Shadows of Sounds (17 page)

‘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.

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 Master 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?’

Maurice Drummond sat up straight and frowned, hand to his chin. ‘I’m not sure I can recall, Chief Inspector. There was nothing really memorable about the performance. Karen played the Albinoni beautifully and my singers were in top form. I do remember watching Poliakovski, though, because I’d never seen him conduct our Chorus before.’

‘He’s not a man for Choral music, then?’

‘On the contrary, he’s renowned for his expertise with singers,’ Maurice replied dryly.

Lorimer cocked his head. Was there something underlying the man’s words?

‘And were you satisfied he treated your Chorus well?’

Maurice Drummond hesitated before answering. ‘They were all pleased with their performance. I think they enjoyed having him conduct them on the evening.’

‘But not at the rehearsal?’

‘You heard, then?’ Maurice looked up as Lorimer gave a nod. ‘He gave them an absolute bollocking in the afternoon. Some of my sopranos were in tears.’

‘Oh? What exactly was the cause of the Maestro’s temper?’

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Drummond looked at Lorimer accusingly.

‘Only that the rehearsal had been a bit fraught. Mr Phillips didn’t go into any details,’ Lorimer replied.

Drummond gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘The man’s a monster. All charm when it suits him, fawning over the ladies of the front row then screaming abuse at them if he thinks they’re not giving of their best.’

‘And were they?’

Drummond scowled. ‘Of course. But it was a rehearsal. I always tell my singers to save something for the actual night. I won’t have their voices wrecked just because some Russian Bear wants a sustained top C over and over again.’

‘But he was good with them on the night?’

‘Had them eating out of his hand. You should have heard them afterwards, positively cooing.’

‘So the afternoon rehearsal was put behind them?’

Drummond nodded.

‘You were in the audience before the concert began, that’s correct?’

‘Yes. Once the Chorus are on stage I make my way upstairs to the back of the Circle. Somewhere I can see all that’s going on,’ he smiled wryly.

‘There was nothing about the performance, maybe by one of the musicians, that you found unusual, perhaps?’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘An extra nervousness. Maybe caused by the Maestro’s earlier temper?’

‘Not that I recall. The band was fine. No jitters from any of them. But they’re all pros. Hysterical conductors are like water off a duck’s back to that lot.’

‘And no outstanding performers among them?’

‘Karen, of course. But I’ve already mentioned her. No. I can’t think that there was anything else,’ Drummond looked towards the carpet and bit his fingernail as if trying
to run the concert through again in his mind’s eye.

As he closed the door on the two policemen, Maurice’s heart was beating loudly. Had they seen his hesitation? Would they have figured out that he was lying to them? And what on earth did they think an individual player’s performance had to do with George’s murder?

Maurice sank into an armchair. Had his concern for the Chorus deflected attention from the other aspects of the performance? He hoped so.

There was no way C. Maurice Drummond wanted his name linked to a particular member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra, someone who had held his undivided attention for the whole performance; especially during a murder investigation.

Superintendent Mark Mitchison put his hand to his stomach. The pain was worse than ever today, a gnawing that began in his gut and travelled all the way upwards like broken glass. Stress, the doctor had said. He’d thought it was just acid reflux at first and had prescribed the usual pills but they hadn’t worked.

Another spasm made him groan and lean over, clutching his stomach, just as he heard a knock on the door.

‘Sir!’ WPC Irvine crossed the room in double quick time. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as Mitchison tried to straighten up.

The policewoman saw the handsome face change colour from white to grey and watched, mesmerised as the man stumbled then fell forward, one hand clutched tightly to his middle.

‘D’ye hear the latest? Mitchison’s been signed off on the sick,’ Martha McKinlay wagged her head at Sadie as the two women finished drying the formica tabletops in the
staff canteen.

‘Aye, well, that’ll please some of them. He’s no’ that well liked, is he?’

‘Och, Sadie, that’s terrible. A’ him that ill.’

‘Why? Whit’s wrang wi’ him?’

