she asked suddenly.
He nodded. ‘I’ve known for ages. Mum and Dad split up when I was little and she told me then. But I’ve never bothered about it. Mum was Mum to me. Still is,’ he broke off, the implication of his new identity hitting him suddenly.
‘My real mother has been murdered,’ he said, an expression of horror coming over his face.
‘Chris, I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry.’ Tina began to weep again and buried her face into his jersey. But this time, as Chris Hunter stroked her hair, his attention was not on Tina but on something quite different that only he could see.
Simon turned away from the kitchen door, slipping into the shadows of the hallway. It all made sense now. Everything he’d just seen and heard made such perfect sense.
Chapter Thirty
The close mouth was in shadow when the man finally opened the street door. Four steps up and a long stone passageway ahead were illumined by the stained glass window high overhead on the first half landing. Flynn grinned as he turned his head, examining the old polished tiles along the walls. It was a ‘wally close’, a mark of prestige in Glasgow tenements once upon a time, Flynn knew. His wally close. The grin grew wider as he followed the man up two flights of stairs. He’d be doing this every day, he thought suddenly. Up and down to his new job, in and out the close to the bus stop along the road. Flynn blinked, surprised by sudden tears. Such an ordinary thing to be doing, wasn’t it? But it seemed like a whole new world to him.
‘Right, pal, this is it,’ the man turned to Flynn and handed him the keys. ‘You’ve got all the stuff you need to start you off. It’s not a lot, but it’ll do you until you can afford to replace it, eh?’
Flynn nodded. The guy wasn’t that much older than himself but he had the look of one who’d seen it all and more. Being assistant warden in a Glasgow hostel would have given him insight into the lives of loads of folk, he reckoned. Joseph Alexander Flynn was just another client being dropped off at his wee flat.
‘Want me to come in with you?’ The man smiled suddenly. ‘Show you how the oven works an’ all that?’
‘Naw, I’ll manage fine. I’m no’ goin’ tae be cookin’ a Christmas turkey, ah’m I?’
‘Well, there’s always Christmas dinner down at the Hamish Allan if you want to come?’
Flynn shook his head. He had other plans for Christmas day. With a lift of his chin he looked at the warden. ‘Ah’ve already got an invitation, thanks anyway.’
The man shrugged. He clearly didn’t believe him. Who would offer hospitality to someone like Flynn?
‘OK, I’m off. But you can come down and see us any time. You know that. Right?’
‘Aye. Right.’
Flynn waited until the man had turned down the first flight of stairs then he inserted the key into the lock (his lock!) and pushed open the wooden door.
His hand immediately felt for a light switch as he entered the gloomy hall. Flynn dropped his two bags on the carpet and carefully closed the door behind him. The hall was a small rectangle with doors opening off on either side. He pushed open the first one on his immediate right revealing a small bathroom. A cursory glance showed him a strip of bare laminated floor with a bath on one side and a washbasin and loo at the far end. He pulled the light cord making the porcelain gleam suddenly under the naked bulb. Well, at least it was clean. He had a sudden vision of Lorimer’s untidy bathroom with its rows of gels and jars that his Missus had left behind. Och, it wouldn’t take him too long to clutter up his own wee place.
Leaving both lights on, Flynn raced through to the other rooms. He barely took in the tiny kitchen with its basic appliances and formica topped table in the rush to find his bedroom.
‘Jeez!’ Flynn skidded to a halt as he opened the door. Once the front parlour of what had been known as a room-and-kitchen, the bedroom seemed bigger than any of the rooms back at Lorimer’s own place. Flynn’s eyes travelled up to the high ceiling with its remnant of plaster cornicing then to the huge bay window opposite the door. In a few strides he was across the room and gazing into the street (his street!).
Govanhill wasn’t a bit of Glasgow he’d known too well up until now, he realised, watching the people in the street below scurrying past, their arms full of bulging carrier bags. Three days until Christmas Eve, Flynn thought, a shiver of long-forgotten boyish excitement making his arms all gooseflesh. Or was it the cold? He’d need to find out how to turn on the heating, he realised, his eyes falling on the gas fire. Maybe he should’ve let the guy show him how things worked. Well, he’d have Mrs Lorimer’s old bossy-boots mum here by lunchtime. She’d be only too happy to show him what to do.
Flynn turned back to inspect the room with its single bed, old wardrobe and squashy chair. The bed had been made up already and Flynn ran his hand lightly over the brand new bedding. He smiled at the cartoon characters leaping across the duvet. This wasn’t standard-issue-stuff — for-the-homeless, he thought, recognising Lorimer’s hand in the choice of bedding. Well, he might be on his own but he’d have Bart Simpson for company at night. Throwing himself onto the bed, Flynn suddenly laughed out loud, the sound echoing around the bare walls of the room.
He was home!
