by Alex Gray
Maurice Drummond sat up straight and frowned, hand to his chin. ‘I’m not sure I can recall, Chief Inspector. There was nothing really memorable about the performance. Karen played the Albinoni beautifully and my singers were in top form. I do remember watching Poliakovski, though, because I’d never seen him conduct our Chorus before.’
‘He’s not a man for Choral music, then?’
‘On the contrary, he’s renowned for his expertise with singers,’ Maurice replied dryly.
Lorimer cocked his head. Was there something underlying the man’s words?
‘And were you satisfied he treated your Chorus well?’
Maurice Drummond hesitated before answering. ‘They were all pleased with their performance. I think they enjoyed having him conduct them on the evening.’
‘But not at the rehearsal?’
‘You heard, then?’ Maurice looked up as Lorimer gave a nod. ‘He gave them an absolute bollocking in the afternoon. Some of my sopranos were in tears.’
‘Oh? What exactly was the cause of the Maestro’s temper?’
‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Drummond looked at Lorimer accusingly.
‘Only that the rehearsal had been a bit fraught. Mr Phillips didn’t go into any details,’ Lorimer replied.
Drummond gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘The man’s a monster. All charm when it suits him, fawning over the ladies of the front row then screaming abuse at them if he thinks they’re not giving of their best.’
‘And were they?’
Drummond scowled. ‘Of course. But it was a rehearsal. I always tell my singers to save something for the actual night. I won’t have their voices wrecked just because some Russian Bear wants a sustained top C over and over again.’
‘But he was good with them on the night?’
‘Had them eating out of his hand. You should have heard them afterwards, positively cooing.’
‘So the afternoon rehearsal was put behind them?’
Drummond nodded.
‘You were in the audience before the concert began, that’s correct?’
‘Yes. Once the Chorus are on stage I make my way upstairs to the back of the Circle. Somewhere I can see all that’s going on,’ he smiled wryly.
‘There was nothing about the performance, maybe by one of the musicians, that you found unusual, perhaps?’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘An extra nervousness. Maybe caused by the Maestro’s earlier temper?’
‘Not that I recall. The band was fine. No jitters from any of them. But they’re all pros. Hysterical conductors are like water off a duck’s back to that lot.’
‘And no outstanding performers among them?’
‘Karen, of course. But I’ve already mentioned her. No. I can’t think that there was anything else,’ Drummond looked towards the carpet and bit his fingernail as if trying to run the concert through again in his mind’s eye.
As he closed the door on the two policemen, Maurice’s heart was beating loudly. Had they seen his hesitation? Would they have figured out that he was lying to them? And what on earth did they think an individual player’s performance had to do with George’s murder?
Maurice sank into an armchair. Had his concern for the Chorus deflected attention from the other aspects of the performance? He hoped so.
There was no way C. Maurice Drummond wanted his name linked to a particular member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra, someone who had held his undivided attention for the whole performance; especially during a murder investigation.
Chapter Eighteen
Superintendent Mark Mitchison put his hand to his stomach. The pain was worse than ever today, a gnawing that began in his gut and travelled all the way upwards like broken glass. Stress, the doctor had said. He’d thought it was just acid reflux at first and had prescribed the usual pills but they hadn’t worked.
Another spasm made him groan and lean over, clutching his stomach, just as he heard a knock on the door.
‘Sir!’ WPC Irvine crossed the room in double quick time. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as Mitchison tried to straighten up.
The policewoman saw the handsome face change colour from white to grey and watched, mesmerised as the man stumbled then fell forward, one hand clutched tightly to his middle.
‘D’ye hear the latest? Mitchison’s been signed off on the sick,’ Martha McKinlay wagged her head at Sadie as the two women finished drying the formica tabletops in the staff canteen.
‘Aye, well, that’ll please some of them. He’s no’ that well liked, is he?’
‘Och, Sadie, that’s terrible. A’ him that ill.’