‘Collapsed in his office. Someone said it might be a heart attack,’ Martha’s voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘Hmph. Well, we’ll see. Who’ll be taking over from him? Someone from outside again?’

‘Well, rumour has it that Lorimer’s been asked to be acting Super.’

‘That’ll no please him. He’s up to his neck in this Concert Hall case. He’ll no’ want tae gie’ that up.’

‘There’s no question of you being taken off this case,’ the Assistant Chief Constable told Lorimer. ‘You’ll still be the investigating officer as far as we’re concerned. But your time will be split between the two jobs, of course. Superintendent Mitchison has a pretty full diary,’ she frowned.

Lorimer watched the woman on the opposite side of the desk. She was older than him by about ten years, her fair hair short and neat, her face made up discreetly. Yes, Joyce Rogers was still a feminine woman despite all her experience in the Force. Some of the women became hardened after a while, the dark underside of police work showing on their faces. Had she been instrumental in Mitchison’s appointment in the first place, he wondered? If so, then this was the woman who’d rejected Lorimer himself for the job. He’d never know, and that was just as well.

‘How long is the Superintendent expected to be off?’ he asked mildly.

Joyce Rogers smiled thinly. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s suffering from stress and will be off until at least the end of the year. His doctor has told him to take a complete break and our own medical man has endorsed that.’

Lorimer nodded. That made sense. None of them would take time off willingly. So. The police doctor had had the last say. Mitchison must have gone off under protest, then. Lorimer wasn’t sorry. The man had been acting strangely for weeks now, behaviour that could be explained by his present illness.

‘He’s not the first senior officer to have succumbed to stress and he won’t be the last,’ Joyce Rogers looked Lorimer directly in the eye. ‘You’ve got your work cut out in the next few weeks, Chief Inspector, but that is no reason not to take the leave you’d planned.’ The Assistant Constable’s eyes twinkled. ‘We can’t have all our senior officers stretched to the limit. And I suppose Mrs Lorimer would be very put out if you didn’t arrive for Christmas?’

‘Indeed,’ Lorimer agreed, wondering just how much this lady knew about his domestic arrangements. Maggie would be more than disappointed. It would drive another huge wedge between them if he were to fail her this time. ‘Who’ll cover since Superintendent Mitchison won’t be back from sick leave before Christmas, ma’am?’

‘We’ve taken care of that, Lorimer.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Just see if you can shed some of Superintendent Mitchison’s workload in the meantime, eh? Spare a few
trees.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows in surprise. Word about Mitchison’s paper trails had reached the highest levels, had it? ‘Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be glad to oblige.’

‘And one more thing, Chief Inspector. We would appreciate a result on the Concert Hall case. Not that I’m putting you under any pressure, you understand …’

‘Bill, that’s great!’ Maggie enthused. ‘But will you still be able to come out?’ Lorimer could hear the sudden quiver in her voice. The telephone had been serving him well these past weeks as a means of telling him just how Maggie was feeling. He was used to the nuances of the human voice. It was one of those skills that had grown with the job.

‘Of course we will,’ he assured her. ‘The Assistant Chief Constable herself assured me of that.’

‘Joyce Rogers?’

‘The same.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then. I like her. This can only do your career some good. After all, acting Super is just a step away from being appointed somewhere else, isn’t it?’

Lorimer shrugged. It wasn’t something he’d considered until now. Leaving the Division and all his team behind wasn’t a thought he particularly relished. And did he really want to be bothered with all these Superintendents’ meetings that seemed to be par for the course?

‘Maybe I’m happy just as I am,’ he told his wife at last. There was a silence that he took for her disapproval. ‘Catching criminals,’ he added at last. ‘Talking of which I must get some sleep. There are a hundred and one things I want to delete from Mitchison’s diary tomorrow. The Concert Hall case has gone quiet on me for now.’

‘Just as well.’

‘Hm,’ Lorimer sounded at odds with Maggie’s remark. He’d rather have a solution to these two murders any day than a promotion, no matter how temporary it was.