Shadows of Sounds lab-3

by Alex Gray

Chapter Twenty

  Lorimer whistled as DC Cameron related Edith Millar’s story.

  ‘OK. Let’s see what Drummond’s got to say about all that. Not mentioning his relationship with the murder victim is worth a bit more probing, don’t you think?’ Lorimer had already reached for his jacket when he remembered his new status. An acting Superintendent couldn’t just waltz out of the building on a whim to interview somebody. He let the jacket slide onto the back of the chair.

  ‘D’you want Drummond brought in?’ Cameron asked, swiftly interpreting his boss’s action. Lorimer chewed his lip. Did he? Maybe a quick visit after office hours might be better.

  ‘No. Leave it with me. I want time to think about this first.’

  Cameron’s face closed. He’d hoped for an immediate command to interview the Chorus Master himself, but evidently it was not to be. Catching sight of his officer’s expression, Lorimer reminded himself of just how far this young policeman had progressed since being transferred to CID.

  ‘Well done, by the way. We’d not have got this far if you hadn’t thought of Edith Millar’s reticence.’

  After Cameron had left, Lorimer sat, chin propped into his fingertips, pondering his next move. Would it profit the case to rake up Karen’s past? Perhaps.

  One question that certainly required an answer was what sort of relationship had existed between Maurice Drummond and Karen Quentin-Jones in their grown-up lives? Had that earlier animosity rankled between them? Casting his mind back, Lorimer could not recall anything adverse that Drummond had said about the dead woman. On the contrary, he’d been fulsome in his praise of her playing the night of George Millar’s murder. Had their affair resumed, then? And what, if anything, did the Surgeon know about his wife’s teenage pregnancy?

  Lorimer looked at the clock. There were hours to go before he could leave, with meetings that he couldn’t duck out of. Blast Mitchison! For once the DCI heartily wished his senior colleague back in his own office, building his little empire. Then at least Lorimer could pursue this new information to his heart’s content. The telephone rang, intruding in his thoughts and signalling a resumption of his other, temporary duties.

  Lorimer parked the car under the trees that lined the river Kelvin. Maurice Drummond had chosen a quiet area in which to live, yet it was only a short walk to the bustling activity of the West End.

  ‘Well, his light’s on anyway,’ he remarked to Solly, looking up at the bay windowed lounge. ‘Seems our Chorus Master is at home.’

  As the two men stood waiting for a reply to the security buzzer, a cyclist wobbled to a halt below them then heaved his bicycle up the short flight of steps to the doorway.

  ‘Going in?’ the young man asked them, inserting his key into the lock.

  ‘Aye,’ Lorimer replied shortly. This was answered by a curious once up-and-down look from the cyclist.

  Apparently deciding that the tall man and his bearded companion posed no threat, he pushed open the door and wheeled his cycle into the cavernous hallway.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lorimer said as he headed for the main stair that led to Maurice Drummond’s flat.

  Solly’s nod and smile appeared to disquiet the young man more than Lorimer’s brusque manner, for he stood staring after them as they turned the angle of the stone staircase until their footsteps had faded away.

  ‘Mr Drummond. Good evening,’ Lorimer smiled as the Chorus Master opened his door.

  Caught unawares, a flicker of something akin to fear crossed Maurice Drummond’s face as he saw the two men standing on his doorstep. Interesting, thought Solly. Does he think we’re here to arrest him? He watched carefully as Lorimer made the necessary introductions, smiling politely and extending his hand to the man whose evening they were about to interrupt so rudely. Drummond regained his composure quite quickly, but there was still that wariness that told Solly something: here was a man with secrets to hide.

  ‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’ Drummond asked, waving them into the big sitting room with its grand piano. ‘Please sit down,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied, unbuttoning his coat and laying it across the piano stool. Solly followed the Chorus Master’s eyes, sensing his inner dismay at Lorimer’s small action. This was not merely a passing visit, then.

  ‘We’ve recently received some new information regarding the murder of Karen Quentin-Jones,’ Lorimer began. ‘Information that directly concerns you, Mr Drummond.’

  Maurice Drummond’s face was suddenly drawn as he sat down facing his two visitors, yet he continued to look straight at Lorimer, caught by the policeman’s gaze almost like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car. He sat still and silent, moistening his lips with the edge of his tongue. Lorimer waited for a moment before continuing, increasing the man’s discomfiture.