‘Why? Whit’s wrang wi’ him?’
‘Collapsed in his office. Someone said it might be a heart attack,’ Martha’s voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Hmph. Well, we’ll see. Who’ll be taking over from him? Someone from outside again?’
‘Well, rumour has it that Lorimer’s been asked to be acting Super.’
‘That’ll no please him. He’s up to his neck in this Concert Hall case. He’ll no’ want tae gie’ that up.’
‘There’s no question of you being taken off this case,’ the Assistant Chief Constable told Lorimer. ‘You’ll still be the investigating officer as far as we’re concerned. But your time will be split between the two jobs, of course. Superintendent Mitchison has a pretty full diary,’ she frowned.
Lorimer watched the woman on the opposite side of the desk. She was older than him by about ten years, her fair hair short and neat, her face made up discreetly. Yes, Joyce Rogers was still a feminine woman despite all her experience in the Force. Some of the women became hardened after a while, the dark underside of police work showing on their faces. Had she been instrumental in Mitchison’s appointment in the first place, he wondered? If so, then this was the woman who’d rejected Lorimer himself for the job. He’d never know, and that was just as well.
‘How long is the Superintendent expected to be off?’ he asked mildly.
Joyce Rogers smiled thinly. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s suffering from stress and will be off until at least the end of the year. His doctor has told him to take a complete break and our own medical man has endorsed that.’
Lorimer nodded. That made sense. None of them would take time off willingly. So. The police doctor had had the last say. Mitchison must have gone off under protest, then. Lorimer wasn’t sorry. The man had been acting strangely for weeks now, behaviour that could be explained by his present illness.
‘He’s not the first senior officer to have succumbed to stress and he won’t be the last,’ Joyce Rogers looked Lorimer directly in the eye. ‘You’ve got your work cut out in the next few weeks, Chief Inspector, but that is no reason not to take the leave you’d planned.’ The Assistant Constable’s eyes twinkled. ‘We can’t have all our senior officers stretched to the limit. And I suppose Mrs Lorimer would be very put out if you didn’t arrive for Christmas?’
‘Indeed,’ Lorimer agreed, wondering just how much this lady knew about his domestic arrangements. Maggie would be more than disappointed. It would drive another huge wedge between them if he were to fail her this time. ‘Who’ll cover since Superintendent Mitchison won’t be back from sick leave before Christmas, ma’am?’
‘We’ve taken care of that, Lorimer.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Just see if you can shed some of Superintendent Mitchison’s workload in the meantime, eh? Spare a few trees.’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows in surprise. Word about Mitchison’s paper trails had reached the highest levels, had it? ‘Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be glad to oblige.’
‘And one more thing, Chief Inspector. We would appreciate a result on the Concert Hall case. Not that I’m putting you under any pressure, you understand …’
‘Bill, that’s great!’ Maggie enthused. ‘But will you still be able to come out?’ Lorimer could hear the sudden quiver in her voice. The telephone ha
d been serving him well these past weeks as a means of telling him just how Maggie was feeling. He was used to the nuances of the human voice. It was one of those skills that had grown with the job.
‘Of course we will,’ he assured her. ‘The Assistant Chief Constable herself assured me of that.’
‘Joyce Rogers?’
‘The same.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then. I like her. This can only do your career some good. After all, acting Super is just a step away from being appointed somewhere else, isn’t it?’
Lorimer shrugged. It wasn’t something he’d considered until now. Leaving the Division and all his team behind wasn’t a thought he particularly relished. And did he really want to be bothered with all these Superintendents’ meetings that seemed to be par for the course?
‘Maybe I’m happy just as I am,’ he told his wife at last. There was a silence that he took for her disapproval. ‘Catching criminals,’ he added at last. ‘Talking of which I must get some sleep. There are a hundred and one things I want to delete from Mitchison’s diary tomorrow. The Concert Hall case has gone quiet on me for now.’
