Authors: Alex Gray
Solly shrugged. He obviously had a lot to learn about the classical music world from the other side of the podium.
His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter bringing their supper and for the next hour Poliakovski refused to give himself up to anything other than the delights of the table. The Conductor was an excellent dinner companion, regaling Solly with anecdotes from his travels, many of which centred upon the gourmet high spots of Europe. He had seen all the major capitals of the world, apparently, and talked animatedly of his times in the Far East.
‘The Japanese are like us Russians. They take their music seriously. It is a question of nurture, Doctor,’ he said, raising a glass to his lips. As Solly inclined his head Poliakovski elaborated. ‘They take a child with genius and
they protect him as they would an opening flower. I do not see so much of this here,’ he added, wiping his mouth with the white linen napkin. The psychologist saw something flare in the Russian’s eyes. That was good, he thought, to be passionate about the educational side of music. He could understand more than ever why Poliakovski commanded such respect.
‘Did George Millar share your views?’ he asked.
‘The Leader? How would I know? I scarcely spoke two words to the man.’ Poliakovski’s fingers closed on a piece of tablet and Solly watched as he popped it into his mouth and smiled. ‘Ah, these sweetmeats. They know how to make them, yes?’ The Conductor leant back, his voice deliberately raised to attract a waiter passing them by.
‘I’ll fetch some more, sir?’
‘Ah, good fellow,’ Poliakovski beamed as the waiter set off again. ‘You bring me to a splendid restaurant, Doctor. I thank you,’ Poliakovski lifted his glass in salute and drained the last of his Beaume de Venise.
Solly nodded, wondering just what the City of Glasgow Orchestra’s accountant would make of the Russian’s bed-and-board expenses.
Solomon glanced towards the main restaurant area as the doorman collected their coats. A melody from the Thirties wafted across the laughing heads seated around the darkened bar, reminding him of the bygone era that was encapsulated in this Art Deco jewel. For a moment he listened and watched, thinking how little humankind really changed from one age to the next. There would always be intrigues, romance and desire. It simply came in different packaging these days.
Solly grinned as he and Poliakovski stepped out into the night. There, as if to confirm his thoughts, a huddle of Goths stood around Royal Exchange Square swinging pumpkin lanterns. He laughed softly, causing his companion to follow his gaze. The Conductor raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated shrug.
‘They dress up to Trick or Treat?’
‘You know about Hallowe’en, then?’
‘Of course. Remember how well travelled I am, my friend. I see this often. Especially in the United States.’
‘Do they have Goths there too, then?’
Poliakovski frowned. ‘Goths?’
‘They’re not dressed up for Hallowe’en tonight. That’s how they always look,’ Solly laughed softly, stopping to regard the group more closely.
It was true. The boys and girls were clad in their usual blacks and reds, some of the girls with banded stockings, hair dyed black or shades of purple, variously spiked.
The studded dog collars were almost a ubiquitous element of their dress, another feature that caused Solly to smile. The psychology of group dress fascinated him. Here were youths who sought some individuality away from what they saw, no doubt, as the strictures of school uniform. Yet they had created such uniformity without realising it: that was what was so amazing, their lack of self-perception. Several of the girls carried a pumpkin lantern, jagged teeth and eyes hacked from the orange skin. old traditions died hard, though it had been smelly turnips singed by old bits of candle ends when he had been a boy. Their eyes shone with the same excitement, though. Some things never changed.
‘Children dressing up,’ he murmured to himself.
Poliakovski shot him a puzzled look then walked away from the scene, leaving Solomon no option but to follow his dinner companion through the stone archways. It was only a short walk from Cafe Rogano to Lang’s Hotel where Poliakovski was staying and so the two men set off along Buchanan Street. Glasgow Royal Concert Hall loomed large on the horizon, its video screen advertising events in neon pink and blue.
It was like a rock, solid and safe against the city’s swirling currents; people were out in party mood tonight, groups of revellers laughing after the office night out, their faces shining in the myriad lights spangling the trees that lined the street.
Solly thought about Derek Quentin-Jones and Edith Millar. How much more difficult it was to cope with grief in such a carnival atmosphere. And who else within the orchestra might still be grieving? That was something he might just try to find out.
Flynn sat up in bed slowly, the neck brace moving his head forward. He’d been asleep since lunchtime and the muscles across his shoulders still ached. Even to see out of the window Flynn had to negotiate his whole upper body sideways. He looked out at a grey November sky heavy with the threat of more snow. No change there, then. There was a television in one corner of his room angled just so that the patient could watch comfortably without straining to see. They’d been thoughtful about setting things like that up here, Flynn realised. Patients in the spinal injuries unit couldn’t complain about the quality of service. No indeed. Flynn had been cheered to find the hospital telly had Sky TV and he could flick all the channels using the remote that nice wee nurse had left on his locker.