Lorimer heaved a huge sigh as he closed the file. There was something very irksome about leaving this case unfinished with all its strands still hanging loose. They’d done an enormous amount of work compiling facts and figures since that October night in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And what had they to show for it: a cocaine dealer with links to a vast European market and an expensive violin that could lead to the uncovering of an organised crime ring? Allan Seaton had offered names in the hope that he would have a reduced sentence when his case came to court. So far only Carl Bekaert and George Millar had figured as his customers within the orchestra itself. There was no doubt in Lorimer’s mind that the violinist’s drug habit had been funded by the money he’d made from reselling the stolen instruments. Seaton and Bekaert had both mentioned George’s sideline in their latest statements.
But was he any further along the road to finding the killers of the two musicians? Solomon Brightman’s opinions and Rosie Fergusson’s reports, for what they were worth, lay under the manilla folders piled in front of Lorimer. There had been eyebrows raised by the Assistant Chief Constable after the results of the DNA testing had proved so inconclusive but no criticism voiced. Yet, a little voice nagged in his ear. After the Christmas break would he have to return to face Superintendent Mark Mitchison and his sarcastic remarks? Or would a period of enforced sick leave have mellowed his superior? He doubted it.
Rosie had been such a wee star getting him these test results in double quick time, he thought guiltily. Just so he had the chance to wrap this case up before flying out to Maggie. And what had it achieved?
A young man named Christopher Hunter had suddenly appeared out of the woodwork as the illegitimate son of Karen Quentin-Jones and t
he Chorus Master. Lorimer clenched his teeth. It all seemed to come back to that damned violin. George Millar had received it from his source in Europe and sold it to Derek Quentin-Jones; Karen had played the instrument ‘like an angel’ as Poliakovski had recalled on the night of the Leader’s death and now, after its disappearance when she herself had been brutally murdered, it turned up again, only this time as the legacy to her estranged son. Lorimer glanced at his watch. Jo Grant would be at the hospital by now. would she find anything else out from the Consultant Surgeon or was he simply wasting more time and manpower? Hunter was due in any time now. Just what would his version of events be, he wondered?
‘This is quite outrageous, Inspector! After what I’ve experienced is it too much to expect some common decency from the police or does the season of goodwill pass you people by?’ The Surgeon thundered down the hospital corridor, Jo Grant matching his long-legged stride with her own. ‘In here,’ he snapped suddenly, coming to a stop outside his consulting room. Jo entered the room, aware of the man’s instinctive courtesy as he held open the door for her. How many women had entered that room, trembling, with the handsome consultant smiling reassurance at them, she wondered? They’d certainly not been subjected to that look on his face. Right now Derek Quentin-Jones was not a happy man.
‘I have already spoken to Chief Inspector Lorimer this morning!’ he exclaimed, then seeing that Jo Grant was not prepared to budge, added, ‘I can give you ten minutes. I’ve a waiting room of patients to see,’ he snapped, waving a hand in the direction of the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Jo sat down and began immediately. ‘You must have realised we’d want to ask you more about Christopher Hunter and Christina Quentin-Jones, sir,’ she said, watching the man’s face flinch as she spoke their names. ‘We would like to know how long it has been since you were aware of their paternity.’
The Surgeon looked at her stupidly then leant forward. ‘What are you really asking, Inspector? If I murdered my wife in a fit of jealous rage? Hardly possible given I was in the operating theatre at the time.’
Jo Grant’s face remained impassive. ‘When did you know about your wife’s affairs, sir?’ she repeated.
Quentin-Jones sank back into his seat and folded his hands, more to keep them in control, Jo guessed, seeing their reddened fingertips.
‘I knew my wife had not been faithful to me. I discovered this fact about nine, no, ten years ago,’ he began. ‘I’d had a minor medical problem that led me to discover my own infertility.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Karen had already given me details of her early pregnancy some years after we were married. Can’t remember why she did, but it didn’t seem to matter much until …’
‘Until you knew Tina couldn’t have been your own child?’ Jo finished for him.
The Surgeon nodded. ‘I put the matter behind us. We’ve been happy enough together since then.’ He paused then corrected himself slowly ‘we were happy enough together. There didn’t seem any reason not to trust my wife.’
Once you’d had her checked out by a private investigator, Jo told herself silently, wondering about the barely concealed anger in the man across the desk. Could he have simmered for years about her infidelity and suddenly snapped? Somehow she doubted it.
‘When were you aware that Mr Hunter was your wife’s son?’
‘When I received the will from her solicitor,’ he replied simply. ‘until that moment I had no inkling whatsoever that the young man was anything other than a musical colleague of my wife.’
‘Can you give me your honest opinion of Mr Hunter’s character?’ Jo asked suddenly.
Quentin-Jones smiled sadly. ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I thought he was a thoroughly nice young man.’ He looked shrewdly at Jo. ‘Am I to be proved wrong in my estimation, Inspector?’
‘He said what?’ Lorimer’s jaw dropped in amazement as Alistair Wilson’s words sank in. He listened for another few minutes then let the telephone fall back onto its cradle. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Wilson had muttered, ringing off.
Lorimer whirled round in his chair until he faced the window. He’d deliberately cleared a space in his overcrowded diary to accommodate an interview with Christopher Hunter and now the violinist had had the cheek to postpone his appointment until tomorrow! Lorimer fumed. OK, he would be here for a few hours in the morning.