‘Just as well.’
‘Hm,’ Lorimer sounded at odds with Maggie’s remark. He’d rather have a solution to these two murders any day than a promotion, no matter how temporary it was.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Karen Quentin-Jones’ was the headline in bold at the top of Lorimer’s latest report. He’d continually been putting out feelers about the woman who had spoken to him on the night of George Millar’s death.
She’d been born Karen Scott, the only daughter of a merchant banker and his wife. Both parents were deceased now so there were few to tell him about her earlier years. He read the words on the first page, details about her musical background and early education: private school, year away, RSAMD then marriage to Derek Quentin-Jones. They’d had one child, a girl, who was now a student at the University of Glasgow.
The Surgeon had tried to be helpful, but Lorimer guessed that he had been selective in what he told the police. It was all just too much a glowing account of a talented young musician. Karen had been more than that, Lorimer knew, even from his brief acquaintance with the woman. There was a hard core to her that he wanted to try and crack, if he could.
Some of the older members of the Orchestra had added snippets of information to the stuff Quentin-Jones had provided but it hadn’t amounted to very much, really. What had she known about George Millar? Was she really unaware that her violin had been stolen and sold to her husband? Perhaps.
Maybe she was vain enough to take such things as her due. She hadn’t liked the First Violin, though, had she? That had been patently clear from her attitude and Derek Quentin-Jones had corroborated that.
No. There would have to be more investigation into her background. Someone somewhere must know why she had lingered in the Concert Hall after that rehearsal.
Lorimer cast his mind back to his interviews with the technical staff. They had simply left the music stands where they had stood ready for the next day’s rehearsal. And there had been no close circuit televisions trained on the stage. Lorimer thumped the report onto his desk. She’d been dressed for the street, probably just about to leave, so who had called her back? He imagined her standing somewhere in that labyrinth of corridors, violin case in hand. And why did they go onto the stage? Lorimer’s glance fell onto the red folder. His report was based on several officers’ work, their original typewritten sheets all crammed together.
Had they missed something? Mitchison had got them all into the habit of submitting neat copy to the investigating officer. Had something been left out of the hotchpotch of margin notes and post-it notes that covered their working drafts?
‘Mrs Edith Millar,’ DC Cameron said. ‘She was questioned about the victim and gave some background information. I did have the impression she could have said more. She’s quite a funny woman, that,’ he added, his lilting Lewis accent understating what his boss already knew.
Lorimer nodded. Edith Millar was an unusual person. Maybe it was time to pay another visit. If only he didn’t have all of Mitchison’s stuff to contend with. A sudden thought made him look at the Detective Constable narrowly.
‘Fancy taking Doctor Brightman back there? Just to see if you can glean a bit more?’
Solly tramped by the side of the young detective, his feet having to make larger strides to keep up. The city was still in the grip of an early winter, bare trees thrusting their branches into a sky that promised more snow. The very air seemed to tremble on the brink of something momentous; not even a breath of wind blew the last fallen leaves from the frozen lawns.
Solly was between lectures and had only agreed to the visit because Huntly gardens was a ten-minute walk from his department. ‘Lorimer trusts my intuition, it seems,’ DC Cameron had told him with a self-deprecating grin. well, it remained to be seen if this Hebridean officer had a glimmer of the second sight or if they were simply wasting their time going over old ground. Mrs Millar would be at home, Cameron told him. She’d be expecting them. Solly looked around him intently as they turned from the street, noting the polished brass bell pull and the freshly scrubbed steps. Somebody had had the energy to make an effort, he mused. Was it George Millar’s widow?
Solly’s first impression of Edith Millar was of a sensitive face framed with fine grey hair and eyes that looked directly into those of her visitors.
‘Come in,’ she told them and Solly found himself ushered into a dark wood panelled hallway then into a bright sitting room where a grand piano dominated the large bay window.
