Mystery Man 04 - The Prisoner of Brenda

by Bateman

  ‘Well, Sean . . .’ and I nodded kindly at him, and then around my audience, ‘you no longer have to be worried. The Man in the White Suit is on the run no more. He’s in your vestibule eating a Crunchie.’

  45

  The rumpus died down, eventually, and I beckoned Gabriel forward from the door where he had been hovering at Nicola Sheridan’s side. She led him between the chairs, followed by Jeff, who was carrying a small musical keyboard, and another man, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a tweedy suit and with his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  I said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please do not be alarmed. Gabriel – for that is the name we have given him, because it gets very annoying endlessly having to say “The Man in the White Suit” – Gabriel is perfectly placid, and apart from one episode of extreme violence has not been at all difficult since I broke him out of Purdysburn.’

  ‘You actually admit breaking him out?’ said Sonya Delaney. ‘He killed my husband!’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that remains to be seen.’

  She pointed down the room at DI Robinson. ‘Why aren’t you arresting him? He stabbed my Francis to death!’

  She had plenty of support in the room.

  DI Robinson raised a hand for calm. ‘Let’s just see what he has to say.’

  ‘He’s a deaf mute,’ said Gloria Mahood. ‘What’s he going to say?’

  Nicola guided Gabriel into his seat in the front row and sat beside him. She gently patted his hand. Gabriel stared straight ahead, which happened to be directly at me, without giving any indication that he was actually seeing me, or that he was remotely aware that so many eyes were transfixed by him. Because they were all so busy sizing up Gabriel, they didn’t pay much attention to Jeff setting up the keyboard, with a small amp, nor to the distinguished gentleman in the suit, who quietly took a seat beside Nicola.

  As things settled down again, I thanked DI Robinson for his support and the audience for their indulgence, and introduced Nicola, resplendent in the same green ensemble that had given her the appearance of a Sunday School teacher on her visit to Gabriel in the hospital, explaining that she was the wife of the late Bobby Preston. I said that far from believing that Gabriel was somehow connected to her husband’s death, she was now so convinced of his innocence that she had put her own safety at risk by agreeing to shelter him following his escape from Purdysburn, and that she appeared to be none the worse for it. That got them murmuring anew.

  Jeff finished his set-up and scurried away.

  ‘Nicola,’ I said, ‘if you would kindly bring Gabriel forward to the keyboard?’

  Nicola eased Gabriel out of his seat and guided him to the keyboard. It was in fact a small synthesizer belonging to Jeff. I had been vaguely aware that he harboured ambitions not only as a poet, but also as a singer-songwriter, but had never been sufficiently interested to actually ask him about it. This, I suspected, would be his greatest contribution to music.

  Gabriel sat, and without being asked raised his hands to the keys and began to play. Silently. I gave Jeff a filthy look and switched on the machine. Immediately a version of his theme tune with the backing of an angelic choir began to roll out of the amp, at least until I pushed a button which returned it to the basic piano sound.

  My audience may or may not have been familiar with the piece already, as it had been playing in the background upon their arrival at Sean’s house, but without the distraction of small talk they were now directly exposed to it, and it did not take more than thirty seconds before I could see the annoyance creeping onto their faces.

  ‘Gabriel,’ I said, ‘has been playing this music, almost nonstop, since he was taken to Purdysburn and given access to a piano six months ago. Imagine, six months of this . . . but the question in my mind was always, why this music, what is the significance of it? When I began to observe Gabriel playing it, I knew immediately that he was not a natural-born pianist – it is a difficult piece, and he makes mistakes. He is, at best, a talented amateur when it comes to the piano. And yet . . . note the side of his neck here . . .’

  I stepped closer to him, and indicated an area of scarring on his left-hand side as my audience looked at him. ‘I concluded that this was not as a result of some injury, but rather through the wear and tear that comes with using another musical instrument entirely – a violin. I have not however, had the opportunity to prove this theory, at least until now.’

  I held up my hand and clicked my fingers, and Alison duly appeared in the doorway and moved down the aisle between the seats with a violin case in her hand. She reached the front and placed the case on Gabriel’s vacated seat, opened it, and then handed the instrument and bow to me. I showed it to the audience and said, ‘This Stentor Elysia violin has been sponsored and tuned by Matchetts Music of Wellington Place, Belfast, for all your musical needs.’

  My audience looked suitably confused. I held the violin and bow in my right hand and moved beside Gabriel. I placed my left hand on his left hand to stop him playing, and he did not resist. I then raised his hand and placed the neck of the violin in it, and his fingers immediately closed around it and sought out the strings. He held out his other hand automatically, seeking the bow. When he had grasped it he moved the instrument up is until it nestled between his shoulder and neck, pressing directly into the scarred area.

  I stepped back and held my breath.

  But not for long, because he began to play almost immediately.

  The same music – but utterly transformed.

  It soared. It swayed.