  ‘We have been told that you and Mrs Quentin-Jones had an affair some time ago. Is that correct, sir?’

  Maurice Drummond blinked as if he had been struck. ‘Yes. It’s true,’ he whispered. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Edith Millar told us.’

  An expression of relief instantly transformed the Chorus Master’s face and he sank back into his chair. ‘Oh. That. But you can’t seriously consider one youthful indiscretion has any consequences so many years down the line?’ he scoffed.

  Solly smiled. How much human behaviour revealed of itself, he thought.

  ‘But perhaps that wasn’t your only indiscretion, Mr Drummond?’ he suggested quietly. He could sense Lorimer’s eyes turning his way, and knew without looking that the policeman was frowning at him. But it was Maurice Drummond’s eyes he wanted to see and they were once more full of anxiety. Then, dropping his gaze, he shook his head.

  ‘No, it wasn’t’ he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  ‘Tell us how it all began again, would you, sir?’ Solly asked politely.

  Drummond’s mouth tightened as he sought to regain his composure.

  ‘I hadn’t seen Karen for years,’ he began. ‘Not since, well you know about her trip down south. Oh, she had our child, right enough. He was given up for adoption. But you’ll have had all the details from dear Edith,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyhow, I met Karen again by chance. She was married to that prat, Quentin-Jones, and had just begun to play with the City of Glasgow. I was accompanying a soloist who was doing a one-off concert with them. We got talking afterwards and, well, one thing led to another,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘So you resumed your relationship?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Yes. But it didn’t last all that long. A year at the most,

  I’d say.’

  ‘Who broke it off?’

  ‘She did. I expect the novelty of cheating on her husband had worn off. She became the dutiful little wife again and settled down to family life.’ Drummond passed a hand across his brow, ‘Look, that was nearly twenty years ago. We didn’t remain lovers, in fact we didn’t even remain friends. But I had no reason to kill her, you have to believe me!’

  ‘Nobody has accused you of her murder, Mr Drummond, but any new information that comes to light has to be taken into consideration. Surely you realise that?’ Lorimer said.

  ‘Did Mr Quentin-Jones ever know of your relationship with his wife?’ Solly asked.

  Drummond frowned. ‘Not so far as I’m aware. I doubt very much if Karen ever admitted her infidelity. That wouldn’t have been her style at all.’

  ‘And the earlier affair? When you were younger?’ Lorimer continued.

  ‘No. I’m certain she never told a soul. It was something she seemed to be thoroughly ashamed of. Karen was a person who liked to be in control, Chief Inspector. That youthful lapse was not something she’d have liked to acknowledge to anyone.’

  ‘Even her husband?’

  ‘Especially her husband. The man thought the sun rose and set on his wife. There was no way Karen was going to spoil that illusion.’

  ‘But Edith Millar knew so presumably George Millar also knew about it?’
>
  Maurice Drummond gave a shrug. ‘If he did know he never referred to it. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but George could be a nasty old queen when he wanted to. He’d have enjoyed tormenting Karen with a juicy titbit like that. So, no, I’m sure Edith never told him about us.’

  Lorimer’s head was spinning with possibilities. Could Karen Quentin-Jones have murdered her lead violin to shut him up? Was this a case of blackmail rearing its ugly head? He could quite easily imagine the late Leader of the Orchestra adding that to his list of misdeeds. And what of Derek Quentin-Jones? Was the man really unaware of Karen’s past? A doting husband had been known to strangle his cheating wife often enough.

  ‘Where were you on the night of Karen’s death, sir?’ Solly asked quietly. He knew the answer already but needed to see the man’s reaction.

  ‘I’ve already told your colleague,’ Drummond said testily, ‘I was at the Concert Hall with the Chorus for their rehearsal. We have to fit them in around the Orchestra’s schedule. I was out front the whole time then I went home.’

  ‘You weren’t backstage at all, then?’

  ‘No. I even had my coat and bag with me. I’d come straight from work, like most of my singers. You said that could be confirmed, didn’t you?’ he turned to Lorimer.

  ‘Yes, the CCTV footage seems to corroborate what you say. As it does for most of the Chorus and members of the Orchestra,’ Lorimer replied slowly.

