by Alex Gray
‘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.
‘No. I take no notice of such things. I do not wear a watch. I do not watch the clock. When it is time to perform, I will be ready. That is all.’
‘During the time before Mr Phillips came to escort you to the stage, did you hear any noise coming from next door?’
‘No. I noticed no noise. Here I have switched on the television where I see the Orchestra. I play a few notes on the piano, perhaps? Really I do not remember what I do in that time,’ Poliakovski sounded rather irritated by the question.
No cries of anguish coming at you from the other side of that wall, then? Lorimer thought to himself. He listened intently. There were no noises at all from outside Lomond. It was perfectly feasible that the Conductor was speaking the truth, that he really had been unaware of a murder taking place so close to this room.
‘How well did you know Mr Millar?’ Lorimer shifted tack deliberately.
Poliakovski raised his eyebrows, ‘How well? Ah, but not at all, is really the answer to that. I did not know this man until today. I meet him and I listen to his music. That is all. In fact I could hardly describe him to you.’ The Russian sounded both sorry and thoughtful as he spoke, looking down at his hands and turning them as if examining his nails for any flaws. Lorimer noticed, though, that his command of English was slipping just a little. A sign of strain would be reasonable to expect under the circumstances. And yet he struck Lorimer as a man with some reserves of strength; he was a big man, not just in his enormous physique. He would withstand interrogation more than most, Lorimer reckoned.
‘You are not familiar with the members of the Orchestra, then?’
‘Ah, but you are wrong. For me this is the first time to play with them here in Glasgow but I have met one or two of the musicians on my travels. The American lady in Percussion; she was in Russia with another Orchestra some years ago.’
Lorimer smiled as Poliakovski rolled the R of Russia. He sounded much more like his memory of one of Le Carre’s Cold War spies now. But the Russian was continuing.
‘And a fellow countryman. I forget his name. He is second desk horn. We play together when he is much younger.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Millar alive?’
Poliakovski stared at Lorimer for a moment, thrown by the question’s change of direction. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. I remember he was with the Orchestra at the end of our rehearsal but I do not remember seeing him again.’ The Russian frowned as if he was trying hard to think.
‘And after the rehearsal what did you do?’
‘I came here. There was some food brought in to me. Brendan, the good fellow, he sees that I am happy to be on my own with no interruptions until the concert begins. It is my way,’ he explained to Lorimer.
It could be true. The man might have been quite oblivious to the scene next door. And it was interesting to know that the Russian preferred to keep himself alone in his room during the hour or so between the rehearsal and the concert. Who else would know that?
Lorimer asked him.
‘Hm. A difficult question, Chief Inspector. I do not have an answer to that. Perhaps the people I already worked with? Perhaps any person who hears me speaking to Mr Brendan Phillips? Maybe you should ask of him that question, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed, his mind already working towards that objective.
‘Were you planning to leave Scotland immediately after the concert, sir?’
Poliakovski smiled. ‘Ah, but no. I will take a little holiday for some days. I do not return to Russia for quite some time. This is my first concert in what will be a short series with this orchestra.’
‘And where may we find you meantime?’ Lorimer asked.
‘The Island of Skye. From tomorrow I will be with Lady Claire MacDonald and her husband.’
Lorimer was impressed in spite of himself. He had taken Poliakovski for a city type who’d have been booked in to Number One Devonshire Gardens. But he preferred the delights of Skye, did he? Kinloch Lodge would provide the man with the pleasures of the flesh but the island itself, as Lorimer knew well, would grant him the real soul restoring treatment.
There was something else he had meant to ask the Russian but it had slipped his present thoughts. Lorimer tried to remember what it was, admitting to himself that tiredness was catching up with him. Maybe he’d sleep better tonight.
‘I shan’t keep you any longer, sir. If you would please let Security know when you are leaving then you may go back to your hotel now.’ As Lorimer stood up, Poliakovski heaved himself out of the leather armchair and offered his hand. As Lorimer grasped it, he could feel the clamminess on the man’s palms. He’d certainly concealed his nervousness well, if that was what had made his hands so moist.
Out in the corridor once more, Lorimer leant against the wall opposite Morar. His thoughts about the killer were beginning to crystallise. Not only had he foreseen the necessity of disabling that CCTV camera, had he also known that the technician would be off sick? If he was one of the musicians then he might well have known that Poliakovski liked to be left alone in his room. This had the hallmarks of a crime that was prepared well in advance just like an act of terrorism. The thought made Lorimer feel cold.
Yet it could narrow things down, too. How many people would be aware of Poliakovski’s preferences?
