Shadows of Sounds (6 page)

There was an inflection in her tone that made Lorimer realise she was quoting something he’d heard before. For a moment he was at a loss then it came to him. Wasn’t it part of a prayer by Saint Francis of Assisi? Or was he mixing that up with something else? Mrs Millar was looking at a corkboard next to the doorway on Lorimer’s left. He followed her gaze and saw the small green card. On it was written,

She looked back at him, the ghost of a smile hovering apologetically around her lips.

Lorimer didn’t know what to say. Even if she was a devout woman that shouldn’t stop her from expressing her emotions, should it?

For a moment Lorimer wished he’d asked the officer who’d come here last night for the widow’s first reaction. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now he was curious to know how she had responded to the terrible news.

‘Thanks,’ he said as she handed them mugs of coffee. He thought they’d make their way back into the sitting room, but Mrs Millar motioned for him to join his colleague at the kitchen table. She leant into a chair with a patchwork cushion at her back then raised her mug of coffee.

‘To life,’ she said and smiled in Lorimer’s direction.

Her easy familiarity with a complete stranger gave Lorimer some disquiet. For a moment they locked eyes as he raised the mug of coffee to his lips. Lorimer looked away first. There was nothing malevolent about the woman’s gaze, just a calm directness. Usually he’d be probing a person’s behaviour for undercurrents of emotion, indications that could help in establishing the nature of relationships. But how to get behind that mask of tranquillity, if indeed it was a mask, was a problem.

‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your husband,’ Lorimer began.

‘Of course. Whatever I can tell you, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Millar’s reply was polite, almost but not quite grave. It was as if she were about to discuss someone she’d encountered in the street, not her own husband. Was that telling him something? Lorimer wondered.

‘First of all, could you tell me when you last saw Mr
Millar?’

‘Yes. He was at home yesterday until just after lunch. He left about two o’clock. There was a three o’clock rehearsal call.’

‘Did he drive into town?’

‘No. He took the underground from Hillhead into Buchanan Street. It’s the easiest way.’

‘Was there anything unusual about your husband’s demeanour before he left?’

He watched her face as she took another sip of coffee. She was thoughtful, considering her words carefully.

‘No. I don’t think I noticed anything untoward. He was a fairly cheerful person as a rule. No, he seemed perfectly normal. He was looking forward to the programme, I know that.’

Remembering the Albinoni solo, Lorimer wondered if that had been something George Millar would have enjoyed. Something he’d been denied.

‘Mrs Millar, can you think who might have wanted your husband dead?’

‘My goodness, that’s direct enough,’ she smiled but her eyebrows were raised. ‘Who might have murderous tendencies towards George?’ she mused, looking away from Lorimer and gazing into space. Then she frowned and shook her head. ‘That’s a question that puts me in a difficult position. It makes me have to judge how other people should behave.’

Lorimer nodded, silently noting the plural reference. ‘Let me put it another way, then. Had your husband done anything to provoke anybody?’

‘Oh, dear Lord, yes. George was about the most provoking man you could meet.’

‘I need you to be specific. who in particular had he provoked?’

She smiled sweetly at him again, ‘Why me, of course, Chief Inspector. But I’m not the killing type.’ She glanced across at the policewoman as if to affirm her statement.

‘Anybody else?’

‘I’m sure he drove many of his fellow musicians mad at times. He was a bit of a perfectionist. And of course he was incorrigibly promiscuous,’ she added as if it was a mere afterthought.

‘Can you give me some details about anyone who may have had a grudge against Mr Millar?’

She shook her head slowly then answered, ‘No, I don’t think I can.’

‘Do you mean you don’t know of anybody or you can’t bring yourself to tell me?’ he asked.

The woman’s head came up and Lorimer saw the first flicker of annoyance disturb that serene expression. He’d rattled her cage at last.

