The Music of Sound

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘No,’ he snarled, twisting away. ‘No.’

  Quist fought the compulsion, concentrating on his calming Scheherazade melody. The urges faded and he stood upright, taking a few deep breaths to fully compose himself. No, he was more than satisfied. This definitely wasn’t a werewolf kill. This had been a simple murder with a conventional weapon like a knife, if the awful act of murder could ever be referred to as simple.

  He turned to the dishevelled bed; the police had obviously instructed the hotel staff to leave everything as it was. He sniffed the pillows and sheets, picking up the scent of Rex Grant in human form and someone else. No, three other people, all female. The wolf raised what passed for eyebrows. Rex had obviously been a busy boy. Much perspiring and sexual activity had taken place and the scents were strong, one of them belonging to the dead girl who had lain on the floor.

  What could have happened here and why had Rex fled the scene?

  Quist twisted sharply, hearing the muted sound of footsteps outside the room. The door lock clicked and he sprang over the bed, darting into the bathroom as two forensic personnel walked in and switched on the light. He silently eased up the toilet window and climbed out onto the ledge, closing it behind him. Checking Princes Street below for observers, the wolf leapt from balcony to balcony, negotiated the ledge around the corner of the building and bounded over further balconies, counting the windows he passed until he was sure he’d left the police cordoned area.

  Finding a dark empty bedroom, he pushed up the window, breaking the catch, and climbed inside. Black fur and fangs fell out and turned to dust as he grunted and crackled, his huge lupine body shrinking and transforming painfully back into a panting naked man. Quist raided the wardrobe for the complimentary dressing gown, slipped it on and let himself out. He glanced up and down the hotel corridor to ensure there was no police activity, then hurried along to the lift and ascended to his floor.

  Watson answered the knock and grinned to see him. ‘Well, that’s a bit less dramatic than your exit, Guv. Did you manage to get in?’

  ‘I did.’ Quist closed the door. ‘There’s no need to visit the morgue and check the body. I don’t know what took place down there, but I do know that young woman wasn’t killed by a wolf. The signs indicate a stabbing.’

  ‘That’s brilliant news.’

  ‘Brilliant? Not for the poor girl.’

  ‘True.’ Watson grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘But the fact remains that she was killed in Rex’s room and he’s vanished.’

  ‘Yeah, do you think he had anything to do with it?’

  ‘Knowing Rex, that’s highly unlikely, but disappearing will doubtless have made him the police prime suspect.’ Quist shook his head. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘God knows.’ Watson shrugged. ‘But you have to remember, he is a bit of a twat.’

  Chapter 11

  The genteel Edinburgh development named the New Town was built in the mid-eighteenth century when the medieval streets and wynds of the Old Town around the castle became too cramped for the gentry. Quist gazed at the Georgian architecture from the taxi cab, noticing the way the Thursday morning sunlight reflected on the granite. He loved these regal avenues, squares and crescents, and could certainly understand why this had been designated a World Heritage Site. He’d managed a few hours of sleep at the hotel, between periods of worried deliberation and reading the Internet on his phone. Sleep hadn’t been a problem for Watson. After a couple of lagers in the Balmoral bar, he’d happily snored the night away, filling the twin room with a low, droning purr.

  ‘All very grey, isn’t it?’ said Watson, peering out of the cab window.

  The detective frowned. ‘Grey?’

  ‘Yeah, the buildings and shit.’

  ‘Open your eyes,’ said Quist. ‘Edinburgh is mostly constructed using Scottish granite and sandstone, but if you really look, especially at the architecture in the Old Town, you’ll notice the beautiful shades of pink, blue, buff...’

  ‘And grey.’

  ‘This is a wonderful old city.’ Quist lowered his voice so the driver wouldn’t hear. ‘I lived here once. I was a doctor at the infirmary in the eighteen-seventies.’

  ‘A doctor?’ The teenager whistled. ‘Hey, that’s pretty cool, but it’s a bit of a come down to a consultant detective, isn’t it?’

