Authors: Alex Gray
‘Keep out of his way if you know what’s good for you,’ Sadie advised the young policewoman.
WPC Irvine made a face. Lorimer’s moods had grown worse since his wife had left him to work in America. The rumour factory was working overtime and it was said that the DCI wasn’t sleeping too well. At least he hadn’t hit the sauce like some of her colleagues whose marriages had ended in acrimony. The station gossip was ambivalent about Maggie Lorimer, though. Wee Sadie insisted Maggie would be back home ‘to see to her man’ as she put it but other voices cast doubt on that scenario. As for Lorimer himself, well, you could hardly just go up and ask him, could you? Now this case had made more headline news, the kind of news that would make Lorimer blow a gasket. Sadie was right. It would be sensible of the young policewoman to keep her head below the parapet this morning.
As luck would have it, Lorimer had not seen the
Gazette
that morning. It was only when Superintendent Mitchison
came storming into his room that he had any inkling of the matter.
‘... and not only is your victim a cocaine user, he’s been fingered here,’ Mitchison slapped the page with his hand, ‘as a receiver of stolen goods. Musical instruments, to be precise.’
Lorimer looked at the man across the desk. He’d noted how George Millar had suddenly become his victim as if the DCI had been personally responsible for the man’s demise. The Super was still glaring at him as Lorimer gathered his wits together.
‘He’s also a homosexual, or did that piece of information not come out in the Press?’
‘That’s not an offence. Drugs and reset are!’ Mitchison’s face grew paler with an anger that seemed to be hugely out of proportion to any imagined oversight on Lorimer’s part.
‘Perhaps if you let me read it?’ he suggested, holding out his hand.
‘Be quick about it, then, because I want you to nail that hack, Greer, before he has time to write another word!’ Mitchison threw the paper onto the files and documents that were already cluttering up Lorimer’s desk and stomped out of his office. Lorimer looked towards the door after the Superintendent had gone. It was ajar so he got up and closed it quietly but firmly and returned to his desk.
The paper’s headlines stared up at him. ‘Murder Victim’s Shady Dealings’ it read. Lorimer scanned the columns, his brain taking in the salient points of the article. George Millar, claimed the journalist, had been a cocaine user known to the drug dealers in Glasgow. Which ones? Lorimer asked himself, his mind running
over a list of snouts that might be able to verify this. The article continued with the breathtaking accusation that the late Leader of The City of Glasgow Orchestra had been a source of ‘hot’ musical instruments that he had sold to other musicians.
Not only that, the article went on to hint that the violinist funded his cocaine habit from his nefarious profits.
Lorimer sat still. For some reason it was not the bollocking that Mitchison had given him that was uppermost in his mind but the face of Mrs Millar when she read this over her morning cornflakes. He felt suddenly sorry that she must endure this kind of shame. Then he stopped himself. Had she known about it, after all? Was that why she had been so unemotional about her husband’s death? Despite the obvious piety, was she involved in any way?
Lorimer looked back at the paper. Jimmy Greer, whoever he was, was in for a short, sharp shock when it came to withholding information from the police. Lorimer reached for his phone. The sooner he got this particular business over and done with, the sooner he could concentrate on finding George Millar’s killer. But before he dialled the number for the
Gazette,
he recalled Mitchison’s white face and his unnatural anger. What had that been all about?
Edith Millar pressed her back against the wall, its cold surface making her shiver. Were they never going to go away? It had been bad enough when the phone calls had started but now, crowding up onto the steps of the flat, trying to peer in at the front window, that was just too
much to bear. She thought of the young policewoman who had come to break the news about George. She’d been solicitous but awkward in the way that some young folk were. The kids from the Mission treated her like that too, as if her advancing years made her somehow slow on the uptake.
She was only sixty-two, for heaven’s sake, and coped a dash sight better than most of those kids ever would. Yet the thought of the policewoman made Edith realise that right now she wasn’t coping well at all. She wanted somebody to be there, to make the reporters go away. Maybe she should call that man, Chief Inspector Lorimer. There was something about him that had given Edith several unquiet moments but he also had the sort of strength that she could use just now.