  His fingers moved with a fluidity which had been totally absent from his piano-playing. There was a total and utter concentration on his face which belied the ease with which he was playing. I was also aware of something else – for the first time he was showing an emotion – an emotion of pure, unadulterated joy. And it wasn’t just him. My audience was transfixed right through to the flourish at the end. There even threatened to be an outbreak of applause, mostly from Alison, but her hands never quite met once she saw the look on my face. I wrapped my hand around the neck of the violin to prevent Gabriel launching into it again, and his eyes seemed to focus on me for the first time. I tried to take the instrument from him, but he resisted, and I thought it better to let him hold onto it.

  I nodded around at my audience, who appeared intrigued.

  ‘Astonishing,’ I said, ‘truly astonishing. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to call my first witness. Professor . . .?’

  Immediately Martin Brady spoiled the atmosphere I had so carefully cultivated by cutting in with, ‘Witness? This isn’t a court, it’s a charade. Why are we even putting up with this?’

  Sean O’Dromodery leaned forward and glared along the front row at him. ‘Why don’t you shut up, and let him get on with it?’

  ‘It’s my husband’s funeral,’ Martin snapped back, flapping his hand first in my direction, and then towards Gabriel, ‘and I don’t see why we should be subjected to this . . . circus.’

  I could see the pulse hammering in the side of his head. If pushed to it, Martin Brady could probably have broken me in two. Nevertheless, it is good to goad.

  ‘Maybe you’re complaining too much,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you know more about all this than you’re letting on?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of—?’

  ‘Just saying . . .’

  ‘Jesus Christ! This really is pathetic! Good God, everyone knows me here.’ He looked around him. Many nodded. Several looked away. ‘That you could even—’

  ‘You were in the SAS,’ I said. ‘You must know a hundred and one ways to kill a man.’

  ‘Yes, I was – and yes, I do!’ He stopped and pressed his fingers into his brow. He understood that he wasn’t doing himself any favours. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more restrained, but no less intimidating. ‘I have killed many men – but always in the defence of our country, our way of life. But I also saw enough violence, enough carnage in my time in Afghanistan not to
want to ever indulge in it again. Bernard was my oasis of peace and tranquillity. If you seriously think . . .’

  ‘As it happens,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why the hell did you . . .?!’

  ‘I’m just showing you, showing you all how easy it is to accuse someone of something, and once the mud sticks, it’s very difficult to remove, even with new, high-powered Omo, which, incidentally, is no longer available in the United Kingdom.’ They looked at me. ‘So many of you have preconceived notions about Gabriel’s guilt, which has been fanned by recent newspaper headlines and police warnings – but I intend, if you will give me the opportunity, to prove that he is in fact innocent. So may I proceed?’

  Martin took a deep breath, and sat back. Sean did not take his eyes off him.

  ‘Professor,’ I said, ‘if you would please have a seat?’ I indicated the chair in the spotlight, and he quickly took it. He smiled benignly at me and flattened out a crease in his trousers. ‘Will you please give us your name, and your profession, your position?’

  ‘I am Joseph Sikorsky, and I am Professor of Music at the Beria Conservatory in Moscow.’ His accent was identifiably Russian, but his English was very good. ‘I am also the conductor of the Beria Conservatory Orchestra and Touring Ensemble.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor. And you flew in for this today?’ He nodded. ‘Could you tell us something about the Conservatory?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. The Conservatory was named after its original founder and sponsor, Lavrentiy Beria, the Georgian politician and state security administrator, chief of the Soviet security and secret police apparatus (NKVD) under Joseph Stalin during World War Two, and Deputy Premier in the post-war years. Beria was fiercely proud of his roots and particularly so of the works of his fellow Georgian, the composer Alexander Korsakov. When Beria was at the height of his powers he was able to support the founding of the Conservatory to help preserve, restore and promote Korsakov’s music, which had fallen, as you say, off the radar, during the years of the glorious revolution, civil war and war.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Gloria Mahood said, ‘this is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with the price of fish?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘bear with us.’ I returned my attention to the witness. ‘Do you recognise this piece of music that Gabriel has been playing, Professor Sikorsky?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It is from Alexander Korsakov’s Fourth Concerto – it is a familiar piece to many Georgians but it is not well-known in the West.’

  ‘More importantly, Professor, do you also recognise the man who has been playing it for us, this man, Gabriel, also known as The Man in the White Suit?’

  ‘Yes, I do. His real name is Sergei Litvinov, and until earlier this year he was principal violinist with the Conservatory Orchestra. He is thirty-two years old, he is married to Ivana, and he has a young son, Sasha. They both miss him very much.’

  I said, ‘Sergei Litvinov. And can you tell us why he is no longer principal violinist?’

  ‘He is no longer with the orchestra because he went . . . I believe the phrase is AWOL? Yes, he went AWOL during our most recent European tour, simply disappeared while we were in Vienna. He walked out of our hotel one night, and vanished. And despite our greatest efforts, that is the last we knew of him until I received an e-mail from you yesterday, after which I immediately jumped on a plane.’

