Authors: Alex Gray
A sudden impulse made her dart across the room. Her fingers dialled the digits she needed and she listened as the number rang out. At the sound of his voice she paused.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘you won’t have to worry about your darling boy any more, will you?’
The blue lights of Buchanan Street lent an eerie glow to the hill that sloped down from the steps of the Concert Hall all the way down to Saint Enoch’s Square. Oblivious to the drama above them, a crowd of football supporters crossed the pedestrian area on their way from Queen Street Station. Their team had beaten Hibs and the post-match jollies that had begun in the inter city shuttle were continuing in raucous celebration.
Flynn sat on the steps outside the Concert Hall cowering into his parka. They were far enough away to leave him in peace. Sometimes he’d take the risk of touting for loose change from the football crowds. They were unpredictable in their response. Flynn knew he could be the butt of abuse from the more belligerent of the fans; sometimes, though, a handful of coins would be spilt into his empty plastic cup. It didn’t even depend on whether they’d won or not. Tonight Flynn didn’t feel like taking the risk. He watched them in the distance as they disappeared down the stairs of the Underground, wondering if they had ignored the
overtures of the
Big Issue
seller outside.
Flynn turned to look longingly at the main doors. They were late coming out tonight. Must have been a good show, with lots of encores keeping the punters in their seats, he told himself hopefully.
Maybe they’d be in a generous mood and he’d have enough dosh to score later on? One of Seaton’s mates had been around earlier, tempting him with talk of some good gear. It wasn’t too cold tonight and he’d rather spend the next few hours getting smashed than cowering into the dubious comfort of a narrow bed in the hostel.
His eyes searched the glass panels that flanked the beech wood doors. He could make out dim shapes of people moving. That was good. They’d be opening the doors any minute now. Flynn stood up, his body aching from sitting on the stone steps. Suddenly he stiffened. one of the shapes beyond the door was only too familiar; its chequered cap and dark suit showing the presence of the Busies. Flynn put one foot onto the lower step then hesitated. It could be anything, really. Maybe he’d wait and see what was up when the punters streamed out.
The doors swung open to reveal two officers and a lady in steward’s uniform. Flynn shrank into the shadows, still watching, still uncertain of his next move. But it was too late. Even as he tried to camouflage himself against the grey walls he saw a man in a raincoat come between the officers and look his way. The man’s beckoning finger was impossible to ignore and so Flynn moved grudgingly into the light.
‘Been here long, lad?’ Raincoat asked him.
Flynn shrugged. Something was up. Two uniforms and now a plain clothes cop. He cast a wary eye towards the
detective. It wasn’t anyone he recognised.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ the question held a note of steel. This one meant business. To mess him around might be more bother than it was worth. All the same, they pissed him off, did the Busies.
‘It’s a don’t know. As in I don’t know ’cos I don’t have a watch,’ Flynn replied.
The man grabbed his arm suddenly making Flynn wince.
‘Look, pal, I haven’t got time for wisecracks. You can answer my questions here or I can send you down to the station. It’s up to you.’
Flynn’s arm was released but Raincoat’s face told him that this was serious. His eyes flicked past the detective to the foyer where he could see people beginning to make their way towards the entrance.
‘Aye. well Ah’ve bin here since they all went in, y’know. Like before the show began.’ Flynn looked desperately at the punters leaving the Concert Hall. This cop was getting in the way of his bread and butter, not to mention the bit of Afghan he’d been fantasising about all evening.
He sensed rather than saw a change in the cop’s attitude.
‘That right, eh? Well, well. Maybe you and me should take a wee daunder inside and talk about just how you spent your evening, son?’
Shit! Someone had seen Seaton’s mate talking with him earlier on. The wee bastard must’ve got bust. Flynn made to do a runner but that vice-like grip was on his arm again and he found himself being led into the bright lights of the Concert Hall. Curious eyes turned their way as the cop led the dishevelled youth across the foyer and into the interior
of the Hall itself.
Flynn had long been desperate to see beyond the doors of his patch but it wouldn’t do to let the Busy notice his eyes roaming around like an over-eager schoolboy. He tried at first to act as if he couldn’t give a toss what it looked like, concentrating his attention on the pattern of the carpet as he followed the cop, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into this time.