  ‘Very well then.’ Drummond stared at each of them in turn. ‘I think that’s about enough, gentlemen. If poking around in my dim and distant past has any bearing at all on Karen’s murder, which I very much doubt, then I’ll be only too pleased to have been of assistance, but now I’d like you both to leave.’

  Maurice Drummond had risen to his feet and was positively glaring at them both. Why this sudden volte-face? Solly was curious. The man’s irritation had no clear focus whatsoever. Lorimer had complied with the Chorus Master’s request, however, and was gathering up his coat.

  ‘We’ll keep you informed of any progress, sir,’ he remarked pleasantly as Drummond pulled open the door and held it wide. Solly thought about offering his hand in a polite gesture but one glance at the man’s face changed his mind. His smile and nod were rewarded with a scowl as the door was shut firmly behind them.

  ‘Well,’ remarked Lorimer as they stepped into the night once more, ‘we certainly rattled his cage and no mistake.’

  ‘I think we did rather more than that,’ Solly replied.

  ‘Aye. You fairly picked up on his vibes, didn’t you? So he’d had another fling with the victim. Says it only lasted a year. Says they were never on great terms again. How are we to know he’s speaking the truth?’

  ‘Are you going to ask her husband?’ Solly looked at Lorimer questioningly.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Lorimer groaned, running his fingers through his hair. ‘That’s not a prospect I relish, believe me. Quentin-Jones is beside himself with grief. Am I supposed to add to that by telling him Maurice Drummond had his wife in the sack twenty years ago?’

  They had stopped by the car and were standing under a street lamp. Weeks of sleepless nights had taken their toll on this man, too, thought Solly as he regarded the lines etched cruelly around Lorimer’s eyes. Not for the first time he realised that Lorimer was a man on a crusade. He’d not rest until he’d found out who had committed these murders, and if they never came to light, then that would only add to his inner turmoil. He’s lonely, too, Solomon thought, seeing the bleakness in the other man’s face. And the pity of it was that the one person who could ease Lorimer’s strain was Maggie.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rosie Fergusson knelt down in front of the living flame fire, her knees tickled by the white furry rug that Solly had placed there.

  ‘Heavens!’ she gasped, ‘Is there never any end to this cold! I can’t remember when we’ve had such bitter weather so early in the year.’

  ‘Our just rewards for a terrific summer,’ Solly reminded her.

  ‘Hmph! Maybe Maggie Lorimer had the right idea after all. Bet she’s not freezing her socks off in Sarasota. What d’you think?’ Rosie twisted round to catch sight of Solly’s expression. ‘Would you up-sticks for a warmer climate?’

  Solly regarded her thoughtfully through his horn-rimmed spectacles. Rosie’s moans about the Scottish weather were nothing new, but he hesitated to share her feelings. Winter in Scotland had produced some of his best days out, the air clear and crisp giving views over the icy hills for miles and miles.

  ‘That’s a no then, I take it?’ she grinned impishly up at him. ‘You wouldn’t fancy trailing across the world with me to find some sunshine, eh?’

  Solly tilted his head thoughtfully. She was teasing him, he knew, but there was an underlying question there. Would he go with Rosie if she were to leave Scotland?

  ‘Would you stay here with me if I asked you to?’ he replied gently, hunkering down by her side so that their two heads were inches apart.

  Suddenly Rosie’s face reddened and Solly watched with interest as she blinked rapidly. He put one finger against the bloom of her cheek and stroked gently, watching her eyes all the time.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Oh, but I did,’ he interrupted her smoothly. ‘I really did.’

  Solly drew her chin towards him and kissed her lips, then, as Rosie wriggled to be closer to him, his arm folded her into his embrace.

  ‘Stay with me over Christmas. That could be a start. What do you think?’ he said softly as they broke apart and was gratified to see Rosie’s blonde head bob up and down in immediate agreement.

  Flynn shivered as the frozen air hit his face. For ages now he’d imagined being outside, wished for it every day of this past week, but now, with DCI Lorimer by his side, he wasn’t so sure. The naked trees swayed in the wind as they made their way from the hospital, causing the boy to pull the parka hood over his head. It would hide the dressing as well, he thought, conscious of the pad still taped across his skull.

