by Alex Gray
It seemed no time at all until he was across town and into the City of Glasgow Orchestra’s private car park.
Brendan Phillips was sitting at a desk leafing through a pile of paperwork when Lorimer walked into the room.
‘Oh! Oh! It’s you!’ The Orchestra Manager was half out of his seat, his face turned towards the Chief Inspector.
Lorimer’s eyes narrowed. In that split second when he’d been disturbed, Brendan Phillips had visibly jumped from fear. While one part of his brain told Lorimer that it was entirely natural given all the poor man had been through, another part was asking questions.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Phillips began, then, sinking back into his seat. ‘Well, no. No. I’m not all right. How could I be?’ A querulous note entered his voice. Lorimer shrugged. Of course the man wasn’t all right. He was a bundle of nerves.
‘I came to ask you some more questions,’ Lorimer told him gently, taking a seat beside Brendan Phillips’s desk.
‘There’s nothing else I can tell you,’ Brendan began, his eyes pleading with Lorimer to leave him alone. ‘I really don’t know what’s been going on any more than you do.’
‘OK. I’m sure that’s how it seems. But the normal day-to-day things that might not mean a lot to you could have huge significance when we put them into a different context. You follow?’
Brendan Phillips closed his eyes and drew his fingers back and forth across his brow as if something pained him. Lorimer waited. He recalled Karen Quentin-Jones’s derision when she had referred to the Orchestra Manager as ‘Brenda’. The man was certainly living up to her sneer. Lorimer had seen more backbone in a young child. Still, he was in a world where artistic temperaments abounded and sensitive souls were probably the norm.
‘Take me through the last rehearsal. Just tell me everything that took place.’
Brendan sighed. ‘It was just a routine rehearsal for the Christmas Classics concert, nothing that was too taxing. There was nothing really very new. It’s for the older audience. You know? “White Christmas”, “Sleigh Ride”, “Lara’s theme” from Doctor Zhivago; that sort of stuff.’
‘And you were using a harpist?’
‘Of course,’ Phillips’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. ‘Christmas. Angel harps. Trumpets. It’s all very traditional music.’
‘And you were using Chloe Redpath again, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Our usual girl was sick. Having a bad time with her pregnancy, actually.’
‘So Chloe’s been your main harpist all the time since October 22nd?’
‘Not all the time. Just occasionally.’
‘When we questioned her that night,’ Lorimer began slowly, ‘she was adamant that she had never removed any of her music. Yet when she went on stage for the concert it had gone.’ Somebody had created a series of jobs for Brendan Phillips that night, Lorimer guessed. Unless, of course they had been deliberately manufactured by the Orchestra Manager himself?
‘Really?’ the Orchestra Manager’s eyebrows lifted. ‘She didn’t pass that information on to me,’ he added querulously.
‘Well, events did rather overtake everyone that night,’ Lorimer answered dryly.
‘But, to get back to that other night. The night of Karen’s death,’ he began, ignoring Brendan Phillips’s sudden flinch, ‘nothing out of the ordinary happened at the rehearsal?’
‘No. The musicians turned up. They rehearsed. They went home.’
Lorimer chewed his lip. That was what it was meant to look like, certainly, but not everybody had gone home. Someone had stayed behind with the Second Violin to make sure she would never go home again. ‘Who was on duty from the administrative side of the Orchestra that night?’
‘I was. They don’t need anybody else on a rehearsal night. The sound technicians and the lighting people are all employees of the Hall. There’s a security man downstairs, and some staff in front of house earlier on, in the gift shop and at the box office. By the time we’re ready to leave it’s pretty quiet.’
Lorimer was thoughtful. This was information he’d already had from the Concert Hall’s security boys. Surely Phillips realised that.
Or was he deliberately trying to take away from the fact that he had been solely responsible for the Orchestra’s management that night? Was he experiencing guilt for what had happened?
‘So. You were on your own. Did you watch the rehearsal from the wings or were you out front?’