‘Chief Inspector, I want to do anything I can to help your investigation. I do not know who killed my husband. Nor do I have the faintest idea who would wish to do something so evil.’

‘Where were you yesterday evening, Mrs Millar?’

The question took her completely by surprise, Lorimer saw. Her face changed colour as she immediately realised the implication of his words. He could be easy on her, tell her gently that he had to ask such questions, but something made him hold back from the softly, softly approach. This lady had an inner strength of some sort. Well, let her make use of it now. He regarded her as she swallowed the last of her coffee, noting how carefully she set down the mug on
the table as if to conceal her trembling fingers. She saw his gaze and hastily drew her hands away out of sight.

‘I was here. I spent the evening on my own. I don’t think anyone can verify that,’ she gave a shaky little laugh, ‘unless somebody upstairs heard me playing the piano.’

‘We can look into that,’ he told her sombrely. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your husband, something about his habits, his personality. It helps to have a picture of the victim when we’re conducting a murder inquiry.’ Mrs Millar gave a small, involuntary sigh and raised her eyebrows again.

‘George was a homosexual, but I suppose you know that by now. He came out a few years ago so it was no secret. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was, in fact I think he enjoyed being different.’ She paused. ‘You ask about his personality. He was an outgoing man, the sort of person who liked attention. He enjoyed an audience off stage as well as on. But he was totally wrapped up in himself and in his music.’ She paused. ‘George wasn’t a cruel man, Chief Inspector, I want you to understand that, but he simply didn’t think about other people’s feelings.’

‘Even yours?’

‘Especially mine,’ she gave a mirthless laugh.

‘So why did you …?’

‘Stay with him?’ she finished the sentence for him. ‘Hard to say really, though goodness knows I’ve asked myself the same question often enough. I suppose it’s because he never wanted to leave. He had plenty of lovers but he didn’t bring them back here. There would be nights when he didn’t come home. And I got used to it after a time. When we were together we got on rather amicably. Does that surprise you?’ she asked, seeing the policewoman’s
bemused expression.

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.

‘George was never bad to me, though he’d been pretty hopeless in bed. Understandable once we knew why. But we got on. We were fond enough of each other not to mind.’

‘You don’t seem terribly upset by the violent death of someone you were fond of,’ Lorimer remarked at last.

There was silence as Mrs Millar regarded him. She seemed to be searching for a reply then her eyes dropped from his gaze as she said, ‘Perhaps it hasn’t really sunk in yet.’

Lorimer drained the last of his coffee. She could have been equally blunt in her response but had chosen to be polite instead.

‘Thanks,’ he said, handing her the empty mug. ‘I’d be grateful if you did have a word with these neighbours of yours upstairs. Just so they can verify that you were in last night.’ Lorimer spoke the words more kindly than he had intended, trying to assuage the guilt he felt at his previous accusation. It wasn’t, after all, a crime to behave inappropriately at the sudden death of your husband. Still, it would keep him wondering about George Millar’s widow for some time to come.

As she closed the door Lorimer lingered on the top step, listening for any hint of anguish from within, even a groan of relief that he’d gone. But there was nothing like that.

Once again he found himself wishing for the familiar sight of the bearded psychologist, his perceptive eyes twinkling behind those horn-rimmed glasses. What would Solomon Brightman make of this woman and her strange reactions? he mused.

By the time they’d reached the street again the melody from the grand piano could be heard once more and Lorimer could have sworn that the newly bereaved Mrs Millar had taken up exactly where she’d left off.

Simon Corrigan found he was shivering despite the warmth of the room. He’d even had to draw his leg away from the radiator by the table where he’d sat waiting for something to begin. At first it had been a matter of routine, like giving his name and address to the officers the night George had been killed. But now, in this small room in a Police headquarters, Simon sensed that he was in some danger.

