Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

WPC Irvine scrolled down the list of names on her computer screen. She shook her head in disbelief as the names rolled on and on. How the heck did they get that many people on the stage? It hadn’t seemed that big when she’d taken Dad to see Shania Twain for his birthday. Something caught her eye and she slowed down to take a closer look. Funny. The whole list of musicians had been in alphabetical order until that very last name. Maybe he had just newly joined them or something? That Mr Phillips would know. It had been his list that she’d scanned in. Maybe she should mention it?

‘Irvine, the Boss wants to see you,’ Alistair Wilson drummed his fingers lightly over the edge of her desk as he passed by.

WPC Irvine rolled her eyes. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ she sighed, wondering what other task Lorimer had in store for her.

Outside the station the rain was beginning to spot the windscreens of the cars in the car park. Lorimer unlocked the door of his ancient Lexus and swung himself into the driver’s seat. As always, the feel of leather beneath him gave him a sense of comfort.

He was more at home behind the wheel of his car than in his own armchair at home, Maggie had once told him. And it was probably true.

‘Sorry, sir,’ WPC Irvine flung herself breathlessly into the passenger seat. ‘It’s Huntly Gardens. Number 39.’

By the time they’d crossed the city centre, the wipers were flipping back and forth as rain fell steadily. Lorimer needed all his concentration as he negotiated Woodlands Road with cars parked on both sides and pedestrians battling to escape the deluge. The policewoman sat by his side, keeping silent. Chattering to the Boss when he was deep in thought was never a good idea. Up Glasgow Street and over the hill he drove, crossing Byres Road, turning at last into the faded gentility of Huntly Gardens where George Millar had lived.

Lorimer had to park right at the top of the hill. The road was virtually a single lane due to the double parking, Huntly Gardens being one of the few streets off Byres Road that lacked a residents-only zone. As they walked back down, Lorimer found himself looking into the bay windowed rooms of every flat at pavement level. It was a habit of his to gauge what sort of district a person inhabited from the houses of their neighbours. He stared at a variety of window dressings; that hanging wind chime might denote a student flat, those crisply laundered nets probably belonged to a resident out at work and who needed a bit of privacy. There was a grand piano in one bay window with a metronome on top. Music spilt out from behind the fly blown glass window. Lorimer stopped abruptly, checking the address.

‘This is it, sir.’

As he buzzed the call button opposite ‘Millar’ the music stopped. A crackling sound emanated from the system then a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, WPC Irvine, Strathclyde Police. We’ve come to see Mrs Millar.’

There was a pause then the same voice said, ‘Wait a minute.’

Beyond the frosted glass panel Lorimer could see a figure hurrying towards him. The door swung open and Mrs Millar stood regarding them seriously.

She was, he supposed, around sixty, though her black jeans and embroidered top gave her a much younger appearance. Her bare feet, thrust into a pair of Birkenstocks, showed purple painted toenails. Lorimer absorbed all this in one glance as he cleared his throat.

‘DCI Lorimer. Mrs Millar?’

‘Yes,’ she answered him simply. ‘Would you like to come on through?’

Lorimer followed George Millar’s widow through the hall and into the ground floor flat. She showed them into the front room. Lorimer’s first impression was of a high ceiling and lots of ornate plasterwork then his eye fell on the grand piano that sat dominating the bay window. Had that been Mrs Millar playing as he’d passed by? Could you do something as creative as making music the morning after your husband had been murdered?

‘Please sit down, Chief Inspector, Constable. Would you like some coffee?’ Her tone seemed to indicate that this was merely a social visit. There was no trace of anguish in her voice. Maybe she was still in denial, he told himself.

‘Thanks. Coffee would be fine,’ Lorimer replied, but didn’t sit down. Instead he followed Mrs Millar into the kitchen and leant against the wood panelled wall, watching her as she filled a kettle jug and set about preparing their coffee.

WPC Irvine followed them in and sat by the oak table, glancing up at Lorimer as if trying to gauge what was on his mind.

‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock.’ He watched her face as she turned towards him.

‘I’m used to shocks, Chief Inspector. Yes, this was dreadful, but it’s happened and I can’t make it un-happen. Just as I couldn’t change the way George was. Don’t think me harsh but I’ve become used to accepting the things I cannot change.’

There was an inflection in her tone that made Lorimer realise she was quoting something he’d heard before. For a moment he was at a loss then it came to him. Wasn’t it part of a prayer by Saint Francis of Assisi? Or was he mixing that up with something else? Mrs Millar was looking at a corkboard next to the doorway on Lorimer’s left. He followed her gaze and saw the small green card. On it was written,

God

Grant me the Serenity to accept

The things I cannot change …

Courage to change the things I can

And Wisdom to know the difference.

She looked back at him, the ghost of a smile hovering apologetically around her lips.

Lorimer didn’t know what to say. Even if she was a devout woman that shouldn’t stop her from expressing her emotions, should it?

For a moment Lorimer wished he’d asked the officer who’d come here last night for the widow’s first reaction. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now he was curious to know how she had responded to the terrible news.

‘Thanks,’ he said as she handed them mugs of coffee. He thought they’d make their way back into the sitting room, but Mrs Millar motioned for him to join his colleague at the kitchen table. She leant into a chair with a patchwork cushion at her back then raised her mug of coffee.

‘To life,’ she said and smiled in Lorimer’s direction.

Her easy familiarity with a complete stranger gave Lorimer some disquiet. For a moment they locked eyes as he raised the mug of coffee to his lips. Lorimer looked away first. There was nothing malevolent about the woman’s gaze, just a calm directness. Usually he’d be probing a person’s behaviour for undercurrents of emotion, indications that could help in establishing the nature of relationships. But how to get behind that mask of tranquillity, if indeed it was a mask, was a problem.

‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your husband,’ Lorimer began.

‘Of course. Whatever I can tell you, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Millar’s reply was polite, almost but not quite grave. It was as if she were about to discuss someone she’d encountered in the street, not her own husband. Was that telling him something? Lorimer wondered.

‘First of all, could you tell me when you last saw Mr Millar?’

‘Yes. He was at home yesterday until just after lunch. He left about two o’clock. There was a three o’clock rehearsal call.’

‘Did he drive into town?’

‘No. He took the underground from Hillhead into Buchanan Street. It’s the easiest way.’

‘Was there anything unusual about your husband’s demeanour before he left?’

He watched her face as she took another sip of coffee. She was thoughtful, considering her words carefully.