It was no use. Flynn’s eyes were drawn towards the walls as naturally as a moth to the light. He gazed at the huge pictures as he passed them. what the heck was that one? He wondered, marvelling at a painting of some woman with a giant sticking plaster under her mouth. Flynn sniggered to himself. Maybe it was a symbolic way of keeping folk quiet. He knew all about that, didn’t he? They passed a large, brightly coloured picture next and then he slowed down, recognising the familiar style in the frame beyond. It was a Howson. The belligerent eyes of the fighter made Flynn take a step sideways, but he still gazed. This picture was great but the one of the big drums was his favourite. You could near enough hear the music of an orange walk, flutes, an’ all. He’d seen other Howsons in the Gallery of Modern Art. It didn’t cost anything to look at stuff in Glasgow and Flynn liked to look.
‘In here,’ the Raincoat was ushering him around into a sort of corridor with a Bar at one end where Flynn saw crowds of folk queuing up against the wall. were they getting their money back or something?
‘Right, you, over here,’ Raincoat directed Flynn to a corner in the Bar area where there were little round tables and plastic chairs arranged in groups as if people had been sitting having a drink sometime earlier. Flynn suddenly
felt like a drink himself.
‘Any chancy a cuppa tea?’ he asked with a nervous lick of his lips.
‘Aye, why not. Milk and sugar?’ Now that he’d got him in here, Raincoat had obviously decided to be his pal. Flynn wasn’t sure if he preferred this to the previous hard-faced version.
‘Aye,’ he replied, watching Raincoat’s every move as the man spoke to a wee lassie behind the counter.
It was only a couple of steps away and Flynn thought about doing a runner. But by the time he’d considered it, Raincoat was back, sitting opposite and looking at him with some interest. Was this about Seaton, after all? Flynn glanced at the lines of people edging towards a table where there were uniformed Busies taking down notes. No, he decided, this wasn’t about him and Allan Seaton. This was something a lot bigger.
‘Use this pitch often, son?’ the Busy enquired, passing a teacup over to Flynn.
‘Aye. An’ they lot in here know me as well so you can jist ask them if you like,’ Flynn answered. He took a slurp of the hot tea, one eye on Raincoat.
‘I will,’ he said, then seemed to lose interest in Flynn, letting his gaze wander over the folk lined up beyond the tea bar. Flynn followed his gaze. Raincoat knew what was up, all right, but what had it to do with him?
‘Has the band cancelled, then? Is that it?’ Flynn asked, drawing Raincoat’s eyes back to his own.
‘Something a bit more serious than that,’ Raincoat answered. ‘Someone got hurt tonight,’ he paused for effect, staring at Flynn as if trying to see how he’d react to this titbit of information. ‘We’re here to find out how
it happened.’
Flynn shivered, despite the heat from the cup clutched in both his hands. There was a tone of menace in the Busy’s voice that he didn’t like at all.
The detective took out a notebook and pen from his coat pocket.
‘Right. Let’s make a start. Name.’
Flynn sighed. How often he’d been through this rigmarole. The mischief-maker in him wanted to say ‘Mickey Mouse’ or something daft. Down the Nick it could raise a laugh but here it would just sound stupid. ‘Flynn. Joseph Alexander Flynn. No fixed abode,’ he delivered the words in a monotone.
‘OK, Joseph Alexander—’
‘Flynn. Just Flynn. All right?’
Raincoat looked up, surprised by the vehemence in the lad’s voice. ‘Sure. I’m Detective Sergeant Wilson. Sergeant to you.’
Flynn regarded the man warily. Was he trying to wind him up or butter him up?
The dregs of Flynn’s second cup of tea were cold by the time Wilson had finished with him. He’d asked him the same questions more than once. Who’d passed by the steps that evening? Had he seen anyone emerge from the Buchanan Street entrance? It was obvious to Flynn that they were on the lookout for a villain. Someone who’d had a go at one of the performers, he guessed; maybe it had been a famous bloke. That was what all the fuss was about. If his guess were correct, then he’d be one of the first to see it shouted from the news stands in the morning.
Brendan Phillips was still downstairs. Lorimer hoped he
was in a fit state to be questioned but he’d have to wait his turn. Somewhere in this labyrinth the Chief Executive of Glasgow Concert Orchestra was fending off the Press. It was part of Phillips’s job but his boss had relieved him of that under the circumstances.