  ‘I really don’t look upon it in that way; I’ve held various professional positions over the years. Yes, it was an interesting few years and I had some good friends here back then. Joseph Bell and a young fellow named Arthur. The three of us used early forensic science to assist the police with one or two crimes. I’ve always had something of an insatiable curiosity and a compulsion to solve mysteries.’

  ‘Well, we certainly have one now that needs solving, don’t we? It sounds like you’re feeling a bit better.’

  ‘A little, now that my primary concern has been lain to rest. Rex didn’t kill in wolf form, which is a huge relief.’

  The problem was, a girl had been murdered in Rex’s hotel room and, for some unexplained reason, their friend had vanished. They needed to find out what had happened and quickly. It was unthinkable that Rex could be involved, but why on earth had he fled the scene? Quist had rung McNulty Caledonian, the company Rex was dealing with, as soon as the offices opened and a part of the mystery was immediately solved. The dead girl was called Charlotte Michie and she worked there as a personal assistant to the director.

  The taxi turned down Lothian Road and onto the bustling thoroughfare of Morrison Street.

  ‘This area is as close as Edinburgh gets to a financial district,’ said Quist, looking at the banks, insurance companies and law firms that lined the route. ‘The place should be just down here.’

  McNulty Caledonian stood half way along near the International Conference Centre, one of the many modern buildings of green-tinted glass and chrome that rub shoulders with the sandstone tenement offices. Quist checked his watch as he climbed from the taxi and paid the fare. It was nine-thirty.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Watson. ‘So this is the housing company that Rex is dealing with? They don’t look to be short of money.’

  ‘McNulty is a multi-millionaire,’ said Quist. He lit a cigarette and slipped his free hand into the pocket of his lengthy overcoat. ‘I looked him up on the internet while you were snoring. The Leith waterfront down on the Firth of Forth used to be a rundown mess of derelict warehouses and pubs, and he bought land at rock-bottom prices. He anticipated such areas becoming the place to live and he was right. It was the same in every city; the elite all wanted flats in renovated factories and other properties on the river.’ Quist drew on the tobacco smoke. ‘Instead of rats, drunks and prostitutes, the apartment blocks on McNulty’s land are now filled with surgeons, solicitors and footballers.’

  ‘I imagine prostitutes still visit,’ said Watson. ‘But these days they’ll look like movie stars, the prices will have gone up, and they’ll no longer leave customers feeling as if they’re pissing barbed wire.’

  ‘Eloquent as ever.’ Quist took a final few puffs and died out the half-smoked cigarette underfoot. ‘Anyway, that’s his story. He made a killing.’

  Watson glanced at him.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Quist smiled ruefully as he mounted the steps, leather coat flapping like a cloak. ‘Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of phrase today.’

  A chubby blonde girl sat at the reception desk and smiled at the two visitors.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Quist. ‘I rang a short while ago and it was probably you I spoke to. We’re here to see Mister McNulty.’

  ‘Yes, it was me. I’m Katrina.’ Realising they weren’t clients and knowing the reason behind their visit, the receptionist let her polite mask drop. ‘This is a terrible business, isn’t it?’ she said, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Really awful.’


  Terrible? Watson looked around, puzzled. Form the size of the premises and furnishings, it was obviously quite a successful business.

  ‘Charlotte Michie,’ said Katrina. ‘As I told you, Charlotte was one of Gordon’s assistants and she was a friend of mine. We were all her friends and now she’s been murdered. Can you believe it?’

  ‘It’s tragic,’ agreed Quist. ‘It’s difficult to know what to say. I’m so sorry about Charlotte. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ she snapped, unable to conceal her grief and anger. ‘Yeah, I can think of someone: that mad bastard she was taking to the airport. You said on the phone you were looking for him.’

  ‘Er, yes, we’re trying to find Rex Grant, but the police haven’t actually confirmed that he was the one who...’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious that he did it. She was killed in his bedroom and he’s disappeared. He packed his bag and vanished without paying the bill or going through the hotel lobby.’