Brendan frowned. ‘A bit of both. I have to take the register so I’m always in the Hall until everyone’s arrived. But I wasn’t on my own. Maurice Drummond was there too. It was a Chorus night, you see. Once they’d started the programme and I knew they all had music and everything, I stayed out front with Maurice and listened for a while. It helps to get an idea of the balance of sound,’ he added.
‘Then?’
‘Then I’m back in Ness. That’s the room I always use here. Everybody knows where to find me. There are people popping in and out all the time.’
‘I’ve got a list of everyone who took part in the rehearsal,’ Lorimer said. ‘It looks like everyone who was there also took part in the concert that was on the night George Millar died.’
‘And why should that be significant?’
‘Well, think about it. They’ve hardly got over that night. Surely some of them are still in shock. It wouldn’t have come as a surprise to find that certain people had pulled out and had to be replaced at short notice.’
‘Chief Inspector, don’t forget these are professional musicians we’re talking about. They are well able to cope under strain. But, remember this: performing isn’t simply a matter of choice for most of them. It’s their bread and butter.’
The Orchestra Manager had become more assertive, thought Lorimer, as he sought to defend his Orchestra. The mother-hen act came naturally to him, he realised wryly. Brendan Phillips was probably just the right sort of bloke to have around an organisation like this.
‘You mentioned once before a library box, I think you called it, where spare strings and reeds are kept. I take it you had this at the rehearsal?’
‘Oh, yes. It’s with the Orchestra every time they play.’
‘And would you have noticed if there had been anything missing?’ Lorimer looked keenly at him. Neither man needed to mention the harp string that had been wound around the neck of Karen Quentin-Jones.
‘Yes. But not right away. I make a note of all the items used about once a month. Partly to replace them if we’re short, but also to keep tabs on the costs as we reorder,’ he added.
‘And where is this record kept?’ Lorimer asked.
Brendan Phillips coloured up at once. Lorimer could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallowed. He broke eye contact with the detective and rustled in among the papers on his desk but it didn’t take too much attention on Lorimer’s part to see that the paper in question had been on top of the pile.
‘So,’ Lorimer gave him a lopsided smile. ‘You were there ahead of me, were you?’
Brendan Phillips raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘What do you expect? I’m not stupid. Of course I wanted to check if there was a missing string.’
‘And?’
‘Yes. There was. There should have been a number 34.’
‘Can you describe it to me?’
‘Yes. It’s a fifth octave string, wire, not plastic, and it, it … wasn’t there.’ He looked up tentatively and Lorimer knew what he wanted to ask so he nodded.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having a look at the one we have in Pathology?’
The man’s shudder was possibly exaggerated but his sense of horror was quite real. There was a pause before he whispered, ‘I suppose I have to, haven’t I?’
Chapter Thirteen
Solomon Brightman had been asked in as an observer to this second interview with Carl Bekaert. Lorimer had scanned Jo’s notes accompanying his first statement made shortly
after George Millar’s death. Reading between the lines, DI Grant had seemed to feel sorry for the Danish viola player. He’d blustered about his friend George, but had stopped short of admitting any closer relationship with the victim. Jo hadn’t pressed the point. Why?
‘Sit somewhere out of the way,’ Lorimer had asked him, hoping that the psychologist might be discreet. It was pretty hard to hide such a man, however; his black beard and curling locks drew the eye even in the darkest corner of the room.
Nevertheless he was out of the Dane’s line of vision and Lorimer hoped to keep it that way throughout the interview.
Carl Bekaert had stooped as he’d entered the poorly lit room. His eyes flicked back and forth as the Chief Inspector motioned him to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. Even as the musician folded his long limbs under the table that lay between them Lorimer saw that he kept his eyes fixed to the floor.
From his corner position Solly watched the man’s body language give up its secrets.
