Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘Maybe. Tell you what. See if you can do a little experiment for me. You won’t get that bow back from Rosie, so find one from Phillips and take it back up to the Concert Hall. You’re above average height, aren’t you?’

‘Five foot nine and a half in my bare feet,’ she answered, a mystified expression crossing her face. ‘Why?’

‘Let’s say for the sake of argument that our killer was your height. See if you could use the victim’s bow to fix that black duster onto the CCTV. Hm?’ Lorimer waited for her reply.

‘Do you think that’s how the killer immobilised the camera?’

‘Possibly. It had to be done with something long and thin that wouldn’t get covered in adhesive. A bow might just have done the trick.’

‘Wouldn’t there be any traces of the black duster on it?’ she asked. ‘I mean the horsehairs are so soft and fuzzy aren’t they? There might be something already there for forensics to see.’

She was sharp, thought Lorimer. They’d be looking for prints on the varnished wood, but there might well be traces on the mass of hairs strung tautly across the bow.

‘Get back to forensics, will you, Jo. It might even give us a vague idea of the killer’s height. Or at least eliminate all the wee guys,’ he said in a tone of mock despair that made the woman smile.

After she’d gone Lorimer sat back and thought about his DI. She’d come straight to him, no messing about. Did she see it as her duty to keep him informed of all the details? If Lorimer had got that email first, he’d have got on to forensics himself, thrashed ideas about with them or else worried away at the facts until they’d produced some kind of solution. Why hadn’t Jo done that? Was DI Grant trying to ingratiate herself with him? He knew she wasn’t lacking in initiative, he would say as much in her appraisal when the time came. Lorimer shook his head. He had to stop thinking of her as a spy in the camp. She’d come up the ranks on her own merit, even serving as an undercover officer for a spell. Her past association with Mitchison might be nothing at all. Perhaps she’d simply been a colleague he’d asked to accompany him to the dinner. Mitchison wasn’t married and never had been, to Lorimer’s knowledge. Perhaps he’d been wise enough to see the pitfalls of trying to establish a career and have a stable relationship into the bargain, he told himself, lapsing into a mood of cynicism. He was always immaculately turned out, thought Lorimer, ruefully examining the creases in his own shirtsleeves where he’d forgotten to iron. Maybe constant bachelorhood fostered the kind of discipline that he lacked himself.

Association of ideas took Lorimer back, inevitably, to Maggie. He’d have to get down to the Travel Agent’s soon, he told himself. Best phone the old girl, see what she had to say about it.

He dialled her number, a grin on his face as he imagined her response. Maggie’s mum was fairly predictable.

‘Hello?’ a voice answered. She never gave her name and number, something that Lorimer hadn’t had to tell her.

‘Hello. It’s me. Have you a minute to spare or are you rushing off to that hotbed of gossip you call the Senior Citizens’ Club?’

‘Och, it’s yourself, William. What are you doing phoning me in the middle of the day? Are there not enough criminals for you to be chasing in Strathclyde these days?’ Mrs Finlay sounded as if she was scolding him but he knew her well enough to tell when she was teasing.

‘It’s about Christmas,’ he began. ‘D’you want me to book a flight for us to go out and stay with Maggie?’

‘Oh.’ Mrs Finlay sounded lost for words, something that didn’t happen too often in her son-in-law’s experience.

‘I’m due leave. I thought we could go out for a fortnight. Ten days, even, if you thought the heat might be too much.’

‘I don’t mind the heat,’ she answered abruptly. ‘It’s just …’

‘I’ll pay for us both, of course,’ Lorimer cut in. ‘Just call it your Christmas present from me,’ he added.

‘That’s very generous of you, Bill. Are you sure?’ His mother-in-law’s voice had softened and Lorimer knew he’d done the right thing.

‘Sure. Leave it with me. I’ll see the travel agency later on today and fix it all up.’

After he’d rung off, Lorimer felt a frisson of excitement that was tinged with apprehension. He’d be going to see Maggie on her new home ground. Would she make him welcome? Or would her temporary teaching post in Florida be fulfilling enough for her without him? Those were questions he’d just have to leave unanswered until he saw her again.

Flynn hesitated before pushing the heavy doors open. The CCTV cameras would be recording his entry, but, hey, they’d record the entry of everybody who came in here, whether it was to go to the booking office or buy stuff down in the wee shop. You could even go for a pee if you felt like it, his mischief-making inner voice told him. Even as the idea coaxed a grin onto his face, Flynn’s other voice told him not to be so stupid. They could turf him out as soon as look at him.

The interior of Glasgow Royal Concert Hall looked quite different during the daytime. Flynn passed by the booking desk. He was aware of the woman behind the desk regarding him with interest so he took his time at the nearby stand, leafing through the stacks of flyers for forthcoming events. There were none yet for Celtic Connections, which was one of the few programmes that might have taken his fancy. All the Christmas stuff was there, though, he noticed. There were loads of carol concerts during December, many of them featuring the City of Glasgow Orchestra. They’d been playing the night old George had copped it, he thought to himself. Wouldn’t be a very merry Christmas for that lot, he reflected.

He sensed rather than saw the eyes of the woman behind the desk boring into his back so he grabbed a few of the Mozart by Candlelight flyers and stuffed them into his inside pocket. She’d try to make eye contact with him, Flynn knew, so he deliberately turned away and sauntered round the corner towards the coffee bar where he’d been questioned by the Busy.

It was nearly eleven o’clock and the coffee bar already had several folk sitting at tables sipping their cappuccinos. Flynn looked at the legend above the bar and rattled the coins in his pocket.

‘Pot o’ tea for one, please,’ he told the boy behind the counter. ‘And can ye let me have a pot o’ hot water as well?’

The boy nodded and turned towards the urn. He’d not given Flynn the once over like that wifie at the booking office. What was it she’d seen? He’d often been told that he looked like the big dreepy one in Only Fools and Horses. It was true that he had the same long face and woebegone expression. That had been cultivated to catch the sympathy of the punters, of course, but it seemed these days to be Flynn’s permanent expression.

‘Make a face an’ when the wind blows it’ll stick like that’ his foster mammy used to tell him. Well the winds of change had blown through his life all right. Maybe his face had stuck like that now, as if there was a deep well of anguish that rose unbidden to be reflected in his eyes. Another glance at the waiter told him it was OK. He was just another punter coming in out of the cold for a cuppa.

Flynn paid for his tea and took it over to the window where the rows of seats were padded and comfortable looking. He’d stay in here for as long as he could without risking curiosity. He looked around at the other people sitting in the coffee area. Some were talking in muted voices as if they didn’t want to disturb any rehearsal that might be going on in the auditorium. One guy was engrossed in the morning papers, his empty cup still on the table in front of him. That was a ploy Flynn had used before, especially in bookshops where they let you in to read stuff while you had your cafe latte or whatever.