Authors: Alex Gray
‘Aw, ma heid,’ Flynn moaned, his hands investigating the recent scar. He did not resist as Lorimer’s fingers ran lightly across his scalp.
‘It’s OK. No apparent damage. But we’ll get you checked out just the same.’
‘Ah feel sick,’ Flynn swayed suddenly and turned away, grasping the boot of the car for support. Lorimer flinched as the boy’s breakfast exploded over the red paintwork.
‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me all about it,’ he said gently, helping Flynn to straighten up.
‘Where’s …?’ Flynn’s question was answered as his gaze fell upon Allan Seaton and a fellow he knew only as Mick. They were being pushed into the back of a police car, their hands well and truly cuffed behind them.
‘Just how did you know where he was?’ Lorimer asked, his face grim.
Allan Seaton shrugged, ‘The big man, big Carl, he told us,’ he replied, avoiding Lorimer’s angry stare.
The policeman sat back. How the hell had Carl Bekaert known his home address? Or that Flynn had been staying there?
‘What’re your dealings with Bekaert?’ Lorimer asked, silently adding, as if I didn’t know.
Seaton shrugged again. ‘Ach, he was a pal, y’know. We met up from time to time.’
‘Listen to classical music together, did you, Mr Seaton?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm even made his detective sergeant wince.
‘Aye, well,’ Seaton’s attempt at a grin failed as his eyes met Lorimer’s.
‘You were his supplier, son. We have this on good authority so don’t give us any of your nonsense.’
‘Flynn tell you this, did he?’ Seaton sneered suddenly.
‘Not until you cracked him over the head in my kitchen,’ Lorimer thumped the desk between them. Seaton’s expression changed, his sudden belligerence gone.
‘Didnae mean tae hurt the boy, know what I mean?’ he whined. ‘Should’a known he was a’right. A misjudgement of character on my part,’ he’d added, trying to retrieve the image of the big man he thought he was.
‘Right then, let’s just see what other misjudgements of character you’ve made, shall we? Let’s start with the late George Millar.’
‘Aw, c’mon, man, that wis nothing tae do wi’ me! Ah’m not intae killin’ folk.’
‘Just whacking them over the head and driving them off in rolled up carpets?’
‘We just wanted to scare Flynn, that was all,’ he muttered.
‘Your pal, Michael O’Hagan, might have a different version of that story,’ Lorimer warned him.
‘No he’ll no’,’ Seaton said shortly. ‘I told him we were jist puttin’ the frighteners on the boy. Wanted to know what he’d been sayin’ tae youse.’
‘George Millar,’ Lorimer began again. ‘What was his involvement with you?’
Seaton sighed. ‘OK. He wis after coke. I supplied it tae him through Flynn.’
‘How did Flynn come to know Millar in the first place?’
Seaton shrugged. ‘Met him in the street outside the Concert Hall. Flynn was high and old Georgie asked him where he could score. Put him onto me. Then the big Danish guy gets in touch, becomes a regular customer.’
‘And the stolen instruments?’
‘Dunno,’ Seaton muttered.
For the second time the table between them shook as Lorimer’s fist came crashing down upon it.
‘Listen to me, Seaton. This is a murder investigation. Get it? Try to hide one little thing about George Millar and you might find yourself charged with perverting the course of justice!’
Allan Seaton flinched, his hands flying up as if to ward off imaginary blows.
‘OK, OK! Millar was just part of an organisation. He’d pick up an instrument here and there when the Orchestra were out of the country. Like on tour, see? There was someone he knew in Europe who supplied him with the stuff. He’d bring them back and sell them on here.’
‘How did you find this out?’
Seaton laughed. ‘Old George had a big mouth. Had a few sessions at my place, didn’t he?’ The dealer licked his lips nervously. ‘Told me all about his business. Wanted to know if I could do him a favour from time to time.’
‘What sort of favour?’
Seaton’s eyes shifted from one policeman to the other. ‘Like puttin’ pressure on a couple of guys when their payments were late, know whit ah mean?’
‘George Millar used you and O’Hagan as his heavies?’ Lorimer’s eyes widened in disbelief.
‘Aye, well no’ very often. Word gets round fast when someone won’t tolerate bein’ messed around.’
‘And who exactly were the recipients of your persuasive techniques?’ asked Lorimer.
‘Eh?’
‘Who did you duff up?’ DS Wilson explained, seeing the blank look appear in the dealer’s eyes.
Seaton nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘A wee nyaff called Ruskin and another yin called Karger. They’re no’ in the Orchestra onymair, by the way,’ he added. ‘Anyway, this wid be a coupla’ years ago.’
Lorimer saw in his mind’s eye a younger Joseph Alexander Flynn. He couldn’t have been much more than fifteen when he’d first met George Millar. The streets with their characters like Seaton had shaped the boy into becoming the dealer’s go-between. Yet something had happened to the boy these past few weeks. It was a strange sort of Providence that had thrust him into the path of that van in Mitchell Street. Lorimer would swear that Flynn would never end up now like the man across the interview desk.
Seaton’s statement had made interesting reading. Not only had Bekaert and Millar been supplied cocaine by the Glasgow dealer, George Millar had been one small part of an international ring, using the Orchestra’s tour programmes as a cover. Lorimer hoped that the Austrian Police would benefit from another known link in what was undoubtedly a complex chain. The question now was, Lorimer told himself as he approached the Royal Concert Hall, whether he wanted to bring Carl Bekaert in for questioning just yet.
The Orchestra were at that moment rehearsing for the evening’s performance. Lorimer had to remind himself that this was a murder investigation he was conducting. Taking him away to the station now might alert the killer. Solly was convinced that the Dane was not their man and somehow Lorimer’s instinct told him to trust Solly’s judgement. No irony in his soul, the psychologist had
said.
Well, somebody’s dark soul was full of irony and it was up to him to find out who that somebody was. The DNA testing would be undertaken straight after the concert, each member of the Orchestra and Chorus being given little warning of the impending tests. He didn’t want anyone slipping through that particular net.
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.
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 twitching 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&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.