Most of all, why would anybody want to murder George Millar in the first place?
That was a question he’d like to ask Dr Solomon Brightman, if only he could. Solly’s expertise as a criminal profiler had been useful in the past; however, he couldn’t see the psychologist being involved in
this case. Serial killings were more his forte. And this was surely just a one-off murder.
Chapter Four
Lorimer could hear the sound of the telephone ringing upstairs as he opened the front door. His long legs took the stairs two at a time.
‘Lorimer,’ he breathed heavily into the mouthpiece.
‘It’s me,’ a voice replied. Her voice sounded as if she were in the next room, not the other side of the Atlantic.
He let himself sink down to the carpet, his spine coming to rest against the wall.
‘Well, hallo, you,’ he replied softly. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Fine,’ Maggie gave a short laugh. ‘God, that’s what all the kids say when you ask them the same question. Isn’t it maddening? Anyway, I am fine. Just about to make tracks for bed. Thought you might get this as a message in the morning. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ Her words came out in a rush and Lorimer detected a slight tremor in her voice.
‘Have you been trying to reach me tonight?’
‘Several times. I thought you were going to be at home,’ she spoke in a voice that tried not to sound accusing.
‘Got called out.’
‘Oh?’ The question offered Lorimer a chance to tell her all about it. Suddenly Lorimer felt desperately tired. All he wanted was to curl up in bed with Maggie beside him and give her some of the story about tonight’s case. That was what he used to do. His wife would snuggle in and he’d tell her the less grisly details. Sometimes she’d fall asleep again before he’d finished. Other times she’d make them tea and he’d talk to her until the dawn came up.
‘What time is it in Florida?’ he asked.
‘Just after eleven o’clock. Four in the morning your time.’
Lorimer rubbed his hand across his face as if the gesture could dissipate the terrible sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him.
‘We were called out to the Concert Hall. One of the musicians was killed,’ Lorimer told her, trying hard not to yawn.
‘Want to call me back some time tomorrow?’ Maggie had obviously heard his yawn but her voice was sympathetic, not annoyed.
‘I will. Promise,’ Lorimer said.
‘Goodnight, Love,’ Maggie whispered.
‘Night,’ he replied. He listened for an answer then added, ‘I miss you.’ He waited for the click but there was nothing. Had she heard these last words?
Putting down the phone on the floor beside him, Lorimer closed his eyes. His body ached for sleep and he knew he should pull himself off the carpet and struggle out of his clothes, but something held him there. Maggie’s presence was almost tangible. If he held out his hand, would he feel her warm fingers clasping his own?
A sudden gust of wind rattled against the skylight window and broke the spell. Lorimer opened his eyes. The upstairs hall was in darkness. The familiar shapes of the telephone table and waste paper bin were shrouded in shadows. He concentrated hard, trying to bring back the sound of Maggie’s voice, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing ending in a sigh of resignation. The muscles in his thighs protested as Lorimer stood up and headed for the bathroom.
He switched on the light. The face in the mirror looked back at him, unsmiling. Unkempt dark hair fell over his brow, almost masking the twin frown lines so deeply etched between the blue eyes. The four-in-the-morning shadow made him look like some ageing rock star staring moodily from the mirror. He pulled the light switch cord and plunged the room into darkness, extinguishing the face in an instant.
Lorimer stepped out of his trousers, leaving them on the rug beside the bed. Sliding his naked body under the duvet, he groaned at the chill of the sheet. He closed his eyes, wanting to see Maggie again, to hear her voice, preparing himself to lie there awake for hours as usual. With a trembling sigh Lorimer turned on his side, tucking his legs under him.
Seconds later he was asleep.
‘Whit’s up wi’ you?’ Sadie’s voice cut into Lorimer’s brain like a bandsaw. He looked at the wee woman behind the canteen counter. Her hair was pulled away from her face making the sharp features that nature had inflicted upon them even more severe. She was standing waiting for him to choose something for his breakfast.
‘Just the usual coffee and Danish, thanks,’ he muttered.
‘You look as if you could do with a decent plate o’ porridge, so you do. I bet your Maggie would’ve made it for you if she’d no’ been gallivantin’ away over there. Where is it she is again?’
‘Florida,’ Lorimer answered, wishing that the woman would keep her voice down. But Sadie was no respecter of persons. Not one of them in the station was above her forthright opinions.