Part of him wanted to believe that Scottish police were nice, trustworthy men and women; the ‘polis’ of his youth who would tell you how to get home if you were lost or got into trouble for kicking your football into an old lady’s garden. But then the polis of his youth had been country constables who’d helped them with their cycling proficiency tests in the playground at Primary School, not the hard-faced lot in the city of Glasgow that you saw on TV shows. He’d heard all sorts of stories about how guys got a kicking down in the cells and no apology afterwards. They knew how to hurt without making a mark for a
police doctor to see, he’d heard. Simon shivered again and looked at his watch. How long would they make him wait?

Suddenly he felt angry. He was being detained against his will, wasn’t he? The scrape of his chair against the floor alerted the young officer who stood impassively, back to the door.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked as Simon stood up. His polite, deferential tone made the musician hesitate. ‘How long will he be? The Inspector, I mean.’

‘Oh, not long, sir. I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long. It’s always like this, I’m afraid,’ the constable smiled thinly as if he were taking Simon into his confidence somehow. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’

‘No. Thanks,’ Simon replied, sitting down again, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. He was wrong. They were simply busy, that was all. His imagination was running away with him. As if they’d be wasting precious time deliberately making him wait; that was the stuff of TV dramas, not real life.

He looked up as the door opened and a blonde woman entered the room followed by the Detective Sergeant he’d spoken to at the Concert Hall.

‘Inspector Grant, DS Wilson,’ said the blonde, waving a hand in her colleague’s direction as they sat opposite Simon.

‘Have you had a cup of tea?’ she asked, ignoring the beige plastic cup sitting between them.

‘Yes,’ Simon replied, holding his hands together to stop them from shaking.

‘Thanks for agreeing to come in today, Mr Corrigan. As you can appreciate this is a mammoth task we have
here, with so many people who were friends or colleagues of Mr Millar,’ DI Grant began. She smiled at him as if he would understand that a policeman’s lot was not a happy one. Simon felt himself relax. It was going to be OK.

‘We’re really grateful that you could spare us the time. It must be awfully hard to carry on after this,’ the DI continued.

Simon mumbled a reply and felt his cheeks redden. So, they knew about George and him. He’d suspected as much. That cow, Karen, must have told them. He’d seen her swan off with the tall detective.

‘If I could just take down a few details. Sorry about all this. Red tape, but we need it all the same,’ Jo Grant was all apologies as Simon reeled off his name, date of birth, and current address.

Jo Grant glanced at the man opposite. He was a good-looking lad, with his red-gold hair falling forward over his brow. Green eyes, she’d noticed. Cats’ eyes with that measured look as if he were studying her just as she was trying to study him. But wary, too, though he was visibly relaxing now that the preliminary stuff was out of the way. He’d become almost chatty, telling them about his early career and what he hoped to do in the future. Enthusiastic, too, she had liked that. But it was time to slip in the odd reference to a murdered man, to remind them all just why Simon Corrigan, French horn player with the City of Glasgow Orchestra, was sitting opposite two police officers.

‘We have to ask everyone who knew Mr Millar about him. It helps us to build up a picture of the victim.’ Jo saw the man shift in his seat. The word victim always had that
effect on the innocent and guilty alike.

‘What can you tell us about Mr Millar?’ DS Wilson asked.

‘What do you want to know?’ Simon shrugged. There was silence for answer so he continued. ‘He was all right, was George. A bit of a scamp, really. Liked to spread his favours, if you know what I mean.’

‘Didn’t you mind?’ Jo asked, a conspiratorial smile playing about her lips.

‘No. Not really. Everyone knew he was an old rogue. Only Carl …’ He bit his lip and stopped.

‘Carl Bekaert?’

‘Aye. Carl, the Great Dane, we all called him. Superb viola player but he took himself too seriously. Had a huge pash for George. Wanted to have him all to himself.’

‘But Mr Millar was married. Lived with his wife,’ DS Wilson put in.

‘Och, that was different. George would never have moved in with any of us. We were his boys; that was all.’

