Shadows of Sounds (8 page)

‘Strange, don’t you think, sir?’ Jo Grant was watching his face as Lorimer took in the fact that no fingerprints had been found on the bow.

‘Yes,’ he replied, his mind flicking back to the scene in Morar where George Millar had breathed his last.

‘Any ideas, Jo?’ he leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded her.

‘Well, obviously the killer had touched it and had to wipe it clean of prints,’ she replied, then made a face, ‘But why did they touch it in the first place? That’s what you’re asking isn’t it?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Yes.’ His mind was racing with possibilities. ‘Listen, Jo, can you find out the exact length of that bow for me?’

‘The length? It’s about that long, isn’t it?’ she spread her hands, measuring a space in the air.

‘Maybe. Tell you what. See if you can do a little experiment for me. You won’t get that bow back from Rosie, so find one from Phillips and take it back up to the Concert Hall. You’re above average height, aren’t you?’

‘Five foot nine and a half in my bare feet,’ she answered, a mystified expression crossing her face. ‘Why?’

‘Let’s say for the sake of argument that our killer was your height. See if you could use the victim’s bow to fix that black duster onto the CCTV. Hm?’ Lorimer waited for her reply.

‘Do you think that’s how the killer immobilised the camera?’

‘Possibly. It had to be done with something long and thin that wouldn’t get covered in adhesive. A bow might just have done the trick.’

‘Wouldn’t there be any traces of the black duster on it?’ she asked. ‘I mean the horsehairs are so soft and fuzzy aren’t they? There might be something already there for forensics to see.’

She was sharp, thought Lorimer. They’d be looking for prints on the varnished wood, but there might well be traces on the mass of hairs strung tautly across the bow.

‘Get back to forensics, will you, Jo. It might even give us a vague idea of the killer’s height. Or at least eliminate all the wee guys,’ he said in a tone of mock despair that made the woman smile.

After she’d gone Lorimer sat back and thought about his DI. She’d come straight to him, no messing about. Did she see it as her duty to keep him informed of all the details? If Lorimer had got that email first, he’d have got on to forensics himself, thrashed ideas about with them or else worried away at the facts until they’d produced some kind of solution. Why hadn’t Jo done that? Was DI Grant trying to ingratiate herself with him? He knew she wasn’t lacking in initiative, he would say as much in her appraisal when the time came. Lorimer shook his head. He had to stop thinking of her as a spy in the camp. She’d come up the ranks on her own merit, even serving as an undercover officer for a spell. Her past association with Mitchison might be nothing at all. Perhaps she’d simply been a colleague he’d asked to accompany him to the dinner. Mitchison wasn’t married and never had been, to
Lorimer’s knowledge. Perhaps he’d been wise enough to see the pitfalls of trying to establish a career and have a stable relationship into the bargain, he told himself, lapsing into a mood of cynicism. He was always immaculately turned out, thought Lorimer, ruefully examining the creases in his own shirtsleeves where he’d forgotten to iron. Maybe constant bachelorhood fostered the kind of discipline that he lacked himself.

Association of ideas took Lorimer back, inevitably, to Maggie. He’d have to get down to the Travel Agent’s soon, he told himself. Best phone the old girl, see what she had to say about it.

He dialled her number, a grin on his face as he imagined her response. Maggie’s mum was fairly predictable.

‘Hello?’ a voice answered. She never gave her name and number, something that Lorimer hadn’t had to tell her.

‘Hello. It’s me. Have you a minute to spare or are you rushing off to that hotbed of gossip you call the Senior Citizens’ Club?’

‘Och, it’s yourself, William. What are you doing phoning me in the middle of the day? Are there not enough criminals for you to be chasing in Strathclyde these days?’ Mrs Finlay sounded as if she was scolding him but he knew her well enough to tell when she was teasing.

‘It’s about Christmas,’ he began. ‘D’you want me to book a flight for us to go out and stay with Maggie?’

‘Oh.’ Mrs Finlay sounded lost for words, something that didn’t happen too often in her son-in-law’s experience.

‘I’m due leave. I thought we could go out for a fortnight. Ten days, even, if you thought the heat might be too much.’

‘I don’t mind the heat,’ she answered abruptly. ‘It’s just …’

‘I’ll pay for us both, of course,’ Lorimer cut in. ‘Just call it your Christmas present from me,’ he added.

‘That’s very generous of you, Bill. Are you sure?’ His mother-in-law’s voice had softened and Lorimer knew he’d done the right thing.

‘Sure. Leave it with me. I’ll see the travel agency later on today and fix it all up.’

After he’d rung off, Lorimer felt a frisson of excitement that was tinged with apprehension. He’d be going to see Maggie on her new home ground. Would she make him welcome? Or would her temporary teaching post in Florida be fulfilling enough for her without him? Those were questions he’d just have to leave unanswered until he saw her again.

Flynn hesitated before pushing the heavy doors open. The CCTV cameras would be recording his entry, but, hey, they’d record the entry of everybody who came in here, whether it was to go to the booking office or buy stuff down in the wee shop. You could even go for a pee if you felt like it, his mischief-making inner voice told him. Even as the idea coaxed a grin onto his face, Flynn’s other voice told him not to be so stupid. They could turf him out as soon as look at him.

