by Alex Gray
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 amp; 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.
‘You’ll need to go down to make a written statement,’ Lorimer told the journalist. ‘Better make it now.’ Lorimer’s tone told the journalist he was telling, not asking. Greer’s shoulders twitched in a shrug then he swallowed down the remaining whisky, set it down beside the folded paper and followed Lorimer out of the pub.
‘Flynn? Joseph Alexander Flynn?’ DS Alistair Wilson’s voice was incredulous.
‘He didn’t give me first names. Why?’
‘From your description it must be the same fellow I picked up outside the Concert Hall the night of the murder.’
Lorimer gave a snort. ‘Would you believe it? So where’s this Flynn’s statement, then?’
Wilson smiled as he indicated a file well to the bottom of the heap of paperwork on Lorimer’s desk.
‘Interviewed him and gave him a cup of tea. Poor blighter looked frozen. Scared, too, though that’s the norm when we come into contact with those boys. They’re suspicious of us being suspicious of them. Can’t seem to break the vicious circle, more’s the pity.’
Lorimer knew what Wilson meant. There was little trust between the street people and the Police but sometimes a relationship could be built up and one of them would trade information for a few quid to keep body and soul together.
‘Any address or is that a daft question?’
Wilson’s raised eyebrows told Lorimer that it was. ‘Could try to find him around the town, though. He hangs about between the Concert Hall and St Enoch’s, usually. I’ll go out, if you like, since I’ve got his ID.’
Lorimer nodded, still reading what little information the boy had given his Detective Sergeant. It was coming up to midday and the streets crowded with lunchtime workers might well tempt the beggars into the city centre.
‘OK, do that, but don’t ask around for him just yet, I don’t want him doing a disappearing act. Just see if he’s in the city.’
Once Wilson had left, Lorimer stood looking out of his window. Greer’s revelations had given him some disquiet. Not only had George Millar been mixed up in various shady dealings, he’d involved Karen Quentin-Jones. He recalled the woman’s superior attitude and her obvious dislike of the late Leader of the Orchestra. Why on earth had the woman bought her violin from him? She’d struck Lorimer as a very knowing type. Surely she’d been aware of the Leader’s scam?
Well, there was one way to find out.
Chapter Nine
The girl with the long dark hair put down two brimming lattes and sat beside her companion, a young man who was hunched into his leather jacket. He seemed not to notice the coffee, for she had to slide it closer to him and nudge his knee to make him sit up. The lights from the mosaic floor in the centre of Princes Square reflected on the glasses, making miniature stars on their sides. She pushed one glass of coffee closer to him.
‘C’mon, Chris. You have to have something. It’s no good moping like this. That’s not going to achieve anything, is it?’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ The young man smiled. ‘Still trying to be the amateur psychologist, are you?’
The girl gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Maybe. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so bossy.’
‘Getting just like your mum, you are,’ he told her, taking a sip of the latte.
‘God, don’t say that! I’ve not been that bad, have I?’
‘It’s OK. I probably need a bit of geeing up. It’s not that easy to cope with, y’know. Who’d have thought that George …’
His voice broke suddenly and he felt for a handkerchief in his pocket but the girl was too quick for him and passed him a tissue from her handbag.
‘You’ll all miss him, won’t you? Especially your own section,’ the girl whispered. The strings had all looked up to George Millar, she knew. She had even heard her own mother, who was Second Violin, admit what a great Leader he had been. Chris had simply doted on the man.
Around them the buzz of lunchtime shoppers merged with the sound of a piano playing. Strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ floated over the cafes clustered around the atrium. Nobody paid any attention to the young man blowing his nose or of the anxious glances he was receiving from the girl by his side.
‘What’ll you do now?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ he sniffed. ‘Maybe move back in with Si?’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Probably not, but we’ll have a lot of fun cheering one another up.’
The man’s sudden grin transformed his face at once making the girl sigh.
‘Oh, Chris. Why are all the loveliest boys unavailable?’ she whispered, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes as she spoke.
‘I’m always available for you, pal. You know that,’ he replied, his han
d covering hers.
‘Aye, for coffee and sympathy,’ she groaned. ‘Just as well I don’t fancy you, isn’t it?’
‘Bit of a waste of time that would be,’ he laughed in reply.
A shadow blocking out the light from the circular floor made Chris Hunter look up but it was just someone pausing to look around. Possibly looking for a seat? Chris twisted round and watched the figure disappearing in the direction of the escalator. Funny, he thought to himself. Just for a moment he thought he’d recognised the man. Don’t be daft, he told himself. It’s just shadows playing tricks with your imagination. Anyway, wasn’t he bound to be jumpy after what had happened?
‘That’s right,’ Brendan told her. ‘He changed his address recently and it was scored off my original list. No problem, Constable. Anything else I can help with, just ring me.’
Annie Irvine slotted the name neatly into its correct alphabetical place. Hunter Chris, c/o 135 Ingram Street. Not a permanent residence, she saw. Fairly new to the Orchestra, Brendan Phillips had told her. Funny he’d had two addresses already then, wasn’t it? Maybe digs were hard to come by for musicians, she supposed. They weren’t all that well off, were they? Still, he’d been interviewed at the Concert Hall. There wouldn’t be much cause to call on him at home, would there? Annie flicked the mouse button and the list of names vanished into its file somewhere in the ether.
Alistair Wilson stepped out into the middle of the pedestrian precinct, looking this way and that. Anybody glancing his way would have seen a well dressed middle-aged man out doing his shopping, the Habitat carrier bag part of his camouflage. A strong sweet scent told him he was nearing the corner where the perfume from soaps and bath ballistics wafted out of Lush. Betty loved stuff like that. And it was her birthday soon. He stopped to look at the beribboned boxes stacked by the door. He could always get them to make her up a big box of stuff, couldn’t he? Wilson told himself. But his shopping would have to wait. It certainly wouldn’t be today when he was trying to find one particular boy in all these crowds of shoppers and lunchtime diners.
