Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘Flynn? Joseph Alexander Flynn?’ DS Alistair Wilson’s voice was incredulous.

‘He didn’t give me first names. Why?’

‘From your description it must be the same fellow I picked up outside the Concert Hall the night of the murder.’

Lorimer gave a snort. ‘Would you believe it? So where’s this Flynn’s statement, then?’

Wilson smiled as he indicated a file well to the bottom of the heap of paperwork on Lorimer’s desk.

‘Interviewed him and gave him a cup of tea. Poor blighter looked frozen. Scared, too, though that’s the norm when we come into contact with those boys. They’re suspicious of us being suspicious of them. Can’t seem to break the vicious circle, more’s the pity.’

Lorimer knew what Wilson meant. There was little trust between the street people and the Police but sometimes a relationship could be built up and one of them would trade information for a few quid to keep body and soul together.

‘Any address or is that a daft question?’

Wilson’s raised eyebrows told Lorimer that it was. ‘Could try to find him around the town, though. He hangs about between the Concert Hall and St Enoch’s, usually. I’ll go out, if you like, since I’ve got his ID.’

Lorimer nodded, still reading what little information the boy had given his Detective Sergeant. It was coming up to midday and the streets crowded with lunchtime workers might well tempt the beggars into the city centre.

‘OK, do that, but don’t ask around for him just yet, I don’t want him doing a disappearing act. Just see if he’s in the city.’

Once Wilson had left, Lorimer stood looking out of his window. Greer’s revelations had given him some disquiet. Not only had George Millar been mixed up in various shady dealings, he’d involved Karen Quentin-Jones. He recalled the woman’s superior attitude and her obvious dislike of the late Leader of the Orchestra. Why on earth had the woman bought her violin from him? She’d struck Lorimer as a very knowing type. Surely she’d been aware of the Leader’s scam?

Well, there was one way to find out.

The girl with the long dark hair put down two brimming lattes and sat beside her companion, a young man who was hunched into his leather jacket. He seemed not to notice the coffee, for she had to slide it closer to him and nudge his knee to make him sit up. The lights from the mosaic floor in the centre of Princes Square reflected on the glasses, making miniature stars on their sides. She pushed one glass of coffee closer to him.

‘C’mon, Chris. You have to have something. It’s no good moping like this. That’s not going to achieve anything, is it?’

‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ The young man smiled. ‘Still trying to be the amateur psychologist, are you?’

The girl gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Maybe. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so bossy.’

‘Getting just like your mum, you are,’ he told her, taking a sip of the latte.

‘God, don’t say that! I’ve not been that bad, have I?’

‘It’s OK. I probably need a bit of geeing up. It’s not that easy to cope with, y’know. Who’d have thought that George …’

His voice broke suddenly and he felt for a handkerchief in his pocket but the girl was too quick for him and passed him a tissue from her handbag.

‘You’ll all miss him, won’t you? Especially your own section,’ the girl whispered. The strings had all looked up to George Millar, she knew. She had even heard her own mother, who was Second Violin, admit what a great Leader he had been. Chris had simply doted on the man.

Around them the buzz of lunchtime shoppers merged with the sound of a piano playing. Strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ floated over the cafes clustered around the atrium. Nobody paid any attention to the young man blowing his nose or of the anxious glances he was receiving from the girl by his side.

‘What’ll you do now?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know,’ he sniffed. ‘Maybe move back in with Si?’

‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not, but we’ll have a lot of fun cheering one another up.’

The man’s sudden grin transformed his face at once making the girl sigh.

‘Oh, Chris. Why are all the loveliest boys unavailable?’ she whispered, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes as she spoke.

‘I’m always available for you, pal. You know that,’ he replied, his hand covering hers.

‘Aye, for coffee and sympathy,’ she groaned. ‘Just as well I don’t fancy you, isn’t it?’

‘Bit of a waste of time that would be,’ he laughed in reply.

A shadow blocking out the light from the circular floor made Chris Hunter look up but it was just someone pausing to look around. Possibly looking for a seat? Chris twisted round and watched the figure disappearing in the direction of the escalator. Funny, he thought to himself. Just for a moment he thought he’d recognised the man. Don’t be daft, he told himself. It’s just shadows playing tricks with your imagination. Anyway, wasn’t he bound to be jumpy after what had happened?

‘That’s right,’ Brendan told her. ‘He changed his address recently and it was scored off my original list. No problem, Constable. Anything else I can help with, just ring me.’

Annie Irvine slotted the name neatly into its correct alphabetical place. Hunter Chris, c/o 135 Ingram Street. Not a permanent residence, she saw. Fairly new to the Orchestra, Brendan Phillips had told her. Funny he’d had two addresses already then, wasn’t it? Maybe digs were hard to come by for musicians, she supposed. They weren’t all that well off, were they? Still, he’d been interviewed at the Concert Hall. There wouldn’t be much cause to call on him at home, would there? Annie flicked the mouse button and the list of names vanished into its file somewhere in the ether.

Alistair Wilson stepped out into the middle of the pedestrian precinct, looking this way and that. Anybody glancing his way would have seen a well dressed middle-aged man out doing his shopping, the Habitat carrier bag part of his camouflage. A strong sweet scent told him he was nearing the corner where the perfume from soaps and bath ballistics wafted out of Lush. Betty loved stuff like that. And it was her birthday soon. He stopped to look at the beribboned boxes stacked by the door. He could always get them to make her up a big box of stuff, couldn’t he? Wilson told himself. But his shopping would have to wait. It certainly wouldn’t be today when he was trying to find one particular boy in all these crowds of shoppers and lunchtime diners.

Outside TGI Fridays there was often a wee lassie selling the Issue. She had a special knack of appearing to be on her last legs and Wilson always gave her the obligatory ?1.20. She wasn’t there today and still there was no sign of Flynn.

The area outside the Concert Hall had proved fruitless. The Big Issue sellers were there all right, but there had been no sign of any beggars who might look like Flynn. He hadn’t been daft enough to go back to his usual haunt around there. It was probably a waste of time but he’d make his way down to St Enoch’s underground station before calling it a day. Wilson thought ahead to how he might join the queue at the cash point in order to scan the area around St Enoch’s Square. The policeman strode past Fraser’s shop windows. There was a distinct chill in the air that lent itself to the winter display in the windows of the department store. He paused for a moment to scan the dresses and sparkly accessories strewn artfully behind the glass then set off towards the Underground.

Wilson stopped as he reached the corner. To his right, just protruding from a shop doorway he could see the familiar bundle that told of yet another down and out. Abandoning the crossing, he moved towards the huddled figure.