The interior of Glasgow Royal Concert Hall looked quite different during the daytime. Flynn passed by the booking desk. He was aware of the woman behind the desk regarding him with interest so he took his time at the nearby stand, leafing through the stacks of flyers for forthcoming events. There were none yet for Celtic Connections, which was one of the few programmes that might have taken his fancy. All the Christmas stuff was there, though, he noticed. There were loads of carol concerts during December, many of them featuring the
City of Glasgow Orchestra. They’d been playing the night old George had copped it, he thought to himself. Wouldn’t be a very merry Christmas for that lot, he reflected.

He sensed rather than saw the eyes of the woman behind the desk boring into his back so he grabbed a few of the Mozart by Candlelight flyers and stuffed them into his inside pocket. She’d try to make eye contact with him, Flynn knew, so he deliberately turned away and sauntered round the corner towards the coffee bar where he’d been questioned by the Busy.

It was nearly eleven o’clock and the coffee bar already had several folk sitting at tables sipping their cappuccinos. Flynn looked at the legend above the bar and rattled the coins in his pocket.

‘Pot o’ tea for one, please,’ he told the boy behind the counter. ‘And can ye let me have a pot o’ hot water as well?’

The boy nodded and turned towards the urn. He’d not given Flynn the once over like that wifie at the booking office. What was it she’d seen? He’d often been told that he looked like the big dreepy one in
Only Fools and
Horses.
It was true that he had the same long face and woebegone expression. That had been cultivated to catch the sympathy of the punters, of course, but it seemed these days to be Flynn’s permanent expression.

‘Make a face an’ when the wind blows it’ll stick like that’ his foster mammy used to tell him. Well the winds of change had blown through his life all right. Maybe his face had stuck like that now, as if there was a deep well of anguish that rose unbidden to be reflected in his eyes. Another glance at the waiter told him it was OK. He was just another punter coming in out of the cold for
a cuppa.

Flynn paid for his tea and took it over to the window where the rows of seats were padded and comfortable looking. He’d stay in here for as long as he could without risking curiosity. He looked around at the other people sitting in the coffee area. Some were talking in muted voices as if they didn’t want to disturb any rehearsal that might be going on in the auditorium. One guy was engrossed in the morning papers, his empty cup still on the table in front of him. That was a ploy Flynn had used before, especially in bookshops where they let you in to read stuff while you had your cafe latte or whatever.

He’d raked in a bin to find the papers the morning after the murder. It was all about the Russian guy, really, as if being foreign made him prime suspect. The papers were so uncool about foreigners, thought Flynn. You’d think half of them had never heard of the Race Relations Act the way they’d rumbled on about Poliakovski. It was the same with the footie. Our fans were the greatest. Tartan Army rules OK. The English were scumbags of the worst order, if you believed the sports pages. Flynn had seen running battles in this city between Scots fans of different loyalties, wee boys going mad because there was nothing else for them to get excited about. Then someone would bring out a blade and change the course of someone else’s life, or stop it forever.

George Millar, now, he was nothing like the big Russian from his photo in the
Gazette.
The Busy hadn’t mentioned any names that night. He’d wanted to know who Flynn had seen coming and going out of the main doors into Buchanan Street. Flynn could’ve told him other things, though; things that the papers might pay him for. That
was partly why he’d come in here again, to think about it.

Flynn drank the sweet tea slowly, looking around him until his gaze fell on the pile of newspapers by the bar. He hadn’t clocked them when he’d ordered his pot of tea, but now that he saw them Flynn realised they were there as a courtesy for the customers. Maybe there’d be an update on the murder? Maybe someone else would’ve spilt the beans on old George before he’d had the brass neck to do it himself? He sauntered across to the bar trying to appear nonchalant, no simple task for Flynn, used as he was to the hostile stare of passers-by. Unease lay about his shoulders like a cloak. Nobody said a word, however, as he lifted that day’s
Gazette
from the counter and took it back to his place by the window. Even as he shifted his glance from left to right there were no accusing eyes staring in his direction.

There was nothing about the murder on the front page and Flynn rustled the pages as he scanned the columns up and down. Yes! There it was, a headline on page four and a wee photo of George with his missus. It was a better one than they’d used before although it was a lot older. George had more hair in this one. Flynn concentrated on the article. It was both a disappointment and a relief. They’d raked up loads of stuff about George’s musical life, like where he’d travelled with the City of Glasgow and the other orchestras he’d played with. There were even bits about recordings he’d made with his wife in some chamber orchestra or other ages ago. But there was no mention of George and his boyfriends. Flynn found himself grinning, and in that moment he knew he’d not be going along to see DS Wilson. Oh, no, he had better fish to fry.

The hot water jug remained full as Flynn left his seat and headed for the exit. He wasn’t cold at all now and a brisk walk up to the
Gazette
’s offices would keep him warm, for sure.

‘Jimmy Greer,’ Flynn said to the woman behind the desk.