Between the nurses all fussing over him and the meals that appeared at regular intervals, he was almost glad he’d run in front of that van. The driver had even been in to see him. He’d been dead apologetic and all that but Flynn
had told him it was no sweat. He’d been entirely to blame. The guy had looked pretty relieved and they’d ended up chatting about the football. He’d left Flynn a newspaper and a bag of jam doughnuts. When he’d gone, Flynn had picked up the paper, greedy for any news that might have been written by Jimmy Greer.
The headlines had made him sink back into his pillows. Another violinist murdered? What the hell was going on in there? Flynn tried to straighten up then winced as the pain shot through his head. Even yawning was fraught with difficulty. Since his accident he’d slept fitfully, the nights one long dreary darkness only relieved by the night staff coming in to check his temperature and blood pressure.
Still, it was nearly Visiting Time again. Flynn hadn’t been surprised to see Raincoat coming in that first evening. He’d called in twice since then, bringing sweets and magazines. The police officer’s concern made Flynn wonder just how badly injured he was. What were they telling Raincoat that they hadn’t told their patient? Or was it just Detective Sergeant Wilson’s conscience bothering him?
The door to Flynn’s single room was ajar and he could hear several pairs of footsteps coming along the corridor with a chatter of voices that he’d learnt to associate with Visiting Time. Half of him wanted to see a visitor sliding through the door and half wanted peace to watch the telly. He flicked a switch and Bart Simpson appeared resplendent in yellow and blue cartoon colours. Flynn settled back into the pillows, the neck brace propping his head upright.
He was giggling at some self-deprecating remark of Homer’s when Lorimer walked into the room.
Flynn’s eyes flicked across at his visitor then focused on the TV screen once more.
‘Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.’
‘Naw, you’re no’,’ Flynn shifted his gaze towards the tall man who had drawn a plastic chair over to his bedside. He met Lorimer’s look, recognising the blue eyes that were regarding him with interest.
‘How’re you feeling?’
Lacking the ability to shrug a cool, indifferent shoulder, Flynn said, ‘A’right. S’pose.’
‘They looking after you OK?’
‘Aye,’ Flynn grinned suddenly. ‘Cannae complain. Nice bed, food when I want it. A’ the comforts of hame, right?’
‘I was wanting to ask you about that, Flynn. About home. Where exactly is it you come from? Originally, I mean.’
The smile died on the boy’s face. ‘Ach. Did I no’ tell yer other man? A Barnardo’s boy, that’s whit I wis. There’s nae originally aboot it.’
‘Left on somebody’s doorstep?’ Lorimer suggested with the ghost of a smile.
‘Aye, somethin’ like that. Look, gonnae jist leave it, eh? Ah havenae got a hame. Never had. There’s naebody waiting tae see me when I get oot o’ here.’
‘OK. Point taken. Anyway, I saw your surgeon on my way in. He says he’s very pleased with you. Says he expects you to make a full recovery. He told me the temporary paralysis was caused by shock to the spine. Maybe they’ll shift you into a different ward if they get short of beds.’
‘Oh, aye,’ Flynn replied, his eyes on the
Simpsons
but his heart beating that wee bit faster. ‘Tell you when I’m
for the heave, did he?’ the boy asked, the question almost sticking in his throat.
‘Oh, a couple of weeks, he thinks. The fractures are mending nicely.’ Lorimer hesitated. Despite the Surgeon’s positive report, Flynn still looked a mess, the bruises yellowing across his face. ‘Depends if you’ve anywhere to go.’
The voices of Homer and Bart filled the room but Lorimer’s words seemed louder than the TV programme. Flynn continued to look towards the screen, deliberately ignoring this bearer of bad tidings. Sure, it was nice to know he’d be fit and all, but fit for what? And in this weather?
The detective cleared his throat. ‘Do you have anywhere you could stay? A friend’s place, maybe? Somewhere you’d be properly looked after?’
Flynn thought about Allan Seaton for a brief moment then dismissed the idea. Seaton’s pad was always loupin’ with druggies and nutters. He’d never get a minute’s peace. Flynn suddenly realised how vulnerable he felt. This injury to his neck had damaged more than flesh and bone; he’d lost his nerve under that white van.
‘Naw. There’s nowhere,’ he muttered.
Lorimer had suspected as much from his discussions with the social work department connected to the hospital. He’d spent time thinking over how to say what he wanted to say to this boy, wondering how he would react.