‘I’m Doctor Brightman,’ Solly told her, taking her hand in his. She was cold, he noticed, despite the warmth of this room. Perhaps she’d been outside?
‘Please sit down,’ she said, her hand sweeping towards a flowered chintz armchair across from a matching settee. ‘Some tea? Coffee?’
‘No thank you. we don’t want to keep you too long,’ Solly answered, his mind half on the class that would expect him in less than an hour.
Perching on the edge of the settee, Solly began. ‘We would like to ask you a bit more about the violinist, Karen Quentin-Jones.’
Edith Millar stared at him. ‘Yes?’ she answered, just the faintest hint of curiosity in her reply.
‘How long had you known her?’
Edith Millar nodded as if the question had been long expected. ‘Quite some time, Doctor.’ Solly saw her bite her lower lip as she hesitated. ‘You see, she was one of my husband’s pupils.’
‘You didn’t tell us that before!’ Cameron began to protest but the woman’s raised eyebrows stopped him in his tracks.
‘Nobody asked me,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been an issue. Till now,’ she added, looking towards Solly once more.
Detective Constable Cameron looked outraged and on the point of protesting but a gesture from Solly stopped him.
‘So, did Karen Quentin-Jones come here for her lessons?’
Edith Millar shook her head. ‘We lived in Great George Street in those days. And the young girl who came for her lessons then was known as Karen Scott.’
‘Did you know her well at that time?’ Solly asked.
Edith Millar smiled at him. ‘I’m not sure if I did. I thought I knew her fairly well at one time, but then …’ Her voice trailed off. The woman sat up and cocked her head to one side suddenly. ‘How much do you want to know about Karen’s teenage years?’
‘Everything you can tell us,’ Solly replied. ‘The more we know the better we are able to understand the victim. And perhaps that will assist us in finding her killer.’
And George’s, he expected her to reply, but curiously the words remained unspoken.
‘Very well,’ Edith Millar folded her hands on her lap and looked down at them as if bracing herself for something hard. ‘Karen came to George for lessons for about three years. She was a superb pupil, the best he ever had, but she had an attitude, you know. Karen was an only chil
d and rather indulged. I haven’t been blessed with children, Doctor Brightman, but I know enough about them to tell a spoilt child from one that is loving and giving. Karen, I’m afraid, fell into the former category. She was never a giver. Except,’ she broke off and glanced at Solomon. ‘She did give herself to a boy. But it didn’t last.’
‘What happened?’
Edith Millar sighed heavily. ‘Oh, dear. I never thought I’d have to tell this story to anybody.’
‘Go on, please,’ Solly nodded his head encouragingly.
‘Karen left to go to Bristol. She was away for a year during which time she had a baby. It was adopted and she came home again. I don’t think anybody else knew outside the family.’
‘And the boy? The father of her child?’
Edith smiled serenely. ‘A lovely boy. He was far too good for her. Quiet and studious, but with real charm.’ She lifted her eyes to meet Solly’s. ‘He was one of my piano pupils, a gifted lad with a place in the Royal Scottish Academy for Music and Drama all ready and waiting. But he didn’t go. Karen’s betrayal finished him.’
‘Her betrayal? what exactly do you mean?’
‘Oh, he wanted to marry her, have the baby. He was that type of boy, Doctor. A giver. And besides, he was totally besotted. Not like Karen. She ended it all and left. The bitter irony was that she came back to Glasgow and waltzed straight into the Academy. Then of course she met Derek. And that was that.’
‘And the father? Is he still in the Glasgow area?’ Cameron asked.
‘Oh, yes, Detective Constable, very much so.’
Solly smiled at her. He’d expected that answer. There was more than a teacher’s warmth in her description of her piano pupil. This was someone who might still be close.
‘A name would be helpful,’ he nodded.
Solly watched as the woman’s dark eyes filled with tears.
‘Maurice Drummond,’ she whispered, then, covering her eyes with her hands, Edith Millar began to sob.