Carl held his hands together, pressing fingers against knuckles until the tips showed blood red. His head was bowed in a position of utter defeat as if he were waiting for something he felt was inevitable: an accusation, perhaps? Or was he simply afraid to admit his homosexuality? His pale, blond hair was cut close to his ears like a schoolboy’s, Solly noticed. In fact the man’s whole demeanour was like that of a recalcitrant boy facing his headmaster.
‘Carl Bekaert?’ Lorimer’s tones were entirely neutral but the man’s head jerked up as if his name had been screamed out.
‘Yes. I am he.’ He lifted his head and looked at his interrogator for the first time. Lorimer’s initial impression was of a human being devoid of any colour; all the life seem to have leached out of his skin and hair making him look like a faded sepia print. Even his eyes had that pale yellow tinge. It was as if the Dane had emerged from years of dwelling in some subterranean chamber. was he always so anaemic looking or was this the effect of grief? Lorimer continued to study the musician. Carl’s hands clutched the sides of the chair making him sit bolt upright. A muscle on his right cheek twitched involuntarily. Lorimer shifted in his chair.
‘We asked you in again today, partly to discuss your relationship with George Millar.’ Noticing Carl pursing his lips in defiance, Lorimer held up a hand. ‘Don’t try to deny it, please. It will only make things worse for you in the long run.’
A tide of colour rose over the Dane’s clenched jaw, instantly making him appear more human.
‘It was known,’ he faltered, rubbing his finger against his nostrils. ‘Our relationship. The other members of the Orchestra, they know about George and I.’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed, ‘It was Karen Quentin-Jones who told me about it.’
Carl nodded, ‘So. She tells tales and then she is put away. That is what you want to talk to me about, yes?’ The musician leant to one side, searching in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. He took it out wiping his nose briefly.
That was interesting, Solly thought to himself. He’d instinctively used a euphemism for death. She is put away. What was he afraid of: death in general or the act of killing? or had he tried to blot out the horrors surrounding the two murders? Solomon Brightman could understand that reaction. He’d been close enough to cases of murder to know the emotions such events could produce. And was the musician so choked with emotion that he needed to wipe his nose? That hadn’t been apparent from his voice. Maybe he just had a cold coming on. Solly’s eyes shifted to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer’s expression betrayed nothing at all, neither kindliness nor harshness. His was the face of the trained professional, open and receptive, welcoming any statement that might help the case. Any change in that expression would work on the person who had to endure his unflinching gaze.
‘She told me that you and Simon were both lovers of George Millar. Is that true?’
Carl sat back in the chair, hands below the level of the desk, avoiding Lorimer’s stare. There was a momentary silence as if the Dane was struggling to decide what his answer should be. Then he looked up at Lorimer, a sudden light in his eyes. ‘Yes. Yes it is true. We love that man. OK? What’s so bad about that, Chief Inspector? Love. It’s not a dirty word, no?’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘Your relationship with George Millar only concerns me insofar as it concerns his death.’ He clasped his hands together on the desk. ‘Tell me, Mr Bekaert, were you still on good terms with George Millar at the time of his death?’
‘Good terms! What you mean good terms? We were friends. No, more than friends. I admit it now. OK? We were lovers!’ The Dane’s voice rose in a crescendo.
‘At the time of his death?’ Lorimer persisted.
‘I was not there at the time of his death. I tell this to the other officer. She writes it down. OK?’ Carl was leaning forward now, glaring at Lorimer.
‘What I mean is, you were still lovers right up until Mr Millar’s death?’
Carl sank back once more into the plastic seat, the rage taken out of him by Lorimer’s measured tones.
‘Of course.’
‘And Simon Corrigan?’
‘That one was never serious. They just fooled about. George laughed at him. That was all.’
Lorimer didn’t respond. Simon Corrigan’s statement backed this up, but only to a point. Had George Millar been quite so dismissive of the horn player?
‘I’d like you to describe what happened after the rehearsal for your Christmas concert.’
‘What happened? Nothing happened. We put our instruments back into their cases, took our coats off their pegs in the dressing room and went home.’