Slowly the detective walked back towards Morar. The black duster had been removed from the CCTV camera in the corridor, he noticed.
‘Hello again,’ he put his head around the door tentatively. The SOCOs were hard at work gathering fibres from various parts of the room. George Millar’s remains had disappeared into a dark zipped body bag. Already the dressing room had assumed an air of quiet industry. It was as if violent death itself had been swept away by the officers’ zeal. Jim and Rosie turned at the sound of his voice.
‘Anything on that black cloth?’
‘Something sticky this way comes,’ Rosie quipped, holding up the duster in its plastic envelope. ‘We’ll know for certain once it’s back in the lab but it looks like the stuff you get from double-sided sticky tape.’
‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied briefly, marvelling as always at the pathologist’s capacity for levity in the face of brutality. It wasn’t that she was inured to it; it was merely her way of dealing with the daily business of death in all its horrid forms.
The faint sound of music coming through the wall from the next room reminded Lorimer that Victor Poliakovski was still in Lomond. It had been judged that the Conductor could stay there safely until he’d been interviewed. Then, and only then, would he be free to return to his hotel for the night.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lorimer said. ‘Call me in the morning, will you, Rosie?’
‘Sure will,’ she gave a small wave of her hand before turning back to discuss some technical detail with Jim.
Lorimer stood outside in the corridor. The door to Lomond was closed but he could make out the sound of a piano playing within. As he pushed open the door, he recognised the Rachmaninov concerto at once, its runs descending in a tinkling waterfall of sound. Lorimer expected the sound to falter into silence but it continued even when he walked from the dressing area into the reception room where he saw Victor Poliakovski seated behind the grand piano.
Lorimer quickly realised that the Russian wasn’t ignoring him, but he seemed so totally absorbed in his rendition of the concerto that he simply could not see anyone in the room despite the mirrored wall in front of him. Lorimer raised his eyebrows. Some witness this one was going to make!
As he listened, he tried to put himself into the position of the Conductor on the podium, his back to the audience, his eyes on the performers.
‘What is it you want?’ Poliakovski’s voice broke into Lorimer’s reverie. The music had stopped abruptly and the Russian was rising from his position behind the grand piano.
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer, sir,’ Lorimer was beside him in two strides, his hand outstretched. Poliakovski shook it, a brisk up and down then gestured for Lorimer to sit on one of the easy chairs that were placed around the sitting room. It was, Lorimer mused, a very civilised way to begin a discussion about murder.
‘I’m very sorry that you’ve been so inconvenienced tonight, sir, but under the circumstances…’ Lorimer shrugged and smiled to let the man know that he wasn’t sorry at all and that he was merely being polite. He was a policeman doing his job. Poliakovski was a man who had been stopped halfway through his own evening’s work. Being a famous conductor didn’t come into it, for Lorimer.
‘So. They tell me the First Violin is killed. Here, in the room that is next to mine. And you wish to know if I had a hand in it, eh?’
Lorimer sat up. Was he joking? The Russian’s bearded face was inclined towards him, the eyes beneath the bristling brows devoid of any sign of humour.
‘I’d certainly wish to know that. If you did,’ added Lorimer, his eyes meeting those of the Russian. For some seconds they stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Poliakovski looked away first then sank back into the armchair. It gave a leathery creak that failed to mask his theatrical sigh. Lorimer still searched the man’s face with his blue gaze.
‘No. Chief Inspector. I cannot give you such a simple solution to your search for a murderer. I did not even know of the matter until the interval.’
Lorimer listened intently to the man’s every word, delivered in near perfect English. There were overtones of an American accent and only a trace of the sort of voices he’d come to associate with John Le Carre’s characters. But then he wasn’t big on Eastern Europeans of any sort. What he heard told him that this was a clever and sophisticated man. It remained to be seen if he was also a suspect.
‘As you say, sir, your room is next to where Mr Millar met his death. I must ask you exactly what your movements were prior to the start of the concert.’
The big Russian shrugged again, ‘My movements,’ he said slowly as if savouring the words. ‘My movements were not very much. I was in this room sitting down or standing up. There was no moving outside or a visit to the man next door.’ He smiled but the smile was simply a perfunctory straightening of his lips.
‘You didn’t realise that your call was later than usual?’ Lorimer asked.