‘So there was never a serious relationship between Mr Millar and any of the male members of the Orchestra?’ Jo asked.

Simon frowned. ‘Not like that. I mean there’s serious and serious, isn’t there? You’d move in with a person if you really were committed, wouldn’t you?’

‘Tell me about Mr Millar as a musician,’ Jo said, switching tack.

‘Ah, now you’re asking something,’ Simon leant back in his seat, stretching his long legs out under the table, then leant forward again. ‘He was the best, was George. And I’m not just saying this because he’s dead. Why he’d never played with some of the big European outfits, I’ll
never know. He’d been Leader with The City of Glasgow for as long as I can remember. Even saw him perform when I was still at school.’

‘What was his attitude to the younger players like yourself?’

Simon grinned. ‘I expect you want to hear if he encouraged us, made some guys his protégés. But it was nothing like that. Sure he hung about with the younger ones, but only in a social sense, like down the pub after rehearsals. He had great stories, you know. We all loved hearing the gossip about people he’d known. I suppose that’s how we became friends,’ he added.

‘And how did that friendship deepen?’ Wilson asked so politely that Jo Grant had to suppress a grin.

‘He asked me to come to bed with him.’

‘Just like that?’ Jo raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, we were both a bit pissed. Anyway that’s how it all began.’ Simon smiled down at the table as if recalling some detail from the past and shook his head slightly. ‘We had some good times. Never thought anyone would have it in for him. Never.’

‘He was a popular man, then? Within the Orchestra?’

‘Not with everyone. Some of the straight women disapproved of him, you know. He could be a right bugger at times, would wind folk up something rotten. But we just laughed. But, yeah, he was liked well enough by most of them. Can’t say there was a single soul who’d shown any animosity towards him.’

‘How did Mr Millar behave on the day of his murder?’ Jo asked.

Simon frowned as if trying to recall. ‘Normal. He was quite normal. There was nothing at all that I noticed that
was different from usual. Honestly,’ he added, deliberately fixing Jo with his green eyes. She recognised it as trick to dominate a dialogue, one she’d seen Lorimer use often enough. But did that mean she believed Corrigan? She stared back at him then lowered her eyes. Let him think he’d the upper hand. Maybe it would make him more careless with his talk. He might have some inkling of how to assert himself, but Jo had been on enough assertiveness training courses to wear out the proverbial T-shirt.

‘Did you notice anything unusual at all that afternoon, or evening?’

‘Nope. We had a fairly horrible rehearsal, which is par for the course and everything was just as it usually was until George didn’t come on stage,’ Simon bit his lip suddenly and Jo noticed the tightness in his voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ she soothed, ‘we really do have to ask questions like these.’

‘It’s OK. It’s just getting it to sink in, you know? I don’t think any of us have really realised that he’s not coming back. It’s like Karen’s just filling in while he’s sick, or something.’

‘I understand. Well, thanks for coming in. If there’s anything else we want to ask you or indeed if there’s anything you remember that you might think useful, any little thing at all,’ Jo smiled, ‘please call us.’ She stood up and offered the musician her hand. Held in hers for a moment, Simon Corrigan’s hand felt like a wet fish, bony and sweaty. The musician drew it away suddenly. Mr Cool’s cover had been blown and he knew it.

Jo watched him from the upper window, crossing the street and heading off into town, the wind tousling that fine red-gold
hair. His shoulders were hunched against the cold but suddenly he straightened up as if he’d caught sight of somebody coming towards him. Jo moved into the corner of the window, straining to see the figure approaching. She noted the laconic walk and the handsome face before the two men met together on the pavement. Their sudden embrace made the Detective Inspector step back instinctively but she continued to watch as the two men clasped one another tightly then broke apart.

When he looked back towards the building he had so recently left, Jo Grant could see that Simon Corrigan’s face expressed quite a different mood, now. And, had she been asked, she would have described it as triumphant.