His plane didn’t take off until three o’clock from Glasgow Airport. But Hunter was taking a bit of a liberty!
Suddenly Lorimer’s mind went back to the Christmas concert. He’d stood in the wings, listening to the festive music. What was the one he’d found particularly moving? Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake Waltz’, that was it, he remembered. The string section’s parts had been especially poignant. How hard had it been for these professionals to make sad, sweet music so soon after the tragic deaths of their colleagues?
But was Christopher Hunter even aware that one of these colleagues had been his birth mother? He’d a mind to send a squad car round to pick the guy up and have it out with him now.
Lorimer’s shrugged. Och, he could wait. It would give him a wee while to nip round the shops at lunchtime today. Maggie deserved more for Christmas than a few hastily bought gifts from the duty free.
Lorimer grabbed the coat off its stand, putting his thoughts into action before he could change his mind.
The afternoon sped past in a whirl of activity, folk in and out of his office wanting signatures for this and recommendations about that. Annie Irvine had even ventured to ask for a donation to their Christmas night out. Lorimer would be well on his way to Florida, leaving his fellow officers to enjoy themselves, but he’d pulled a few notes out of his wallet anyway. Their acting Superintendent would be no loss to the Christmas revelry but his financial contribution would be appreciated, he reckoned.
It was after six when Lorimer finally dialled his mother-in-law’s number.
‘Yes, he’s fine. Settled in no bother at all,’ she answered in reply to Lorimer’s anxious questions about Flynn.
‘Did he like my present?’
‘The mobile phone? Aye. And he said to tell you he thought The Simpsons’ bedcover was,’ she paused, ‘wicked, I think he said. Would that be right?’
Lorimer laughed. ‘Aye, that sounds like Flynn. Listen, could you ring him up, maybe? You’ve got his number. Ask him if he can take you to the airport tomorrow? Get a taxi and I’ll pay you back.’
‘Och, I can manage fine on my own,’ Mrs Finlay protested.
‘I’d rather Flynn went with you. Besides he wanted to see us off.’
‘I don’t have to ask what’s stopping you from picking me up, do I, William?’ she asked, her voice heavy with disapproval. ‘Just don’t miss that plane, whatever you do. I’m not going to be the one to explain to my daughter why her husband didn’t make it in time for Christmas.’
Lorimer put the phone down. He’d make a quick visit to the canteen for some of Sadie Dunlop’s home cooking then come back here to deal with the rest of the paperwork that had mounted up on his desk during the day. only then could he make it home to finish his packing. His glance fell on the red carrier bags leaning against his coat stand. He’d gone a bit over the top in Princes Square. Still, he thought, Maggie would love all that expensive lingerie. And how would she look?
A grin came over his face. Wicked, he told himself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Edith Millar bit her lip nervously. Should she have come here? It had been a moment of impulse, catching sight of her pale face in the hall mirror as she had been about to leave for the Mission, almost as if another person had suggested quite a different destination. Now all sorts of doubts assailed her as she stood uncertainly on the doorstep. A gust of wind rattled the few dry leaves left on the pavement and Edith glanced across at the railings that fenced off the swirling currents of the river Kelvin. She’d walked from Huntly Gardens across Byres Road and past the old BBC headquarters. Many a time she and George had played in studi
os there in the old days. But that was all in the past, she reminded herself. What she was doing here tonight was to make amends for that past, to try to salvage something for the future.
Glancing up at the light shining from the bay windows above, Edith saw that only one of them was without a twinkling Christmas tree, and she instinctively knew exactly whose window that was.
‘Come on up,’ he said, then pressed the buzzer to release the locked door. Maurice Drummond moved across to the window and looked down into the street.
There was no sign of Edith so she must be on her way upstairs. Sure enough the doorbell rang out its shrill note just as Maurice was heading down the narrow hallway.
‘Edith, how nice, come in,’ Maurice bent to kiss the cold cheeks of the woman who had been his piano teacher. She smiled up at him, drawing off her black gloves.
‘Hallo, Maurice,’ she said. ‘Have the police been here yet?’
‘You’d better come in,’ he murmured, ‘through here, into the lounge.’
Edith Millar’s eyes widened as she caught sight of the Chopin Etudes displayed on the open piano. ‘You still play, then?’
‘What made you think I’d ever stopped?’
‘Oh, Maurice,’ she sighed. ‘what did we do to you?’
Maurice Drummond frowned. ‘Nothing that I know of, Edith. And what makes you think the police have been here?’
‘But they have, haven’t they?’ She twisted the gloves in her hand. ‘I told them about Karen and you. About the baby,’ she added.
‘Edith,’ Maurice Drummond took her by the elbow and steered her gently into one of his armchairs. ‘I know you did. They told me.’
Edith looked up at him, a small frown creasing her forehead. ‘And you’re not angry with me?’
Maurice Drummond shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘They were bound to find out sooner or later, weren’t they?’