‘Florida?’ she spoke the word as if he’d said something bad. ‘What’s she wanting to go over there for? Ma Robert went over therr wi’ his weans one time, so he did. Came back covered in mosquito bites. It wis that hot they had to stay in the hoose wi’ thon air conditioning on. Florida? Ah telt him he should’ve gone tae Millport. Saved himself a fortune, an’ all.’
Lorimer grinned in spite of himself as he took the tray back to his office. Sadie might sound like a pain in the neck but she had a heart of gold. Maybe there was something to be said for the blunt approach. And maybe she wasn’t too far off the mark, either. Maggie had already told him about the humidity that had hit her like a wall as she’d stepped out of Sarasota airport. Would he ever experience it for himself? They hadn’t yet discussed whether Lorimer would take the flight out there or if Maggie would come home for Christmas. There was the problem, too, of Maggie’s old mum. She’d hinted about seeing her daughter in Florida. Lorimer would have to take her out with him, if he decided to go there. What would the Yanks make of her? Like Sadie, Maggie’s mum was a self-opinionated old so-and-so who expressed herself often in politically incorrect terms. Lorimer loved her.
He was chewing on the last of his Danish pastry when the phone rang.
‘Hi there, it’s your friendly neighbourhood pathologist. Just thought I’d let you know the latest on your violinist.’
‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘Not a lot to add. A single blow to the skull caused fracture and internal haemorrhaging between the skull and the dura. There were pieces of bone embedded in the brain. The weapon caught him just above his right ear and I’ve matched the bruising with the diameter of the hammer. No prints on the weapon, though, as we thought. Funny it only took one blow. That percussion instrument’s only the size of a household hammer. Not such a big weapon, is it?’ Rosie asked.
Lorimer heard the note of curiosity in her voice. If she was thinking what he was thinking then his first impressions were probably correct.
‘You’d normally expect a whole lot of blows, is that it?’
‘Well,’ she began, ‘he certainly hit the middle meningeal artery with that first strike, though there wasn’t such a lot of blood about. I don’t think the killer would have had much to clean off. What d’you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘Either he got lucky with that one strike or he knew exactly how to administer the blow.’
‘A big man would have been able to bring more force to the weapon,’ Rosie suggested. ‘And, from the position of the wound, it seems like the victim had started to turn his head towards whoever came up behind him.’
Even as he replied, the image of Victor Poliakovski came into Lorimer’s mind.
‘I think that we have a very carefully prepared killing on our hands. I don’t think George Millar was struck in a moment of blind rage, do you? By the way, do you have any results on that black duster?’
‘No. Not yet. But I’ll fax them through to you as soon as, if not sooner. Will that do you?’
‘No, but it’ll have to, won’t it?’ Lorimer grumbled. ‘Was there anything else? Anything under his nails, any fibres worth talking about, or haven’t they been processed yet?’
‘Nothing on his fingernails. And nope, no results yet on the fibres, of which there are plenty. I’ll tell you what
, though. We found some powdery substance on his fingertips.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘No. Not that sort of powder. You lot have narcotics on the brain. It was blue, not white,’ she replied in a withering tone of voice.
‘Interesting. See what your lab. boys and girls can make of that, eh.’
‘Will do. Speak to you later.’
Lorimer put the phone down. Rosie probably hadn’t slept much either but she sounded a whole lot brighter than he felt. Maybe it was fresh air that he needed. There was a pile of reports expected later today from last night’s massive exercise. Hundreds of statements had been taken from the members of the Orchestra and Chorus as well as from everybody in the audience. There had been officers drafted in from other divisions to undertake the operation and already their files were being processed on computer.
He’d spent hours talking to Brendan Phillips. The Orchestra Manager would have to supply him with details of the members of the City of Glasgow Orchestra; details that might help him to focus on a reason for George Millar’s death.
Lorimer had not visited the violinist’s home; that had been a task undertaken by other officers. But he should really make the effort to go out and see Mrs Millar now, he reasoned with himself. If only he didn’t feel so exhausted. He reached for the mug of coffee. It was cold but he drained it anyway, knowing he’d need the kick of caffeine.
WPC Irvine scrolled down the list of names on her computer screen. She shook her head in disbelief as the names rolled on and on. How the heck did they get that many people on the stage? It hadn’t seemed that big when she’d taken Dad to see Shania Twain for his birthday. Something caught her eye and she slowed down to take a closer look. Funny. The whole list of musicians had been in alphabetical order until that very last name. Maybe he had just newly joined them or something? That Mr Phillips would know. It had been his list that she’d scanned in. Maybe she should mention it?
‘Irvine, the Boss wants to see you,’ Alistair Wilson drummed his fingers lightly over the edge of her desk as he passed by.