If only George was here. He’d have sent them packing. He’d never suffered fools gladly and had always dealt with tiresome people in his own peculiar way. Edith felt the first hot tears prick behind her eyes as she realised George would never be there again. It was only now that she let herself indulge in remembering the few good times they had had all these years ago. George Millar had been quite a catch in those days. Edith had hovered on the fringes of his bohemian set but hadn’t known enough to understand George’s true sexuality or his need to merely assume the conventions of life. It had been enough for Edith to have been wooed and won. She remembered thinking that marriage would have brought all sorts of rewards, like children. Only there never had been any children for Edith and George Millar. And she’d allowed herself to drift along, remaining in a sterile relationship that had come to be based on sheer habit, her youthful hopes long
ago withered in the bud. The Mission had been her refuge since then. There she had found some shelter from the storm and it had provided all the family she’d wanted.
Edith’s chin rose as she thought of her late husband. George had made her life a misery when he’d been alive and now he was making things worse, so much worse.
Her mouth firmed into an angry line and the tears were gone as suddenly as they had arisen. She heard the letterbox being rattled again and another voice call out her name. She’d pulled the phone out from the wall but she supposed she’d have to connect it again to call the Police.
Taking a deep breath, Edith Millar marched into the sitting room and drew the heavy curtains across the window, leaving the reporters to gawp at the William Morris pattern instead of peering in to catch a glimpse of the widow of a man who’d been exposed as a criminal.
The telephone was on the floor, its cord splayed across the polished wooden surface. She picked it up and plugged it into the socket. As she dialled the number, Edith Millar looked at her hands. There was no sign of a tremor. She smiled a brief, wintry smile, pleased to be in control of herself once more.
Jimmy Greer was smiling as he picked up the glass of Laphraoig. The sweet taste of success always went down better accompanied by a smooth Malt, he decided. The glass was half way to his mouth when he felt the tug on his jacket sleeve.
‘What the …’ As he swirled round, the whisky arced in an amber rainbow catching the sunlight. It came to land several inches below his mouth, the smile vanishing
in an instant. A tall man was looming over him, his blue eyes staring down into Jimmy’s.
‘Look what you’ve done! That was a good whisky, pal!’ the journalist’s voice came out in a whine as the man’s stare began to unnerve him. He’d expected one of them to confront him sooner or later but hadn’t thought that it would be DCI Lorimer turning up at his howff. Jimmy knew who the guy was, of course, though they’d never met until now.
‘Don’t expect me to buy you another one,’ Lorimer said quietly in a voice that told Greer his sweet moment was suddenly turning sour. There was silence for a long minute as Lorimer towered over the journalist. Greer took out a handkerchief and rubbed ineffectually at the wet whisky stain on his shirt, a ploy to avoid those disturbing eyes more than a need to wipe up a wee bit of spilt Laphraoig. The reporter felt the vinyl seat creak beside him as Lorimer sat at an angle of the banquette. He only turned when the sound of a rolled up
Gazette
hit the table in front of them.
‘OK. So I got there ahead of youse,’ Greer shrugged. ‘Cannae help it if my enthusiasm ran away with me now, can I?’
‘There’s such a thing as the Police Press office. You know that, so don’t try it on, eh?’ Lorimer replied in a voice that told Greer he was long since fed up with time wasters. ‘We can throw the book at you for this one. If we want,’ Lorimer added. Jimmy Greer looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Was the guy serious? He knew there’d be rapped knuckles but hadn’t thought too far ahead. That was what editors were for, after all, wasn’t it?
But now, with Lorimer sitting there and no whisky to console him, Jimmy Greer wasn’t so sure of himself.
The journalist gave a sigh. ‘What d’you want?’
‘All of it. How you got your story, your sources, names, addresses. And don’t miss out a single detail,’ Lorimer told him.
Greer glanced over his shoulder towards the bar. ‘Mind if I order another?’
Lorimer gave a shrug. Greer might as well have his tongue loosened. The Detective Chief Inspector certainly wasn’t buying and he didn’t feel much like drinking either.
‘So,’ Lorimer began, still keeping Jimmy Greer pinned with the stare that had discomfited not a few hard men.
‘Who was it?’
Greer pretended not to hear as he signalled the barman for another whisky but one look from Lorimer made him respond.