‘There’s a spare room at my place,’ Lorimer told him.
Flynn’s eyes swivelled round, trying to engage with Lorimer’s. Their expression held more doubt than surprise.
‘Ye serious?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘There’s just me at home right now. My wife’s working abroad for a while. We’ve got a spare room doing nothing. You could stay for a few weeks if you liked. How about it?’
Flynn turned back towards the television screen, obviously considering the detective’s offer. When he grinned, Lorimer cocked his head to one side, curious to know what the boy’s answer would be.
‘Aye, why no. Hiv ye got Sky TV?’
‘You’ve done what?’ Alistair Wilson slammed down his half empty coffee cup on Lorimer’s desk.
‘I’ve asked him to stay at my place.’
‘And did you clear this with Maggie?’
As soon as the words were out, Wilson wished them back. It was none of his business what Maggie Lorimer thought, after all.
‘No,’ his boss replied shortly, ‘I didn’t. Anyway, it’s just until the boy has somewhere else to go. The officer at the Hamish Allan Centre says they might be able to sort out a furnished flat for him. I’m sure he’ll be fixed up by Christmas. It’s still over a month away.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘You could be setting yourself up for a whole load of trouble.’
‘I don’t think so. He’s still pretty weak. He needs a bit of time and anyway...’ Lorimer tailed off. How could he explain the unspoken feeling of trust that had sprung up between himself and this street kid? Flynn had told them about his relationship with George Millar. He’d made it clear that he’d only been the drug courier, nothing more. There would be no charges brought against the boy, though. Lorimer had assured him of that. He was simply
helping the police with their enquiries. He wasn’t willing to name sources, yet, and Lorimer hadn’t expected him to grass up any of his mates.
But he had hinted that he could tell Lorimer something else about the late Leader of The City of Glasgow orchestra. Maybe, just maybe, he knew something that could lead him to the missing violin.
‘D’you expect him to sing for his supper, then? Is that your game?’ Wilson’s tone was cynical, breaking Lorimer’s train of thought.
Lorimer ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, I know this is unusual. And yes, perhaps he will tell me more, but that’s not the real reason I offered him a place to stay.’
Wilson looked troubled for a moment. Lorimer wasn’t known for being soft hearted but he suspected there was a genuine sense of caring behind the man’s decision to take the boy into his home.
‘There but for the Grace of God …?’ ‘Something like that,’ Lorimer mumbled.
‘I still think you’re mad,’ Wilson told him. ‘But it takes all sorts,’ he shrugged, getting up and heading for the door.
‘Oh,’ he added, turning back for a moment, ‘Betty’s bound to tell me that you’re a star. God knows if Maggie will agree, though.’ He was out of the door before Lorimer could reply.
The Chief Inspector swivelled his chair round towards the window. What Wilson had said was probably true. It was a bit mad to take in a stray like Flynn without even telling Maggie what he’d done. But was that part of the reason he’d invited the boy?
Was he trying to prove that the house was his home and his alone? Was it the action of a man who secretly believed
his wife would never return? Was he trying to tell himself that he could do what the hell he liked? Lorimer shook his head as if trying to clear away all this introspection. Psychobabble was for the likes of Solomon Brightman.
‘No he’s no’,’ Sadie Dunlop protested. ‘He’s as normal as you an’ me!’
‘Well, what’s he doin’ takin’ a wee lad into his hame, then? Looks guy fishy tae me.’
‘Aye, well a lot of things look fishy tae you, Martha McKinlay. Ah’m telling ye, Lorimer’s straight.’
‘Aye, well, it’s jist whit they’re all sayin’, know what I mean? Mebbe that’s why the wife up and left, eh?’ The cleaner finished rubbing down the glass shelving and dropped the paper towel into the waste bucket. The snap as she removed her rubber gloves seemed to reinforce her opinion.
Sadie Dunlop seethed as she watched the other woman waddle through to the kitchen. What a thing to suggest about Lorimer! OK he was on his own while that daft wife of his was off gallivanting in America but that was no reason to suggest that he had turned into a shirt lifter. Heaven sakes, the very idea was ridiculous! It was all the fault of the wee man who’d got himself killed in the Concert Hall. Now he’d been a real poofter, Sadie told herself and not the only one in the band, from what she’d heard. That was what all this was about, all this investigation into a homosexual murder. Sadie gritted her teeth. Once an idea had taken hold, though, it was hard to convince folk of its validity. Despite the current trend to recruit gay officers into the force, Lorimer would be in for a less than charitable time in the run up to Christmas if gossips like Martha had their way.