  ‘I have to admit, that does sound suspicious.’ Quist spotted a large stuffed bird in a glass case by the nearby water dispenser and attempted to change the subject. ‘Isn’t that a sea eagle?’

  ‘Yes.’ Katrina nodded, sniffing and wiping her eyes. ‘Gordon shot it on the Isle of Mull a couple of years back.’

  Quist looked bemused. ‘I thought they were well-protected.’

  A dry laugh sounded and Watson turned to find an elderly red-haired Scotsman behind them. McNulty wore a smart grey suit and sported a thick moustache of tight ginger bristle that looked as if it could be used for scrubbing potatoes. He’d overheard the exchange.

  ‘Well-protected?’ said McNulty. ‘Don’t you city folk know anything about wildlife? A rhino is well-protected; virtually armour-plated. You have to use a bullet the size of a corona cigar to bring those bastards down. All your eagles have is a layer of feathers. A simple twelve bore cartridge will knock them out of the sky.’

  ‘Er...’ Quist opened his mouth, but thought better of it and held out a hand. ‘Mister McNulty?’

  ‘Call me Gordon.’ McNulty shook hands. ‘You’ll be Bernard Quist. Katrina said you’d rung. Rex has told me about you. You’re the private eye from Yorkshire.’

  ‘Consultant detective,’ said Quist.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Watson. ‘But certain members of our firm believe consultant detective sounds more upmarket and gives a discreet image.’

  McNulty turned to shake hands with the teenager. ‘I take it you’re Watson? I’m sorry, but Rex never mentioned your first name.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Watson nodded. ‘I don’t think he knows I have one. As your receptionist will have mentioned, we’re trying to find Rex.’

  ‘Lovely,’ muttered Katrina to herself. She busied herself with the desk paperwork. ‘It’s nice that we’re on first name terms with Charlotte’s murderer.’

  ‘We’re all trying to find him,’ said McNulty. He led them away from the girl and poured himself a water from the dispenser. ‘Some people seem to have already found him guilty.’

  ‘Natural, I suppose,’ said Quist. ‘Considering.’

  McNulty nodded. ‘No one has heard from him, and the police say his phone isn’t just turned off. It’s been deactivated, which means they can’t track him.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Quist raised an eyebrow. ‘As I say, it’s natural that some would view such things as a sign of guilt.’

  ‘Some?’ repeated McNulty. ‘But not you?’

  ‘I know him well. He isn’t a murderer.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. I’ve known Rex since he was a kid. He was here to finalise a housing deal between myself and Grant Homes. I’m a good friend of his father and an even better friend of his Uncle Rupert. We hunt together.’

  ‘Rex told me,’ said Quist. Apparently, McNulty and Uncle Rupert were huge advocators of reintroducing wolves and bears into the wilder areas of Scotland. Mostly so they could shoot them.

  ‘How long has he been missing now?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Since yesterday morning,’ said McNulty. ‘Sometime between eight-thirty and ten. He was booked on a return flight to London at eleven, but never turned up for it.’

  ‘The police have state-of-the-art technology,’ said Quist. ‘Yet they’re unable to locate him with the CCTV cameras everywhere, their facial recognition software and credit card alerts? Your receptionist told us he didn’t leave the hotel through the lobby.’

  ‘No, the police checked the reception camera footage. They checked all the footage.’

  Quist frowned. ‘So presumably he used a staff or fire exit. I wonder why? I noticed the street cameras all around the hotel. It would be practically impossible to leave the vicinity without being filmed.’

  ‘Well, he somehow managed it.’ McNulty looked around the reception. ‘We need to speak privately and people are always in and out of my office. Do you two smoke by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Watson rolled his eyes. ‘But the boss here has been known to have the occasional one or two.’