  ‘Hope you’ve got central heating,’ he remarked.

  ‘Aye,’ Lorimer grinned, ‘and an electric blanket for your bed. Don’t worry, it’s quite civilised even if the wife’s away!’

  ‘Good! Ah’m freezin’ out here!’

  ‘Come on, the car’s just over there. I got the last space opposite the main door.’

  ‘Jeez!’ Flynn’s eyes were round with astonishment as they stopped next to Lorimer’s car. ‘You got a second job, pal? What’s with the wheels, then?’ he asked, running his finger across the passenger door.

  ‘No kids,’ Lorimer answered, his standard reply to the perennial question. The old Lexus still raised a few eyebrows among the younger members of the Division. Somehow, as he’d once overheard a new PC remark, a luxury car like that didn’t sit comfortably with the other vehicles in the car park.

  ‘Must cost a packet to run,’ Flynn went on, bending over to peer at the dashboard.

  ‘In you go,’ Lorimer replied, opening the door for him. ‘It gets me from A to B, only quicker.’ He flashed a conspiratorial grin at the boy. For a fleeting moment Lorimer sensed that this was what it would feel like to have a son of his own, a lad he could share talk about cars and stuff.

  Well, it hadn’t happened for them and there was no more they wanted to do about it. Maggie and he had gone down the IVF road more than once before deciding it just wasn’t to be.

  ‘Hey, man, pretty smooth,’ Flynn grinned at Lorimer as the car purred out of the hospital gates. ‘I could get to like this!’

  Lorimer smiled. If Flynn was as easily impressed as this then he’d be OK about the house. He had done his best to make the place homely, even remembering to switch on the heating to warm up the rooms.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive from the Southern General Hospital during which time Flynn had asked Lorimer things about the job.

  Why had he become a Busy in the first place? How had he come to work in CID? What was his wife doing abroad? T
he questions seemed to cover everything except the murders in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, the very reason for Flynn being with him at all. Strangely, Lorimer was grateful for that. The case had caused him too many sleepless nights lately. As he turned into the driveway a few flakes of snow were beginning to smudge the windscreen. The security light beamed on, revealing the red door of the garage and the white painted front door beyond the porch.

  Flynn fell silent as he stepped out of the car and regarded his new home. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected, a two-storey house on the corner of a street full of similar properties. Somehow he’d thought Lorimer would live in a bigger, grander place, a house in keeping with the smart old car.

  There was a brass nameplate by the side of the door with the single word LORIMER engraved upon it, and some evergreen plant growing up the wall, its tiny yellow flowers like wee stars shining in the overhead light.

  ‘This is it,’ Lorimer told him, turning a key in the lock. ‘Home.’

  Joseph Alexander Flynn hesitated for a moment. It had been years since he’d stepped over any threshold that he could call home. What must it be like for Lorimer to come back here night after night, knowing a warm bed was waiting for him?

  Interpreting his hesitation as reluctance, Lorimer put out a hand. ‘Come on in. It’s freezing out there.’

  Flynn followed the tall policeman into a long hallway, pushing shut the door behind him. A waft of cold air crept up his back, making him step further into the house.

  ‘This is the dining room and the kitchen’s in here,’ Lorimer was saying, striding away ahead of him. Flynn looked around him. The room stretched from the front to the back of the house, divided by a pair of wooden doors that had been left wide open. Lorimer had disappeared into a kitchen beyond and he could hear the sound of a kettle being filled.

  From where he was standing the dining room was at the far end, a round wooden table and four chairs placed in the centre. Here the two walls on either side were lined from floor to ceiling with books. Flynn’s eyes roamed up and down the shelves. How could anyone find the time to read all that in one lifetime? Then he remembered what Lorimer had said about his wife being a teacher. Well. They always had their noses stuck into a book didn’t they? There was a desk under the window by the door where he’d come in. It held a laptop computer surrounded by heaps of paper and a framed photograph beside a green reading lamp. Flynn picked up the photo. It was of a woman, her head thrown back, dark curly hair blowing behind her. She was laughing into the lens, looking at the photographer as if they’d just shared a joke. Flynn replaced it on the desk exactly where it had been, wondering what it must be like to have a woman look at you like that.