‘Wait a minute will you, till I see if he’s at his desk,’ the voice that answered his enquiry was as broad Glasgow as his own but as she spoke into the headset her manner was quite different. Flynn had heard it every day of his life on the streets, a voice for the likes of him and a voice for those and such as those.

‘Have you an appointment?’ she asked him. Flynn was ready for this. He’d prepared his patter on the way over from the Concert Hall.

‘It’s to do with George Millar. Tell him his son’s here.’ Flynn waited as she relayed the message. He’d thought about calling himself George’s nephew but that wasn’t close enough. Even if Jimmy Greer did a quick check, he’d not really be able to tell if Flynn was the real thing or not, would he?

‘You’ve to go on up. Take the lift to the second floor and Jimmy’ll meet you there,’ the receptionist told Flynn.

As the lift doors closed on him, Flynn felt his pulse begin to race. It was a bit of a thrill, this masquerading as old George’s son. He’d have to come clean eventually, but what was the worst they could do to him? Throw him out? They’d be too busy to involve the police, Flynn told himself.

All at once the doors opened and Flynn found himself facing a tall man with white hair and a moustache.

‘Jimmy Greer?’ Flynn stepped forward, cautiously.

‘Aye. And who are you, son?’ The journalist was looking at him intently and Flynn felt himself wilt under the man’s stare.

‘Can we talk? I’ve information about George Millar. Stuff your people don’t seem to have a hold of.’ Flynn’s words rushed out as he sensed his imminent departure.

The journalist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait here till I get my jacket.’ Flynn watched Greer disappear beyond a phalanx of grey partitions that separated the news desks. Eventually the man reappeared, fastening his padded jacket as he strode towards Flynn.

‘We’ll have a wee coffee while we chat, eh?’ Greer suggested. Flynn nodded, suddenly feeling unsure of himself as the man pressed the lift button and gave the boy a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

They walked in silence to the coffee bar in the pedestrian precinct, Flynn half a step behind Greer who loped along as if he was deliberately trying to put a distance between the boy and himself.

‘Two espressos, doll,’ Greer demanded, slapping down a pile of coins on the glass topped counter. The girl didn’t even look up as she relayed the order to another server.

The reporter took the two cups over to a table by the window and Flynn quickly slipped into the seat facing into the coffee bar. It wouldn’t do to be recognised, especially as they were so close to the Concert Hall.

‘Right, pal, what’s all this about?’ asked Greer, emptying three long packets of brown sugar into his espresso. ‘Better not be a waste of my time,’ he added. The phrase ‘or else’ hung unspoken between them. Flynn gave a weak smile.

‘Well, I’m not really George Millar’s son,’ he began.

‘Never thought it for a moment,’ Greer came back, his
voice laden with sarcasm.

‘But I can tell you about his personal life better’n any son could,’ Flynn assured him.

‘Aye, go on then,’ Greer answered. He was trying to play it cool but Flynn could see a spark of interest in the man’s eyes.

‘He wasn’t just your regular straight bloke, like? Old George was one of the boys, know what I mean?’ Flynn tried to make his remark sound as salacious as he dared just to see which way the reporter would jump.

‘And how would a wee scruff like you know that, eh?’ Greer was leaning forward, his face so close that Flynn could smell the nicotine on his breath. He made himself sit still though he couldn’t help bunching his fists unseen below the table.

‘How d’you think?’ he leered.

‘You’re not telling me that a member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra got his kit off with the likes of you?’ Greer scoffed. ‘Now that I just don’t buy, pal.’

‘Naw, naw, no me. Ah’m no’ that way inclined anyway,’ Flynn hastened to assure him. ‘Ma pitch is up at the Concert Hall. Ah’ve done him a few wee favours, like. put him in touch with some good gear, know what I mean?’ Flynn lowered his voice as he spoke.

Jimmy Greer nodded, never taking his eyes off the boy for a minute.

‘There’s a story in this for you an’ all,’ Flynn hesitated. It wouldn’t do to give it all away too soon. It was worth a hell of a lot more than a lousy cup of espresso.

‘Aye. Maybe there is and maybe there isnae,’ Greer spoke softly, an expression of greed flitting across his face.

‘Well, what’s in it for me? Information’s no’ cheap, man,’ Flynn came back at him swiftly, sensing the other man’s interest.

‘Fifty if it’s any good,’ Greer said immediately.

Flynn hesitated. ‘Naw, I’m no sure. Ah think it’s worth a lot more’n that.’

Greer drained his coffee. ‘Waste of my time then, son,’ he said and made to stand up.

‘No,’ Flynn protested, his hand raised suddenly as if to prevent the journalist from leaving. ‘All right then, fifty,’ he said desperately, cursing Greer inwardly for having the whip hand.

Greer called out to the girl by the coffee machine, ‘Two more espressos, doll. Oh, and a jammy doughnut,’ he grinned at Flynn as he turned back. ‘For you,’ he added. ‘Just call it a wee sweetener.’ He paused. ‘So. Do you know anything about how George Millar was killed?’ Jimmy Greer whispered.

Flynn looked the man straight in the eye. ‘No I don’t. But I know some of the stuff he was involved in.’

‘OK, pal. Let’s have it.’

Flynn took a deep breath and began his story.