  ‘I could certainly use one. Come this way.’ McNulty led them to the elevator. ‘It’s stupid, I know, but I’m blaming myself for Charlotte’s death. Rex flew up from London and I suggested that, rather than rent a car or use taxis, my assistant could ferry him around. Charlotte spent Tuesday afternoon with Rex and then apparently spent the night with him at the hotel.’ The lift doors opened and, ushering them in, he pressed Roof.

  Quist sighed. ‘As you say, you can’t blame yourself for giving Charlotte the job. Only one person is responsible for this and that’s the killer. I asked your girl Katrina, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her? Perhaps a jealous boyfriend who found out she’d slept with Rex, or...’

  ‘Well, she was gay, but no, there was no one permanent in her life at the moment. I’ve been racking my brains to help the police, but I can’t think of any reason for this.’

  ‘I can’t understand why Rex would run,’ said Watson.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ said McNulty. ‘Fleeing the murder scene has made him very much a person of interest, as the police like to say.’ The elevator opened into a glass rooftop structure and he led them out through a revolving door onto a terrace. ‘Charlotte was fine when she rang me from his hotel at eight-thirty and the cleaning staff discovered her dead at the guest check-out time of ten o’clock. Rex was nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Watson. ‘If Charlotte was gay, why was she spending the night with Rex?’

  ‘They were...’ McNulty groped for the correct word. ‘Partying, I believe is the modern term. Rex and Charlotte ran into two young women at a club and took them back to the hotel. These girls left around eight-thirty and they were the last people to see him.’

  ‘Two?’ gasped Watson. ‘Ligeia...’

  ‘Yes, the singer and her friend. The police have interviewed them, but they were no help. They say Charlotte was alive and Rex was acting quite normally when they left, with no sign of any...’

  ‘Three girls?’ Watson almost fainted. ‘Rex had sex with Ligeia and two other girls?’

  McNulty smiled at the dazed teenager. ‘No one can hear us out here,’ he said, leaning on the handrail that ran around the edge of the roof. ‘From what Rex has told me about you two, I believe I can trust you not to repeat anything I tell you?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Quist, taking out his cigarettes. ‘You can tell us anything.’

  Watson nodded in agreement. Still stunned, he peered over the handrail at the International Conference Centre just along the way and the bustle of traffic on Morrison Street below. This murder was one thing, but Rex had been in a threesome with Ligeia. A foursome, if there was such a word.

  ‘So he’s t
heir prime suspect?’ said Quist, handing a cigarette to McNulty and taking one himself. ‘The police will believe these girls left, then Rex killed Charlotte for some unexplained reason, panicked and ran.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said McNulty. ‘My brother is a high-ranking officer in the Edinburgh police. He’s part of my Masonic lodge and a good grouse shooter. Through his police Masonic connections, he assisted Rex with that er... unpleasantness last Christmas. The murders and the fire and everything. You two were involved and helped him too, didn’t you?

  ‘We did indeed.’ Quist had helped by biting the dying man, but prudently decided against mentioning this. ‘Ah, the good old Masons.’

  ‘The thing is, the police are looking for Rex because they’re sure he’s involved, but they’re not fully convinced he killed Charlotte.’

  Quist lit the two cigarettes and narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘This goes no further.’

  ‘It won’t, I assure you.’

  ‘Have you heard of Alistair Ramson?’

  ‘You mean the psychopath?’ asked Quist, puzzled. ‘The tabloids called him the Hounslow Ripper.’

  McNulty nodded. ‘He killed at least four people and fled the country last year. They caught him in France two months ago. The thing is, Ramson always slashed a letter R into the chests of his victims with some weapon they never found. They know it’s a thin stiletto blade made of titanium.’

  ‘Wait a moment...’ Quist raised his eyebrows. ‘Am I correct in assuming Charlotte Michie had the R on her chest.’

  ‘Yes, and her puncture wound was identical. Forensics rushed the analysis through and there were microscopic traces of titanium present. They also found a blood spray in the room consistent with Ramson’s other killings. They believe he wipes the blade clean in a particular way which leaves the pattern. Like the letter R, they view it as a signature.’