‘A wee nyaff. A bum. Comes to me with his story, right. I do a bit of checking up, that’s all. Seems the toe-rag’s got some real handle on the violinist, so I goes to my editor and, bingo! Front page with my byline. Not bad, eh?’ Greer pulled out a packet of Benson & Hedges and lit up a cigarette without offering one to Lorimer. As Greer blew the smoke over their heads, Lorimer saw the man’s eyes narrow speculatively. He’s wondering just how much of this bravado I’ll let him away with, he thought. Part of him wanted to haul the journalist to his feet and shove him into the nearest squad car. Let him stew for a bit in Police Custody. But that could wait. Right now, what Lorimer wanted were facts and a bit of cooperation.
‘Name?’
‘Said he was George Millar’s son. Loada’ rubbish of course. Millar never had any weans. Told me his name was Flynn. Hangs about in front of the Royal Concert Hall. That’s his regular pitch.’
‘Is he a
Big Issue
Seller, then?’
‘Naw. Just a wee bum. No fixed address.’
‘So what exactly did he tell you and, more to the point, how did he get his information?’
Greer took another drag on his cigarette, his fingertips stained ochre with nicotine. ‘Well, that’s the thing. His sources, as he put it, weren’t up for grabs. He obviously hangs about with some druggies in the town. That much was clear. But I didnae get any names and addresses. Didnae expect to,’ Greer glanced back at Lorimer but the expression on the policeman’s face hadn’t changed.
‘And?’
‘He knew our fiddle-man. Like, personally. Must’ve come across him at the Concert Hall. Anyway, the wee nyaff does his stuff for Millar. Puts him in touch with the coke machine. Ends up being the man’s gofer.’
Lorimer frowned. There was more to this street bum than met the eye. ‘How did he know about the reset? I don’t believe for a minute that George Millar would have confided in this low life you’re describing.’
‘Naw, you’re right there, Chief Inspector. Seems he kinda stumbled across it. I didnae ask for too much detail.’
Lorimer left that one. He’d need to find the boy himself and prise these details out of him if he could.
‘So, how did you go about verifying this Flynn’s story?’
Greer paused mid-drag, giving Lorimer the impression
that he was considering his reply.
‘Well, now. That might be incriminating to some other people, know what I mean?’
‘Names,’ Lorimer snapped back at him.
‘All right. There were a few of the musicians who’d bought Millar’s hot goods. One of them was his boyfriend, that big Danish Guy, Carl. Had a word with him on the QT. He was daft enough to admit that George had sold him a suss viola. He was fulla’ shit about not being able to afford a top class instrument and how good it was of old George to help him out. Even said George had let him pay by instalments. Anyway, it’s all there,’ Greer flicked his hand towards the
Gazette
on the table.
‘And the others?’
Greer gave a half smile as he spoke. ‘Aye, there were others, but I only went to see one. A lady. Dead posh, she was. Name of Karen Quentin-Jones.’ Lorimer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Greer stared back at him and nodded, adding, ‘Thought that myself, squire. Why did a rich bitch like that get mixed up in a reset scam?’
‘And did you ask her?’
‘Ho! Ask her? My God, she gave me the bum’s rush and no mistake. Wanted to know who’d sent me. Fair rattled that one’s cage and no mistake.’
Lorimer watched the journalist as he took a swig of the whisky. There was no apparent tremble to his hand.
‘Saw the instrument, though. It was right there in its open case. Couldn’t help but notice it as I passed the French windows, could I?’ Lorimer suppressed a smile. The journalist was still skating on thin ice as far as the law was concerned, but Lorimer had to admire his persistence in following up a juicy story.
‘How much did you pay this Flynn character?’
Greer’s hesitation in replying told Lorimer that whatever he said would be a lie.
‘Ach, the wee bum touched me for a ton. Said he’d sell the story elsewhere if I didn’t cough up. Well, my editor agreed, y’know. Ye have to speculate to accumulate, know what I mean?’ Greer’s yellowing teeth showed in a smirk below his moustache. Lorimer drew in a deep breath, controlling an urge to wipe the grin off the journalist’s face. He supposed the story had been told in confidence and that this Flynn was totally unaware that Greer would be spilling the beans on him. But like rats coming out of a sinking ship, Greer had to scuttle away from any promises made to save his own skin.