  ‘And you met him for the first time since, barely half an hour ago?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I have previously explained to you, and to our audience that Sergei has for all intents and purposes been a deaf-mute since his arrest, and perhaps prior to that. We now know that he is Georgian. Since you have arrived, have you been able to communicate with him in your native tongue?’

  ‘No, nor in English, in which he is, or was, fluent.’

  ‘You obviously knew him quite well – did he show any indication that he recognised you?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And how did you find his general appearance, condition, et cetera since you last saw him?’

  ‘He has lost much weight, but otherwise he is the Sergei I remember.’

  ‘Was he in the habit on tour of wearing a white suit?’

  ‘Yes. It was – how would you say, his trademark.’

  ‘Yes, trademark indeed. Can you think of any reason why he should have disappeared in Vienna? Were there any particular pressures upon him, perhaps of a political nature or outside pressures?’

  ‘I think not. There is no Cold War, he did not defect. If he wanted to leave the orchestra, if he wanted to come here to Ireland, that was entirely his choice. But he did have the pressure that comes with being a lead violinist, the pressure which comes with being away from your family for extended periods. He . . . how shall I say? He has . . . breakdown nervous, once before, and then too he disappeared, but in Moscow and he came home after a few days. This was different. I very much feared for his life. He is a fine violinist, and more, a fine man. It makes me very sad to see him here, in this . . . situation.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor,’ I said. ‘You may retake your seat.’

  Professor Sikorsky stood, but instead of crossing directly to his chair he stepped up to Gabriel, to Sergei, who was still cradling his violin. The Professor put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze and his former colleague a benevolent smile before finally re-taking his seat.

  Sergei’s eyes followed him.

  Whether he was confused by the deception or it was some kind of magical response to finally playing the Korsakov concerto on the instrument for which it was intended, I could not tell, but something had definitely changed: there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and he was finally reacting to outside stimuli. I nodded gratefully towards Professor Sikorsky, or as I preferred to think of him, Brendan Coyle. He was not only an acclaimed writer, but also a rather good actor, or charlatan, depending on your point of view.

  46

  There was obviously no way for the real Professor Sikorsky to have travelled from Moscow in the few hours since we had exchanged e-mails and in time for the funeral; not only was it not feasible, there was no need for it. I was only seeking a way to communicate the information I had learned from him about Sergei to my audience without boring them to death. I was presenting a drama, after all, and it was vital to engage their interest in case they switched over to another channel.

  The PowerPoint presentation of The Faces of the Dead had, I felt, not excited them as much as it had excited me. It did not matter that I had lied to them. I was not a lawyer, and Sean’s front lounge was not a court of law. I was interested in getting to the truth by fair meals or foul. Brendan Coyle, though not everyone’s cup of tea, was not particularly foul.

  I took several moments to check the next projections on my laptop while allowing the audience to exchange whispered views on the preceding evidence, then turned back to them and called Malachy Quinn to the witness chair. He came forward from the fourth row and took his seat. He sat stiffly, with his hands on his knees. He cleared his throat several times.

  I said, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he replied, ‘just a little discombobulated.’

  ‘There is no need,’ I said, ‘to feel discombobulated. You’re not on trial.’

  He nodded but did not appear any more relaxed. It didn’t much matter. I had only responded so that I could say ‘discombobulated’ out loud. One didn’t often get the opportunity. It was even rarer to be able to say that one was combobulated. Or even bobulated. Alison, from somewhere, cleared her own throat, and I realised that I had said this out loud, and was managing to discombobulate my entire audience, while remaining bobulated myself.

  I said, ‘Mr Quinn, will you please tell the jury, ahm, everyone present, what you do for a living?’

  ‘I am the Vice Principal of Saint Mary’s Grammar School on the Falls Road.’

  ‘And how long have you been at the school?’


  ‘Twenty-five years, the last five as Vice Principal.’

  I clicked up a photograph of the school. It was one of the most boring photographs ever taken.

  I said, ‘This was originally a church school?’

  ‘There’s been a church on the site for two hundred years; the school followed nearly a hundred and twenty years ago.’

  ‘So would I be right in thinking that it started as quite a small school, and gradually built to its current size? You have, what, about eight hundred and twenty-five pupils.’

  ‘Yes, eight hundred and twenty-five exactly,’ he said.

  I knew that. I said, ‘We can see the school here, and the church, and to one side there’s a small graveyard, then there’s a wall, and beyond that there’s the site of the new shopping centre the O’Dromodery Brothers are building.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is being created on land that formerly belonged to the school?’

  ‘Yes. It was deemed surplus to our requirements, and was sold about five years ago, when property was worth considerably more than it is now. We were very fortunate with the timing, and the school has benefited greatly as a result. We have managed to modernise the entire—’

  ‘Mr Quinn,’ I said, ‘too much information. Let me ask you about this, the graveyard, which is kind of unusual to find in school grounds, is it not?’