‘Which dressing room would that be, sir?’
‘Number one. We have decent tables in there so we can eat our food in a more civilised manner.’
Listening to the Dane, Solomon realised that his English was becoming better and better the more he grew in confidence. Had the stilted responses been an act, then? Had he been cultivating an imaginary language barrier? That was a ploy that could gain sympathy in confrontational situations. Interesting, the psychologist nodded to himself. And was Lorimer aware of it too? He wondered.
‘You left the Concert Hall at fourteen minutes past eleven. That was over an hour after the rehearsal had finished. Do you mind telling us what you were doing in that time, Mr Bekaert?’
Carl Bekaert’s eyes avoided those of Chief Inspector Lorimer. He mumbled something to himself.
‘Yes, Mr Bekaert?’
‘I was in the men’s lavatory.’
‘For a whole hour? Mind telling us just what you were doing?’
Solomon looked up. Lorimer’s voice had an edge to it that the psychologist recognised. He looked from one man to the other. Lorimer’s demeanour was as impassive as ever but Solly knew that it was like a snake waiting to strike.
‘I had some stuff with me. It took a while, that’s all.’
‘Stuff?’ Lorimer was playing the innocent, Solly knew, grinning in his corner as the conversation batted back and forth between them.
‘Cocaine,’ as the word was wrested from the Dane, he clasped his hands behind his neck and gave a sigh concentrating his gaze towards the floor.
‘I see. And is there anyone who can verify this?’
Carl Bekaert looked up, clearly shocked. He’d come clean about his relationship with George Millar and had admitted being a cocaine user. What more did this policeman want?
‘You think I have others there watching me?’
‘Perhaps someone saw you going into the gents? Maybe someone who could testify that you were there for, how long did you say?’
‘I don’t know,’ the Dane replied, his face now troubled. ‘I think other people came and went. I heard voices but I was, well, preoccupied.’
‘Was it generally known that you were a user?’
The musician shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? It’s not something I discussed with the other players.’
‘How long were you actually in
there?’
Again the Dane gave a shrug, ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when … well, when you’re …’ he sighed as if trying to find the right words, ‘when you’re experiencing something uplifting,’ he said, meeting Lorimer’s eyes to see if the policeman was maybe on his wavelength. But there was no empathy from the blue stare that met his gaze.
‘We have something of a difficulty here, Mr Bekaert. You see, unless you can give us proof that you were exactly where you say you were, then we may have to look at the possibility that you were with Karen Quentin-Jones.’
From his corner, Solly listened in admiration. Despite the gravity of the situation Lorimer managed to sound as if he were discussing the man’s overdraft rather than an alibi for murder.
Carl Bekaert simply stared, slack-jawed, as if the notion of being a murder suspect had never dawned upon him. He looked at Lorimer in disbelief then turned to see who else in the room had heard the detective’s words. The duty officer at the door made no movement and the bearded man in the corner merely smiled sadly as if he would like to help but couldn’t.
Then, ‘No. No. You must not think these things. I did not see Karen after the rehearsal was finished. As far as I know she went to the ladies’ dressing room and …’
‘Did you actually see her go into the ladies’ dressing room, then?’ Lorimer interrupted.
‘No. No. I did not see her at all. What I mean is she must have gone there. Where else would she go?’ Carl Bekaert shook his clasped hands frantically.
‘I have to tell you, Mr Bekaert, that you appear to have been the last member of the Orchestra to leave the building that night.’ Lorimer spoke gently as if breaking the worst possible news to the musician. ‘We have close circuit camera evidence to back this up.’
Carl looked around him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘You think I put an end to her?’ he whispered.
Solly raised his eyebrows. That euphemistic phrase again. Was the man displaying one half of a split personality, one that denied the brutal act of murder, one that feared the violence of its alter ego or simply the consequences of its action? Or was this the behaviour of a man innocent of the ultimate crime? Watching him, Solly pondered these options, wondering how far Lorimer was prepared to take this.
