Alex Gray: Shadows of Sounds

No slip on the shiny tiles had accounted for George’s sudden demise. Beside the violinist’s outstretched fingers lay a metal hammer. Brendan recognised it at once. It was a percussion hammer, small, but not insignificant.

‘My God, I don’t like the look of him.’ The voice behind him broke into Brendan’s stupor, making him turn around. Colin had disappeared. It was Stan, their chief driver who stood there, marvelling at the body on the tiles.

‘He’s not … dead … is he?’ The doubt in Stan’s voice sank to a whisper as he caught the Orchestra Manager’s gaze.

For an instant Brendan felt himself becoming unreasonably possessive about George Millar’s mortal remains, resenting the additional presence of the driver. A sudden irritation pushed his qualms aside, that and a need to make things happen. He straightened his shoulders, placing himself between Stan and the body. ‘We’ll have to get Security. I’ll use the phone next door. We’ll need an ambulance,’ he hesitated for a second before adding, ‘and the police.’

Stan turned to go but Brendan Phillips caught his arm, ‘Not a word, not from any of you,’ rasped Phillips. ‘Not until the police get here.’

The Orchestra Manager walked out with Stan who was still trying to peer into the room behind them. Several feet from the doorway Colin had slumped to the floor, his back against the wall. The boy’s face was the colour of putty.

‘Take him downstairs and make him some tea. Just keep out of sight until I send for you. All right?’ The two men glanced at one another uncertainly. Then Stan stretched out a hand to Colin.

‘Come on lad, let’s be having you,’ he said, heaving the shifter to his feet. ‘Nice cup of tea to make you feel better.’

Looking at the boy’s grey complexion, Brendan Phillips doubted whether Colin would be able to keep anything down.

The immediate thing to do was to alert Security. Phillips looked up and down the red-carpeted corridor before taking out his copy of the master key and locking the door to Morar. Poliakovski, the Conductor, was safely ensconced in Lomond for the time being; thankfully the dressing room on the other side was empty. Phillips slipped inside, picked up the phone and dialled the code for Security.

‘Neville?’ Brendan visualised the Security man at the stage door as he spoke. He heard himself speaking in a voice belonging to some other person, someone in control, not the same man whose hands were shaking as they gripped the telephone. He couldn’t believe that his own words sounded so clipped and emotionless as he explained the situation.

He walked back, unlocking Morar in a daze, still trying to convince himself that he really had seen that body on the tiled floor. Telling Neville about it should have made it real, yet somehow he still wanted to believe that George would be standing there waiting for him, violin and bow in his carefully manicured hands. It would all be a mistake. There would be no corpse on the floor. But when he turned towards the entrance to the bathroom it was still there. Brendan closed his eyes seeking some kind of help. Nothing came into his mind. No childhood prayers from Sunday School. Not even a line from any of his favourite Requiems. All he could think of were the words, ‘Take this cup from me.’ When he opened his eyes again the sight of George’s body filled him with shame.

Come on, Brendan Phillips, he muttered to himself, think on your feet. That was what the City Fathers were paying him to do, after all, he realised, although the job description had made no mention of bloodied corpses behind the scenes. There were no codes or procedures for this. He couldn’t simply stride onto the platform announcing, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s concert has been cancelled due to the unforeseen death of the Leader of the orchestra.’ But he’d have to make a decision quickly.

Locking the door to Morar for the second time that night, Brendan Phillips felt prickles of sweat break out on his forehead as he agonised over whether he ought to carry on with the concert.

Even as he approached the stage he still wasn’t sure if it was the proper thing to do. He hovered in the wings for a moment, aware of curious glances from members of the Percussion section.

He’d have to use the Second Fiddle. That woman, Karen, was ambitious. She’d be only too pleased to take over. And when the police arrived they would clear up whatever had happened back here, wouldn’t they?

Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer pressed the mute control on the TV remote as his mobile rang out. His eyes watched the silent antics of figures on his screen as he listened to a voice that demanded his full attention.

‘OK. I’ll be there,’ Lorimer spoke into the phone. ‘About twenty minutes.’

He flicked the red button and turned his attention to the television once more. A man and woman were having a heated argument. He could see her lipstick-red mouth wide open. The man was slapping the table between them noiselessly. Lorimer switched them off. He knew how it would end. They’d come over all sweet and sorry later on just as they always did. That’s why this soap opera had such a huge following, he thought. with its happy endings it was so unlike real life. He couldn’t have explained why he’d started to watch it after Maggie had left. She’d have been appalled at how hooked he’d become.

Anyway, this wasn’t getting him nearer the start of a new case. And, from what he’d just heard, there certainly weren’t going to be any happy endings. There were squads of men being called out from every Division in Glasgow to cope with this one. There would be a whacking great overtime bill by the time all the punters had been screened. Not to mention the musicians. And they’d had a bloody great Chorus on stage too, just to compound the logistical nightmare. Lorimer shook his head. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad being a mere Detective Chief Inspector. At least he didn’t have to worry about budgeting all of the time.

Lorimer shrugged himself into the jacket that had been hanging on the handle of the lounge door. The remains of a Chinese takeaway lay on the coffee table beside a half empty bottle of Irn Bru. He’d tidy them away later, he assured his absent wife, along with the week’s supply of newspapers strewn across the floor. For a moment Lorimer stared into space, seeing the room as it had been only two months before. It had never really been tidy what with Maggie’s piles of jotters to mark and both of them leaving books in various corners but now it was simply neglected. Then, at least, the place had been vacuumed and dusted, he supposed, or whatever she’d done to make it comfortable. But the difference was really more than mere housework, if he was honest with himself, much, much more.

With a grimace at the sight of it, Lorimer switched off the light and headed for the front door.

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer.’

The Security man at the stage door looked keenly at Lorimer’s warrant card then into the face of the tall man who stood just inside the doorway.

‘Mr Phillips, the Orchestra Manager, is waiting for you upstairs, sir,’ he said. ‘Trish will show you the way.’ Neville, the Security man beckoned forward a comfortable looking middle-aged woman. Lorimer recognised her steward’s tartan uniform. ‘Aye, it’s up here, Chief Inspector,’ Trish started to smile at him, but pursed her lips almost immediately as if she realised that the circumstances demanded some gravity of demeanour. Lorimer followed the woman up a steep staircase and through two sets of heavy swing doors. As they walked along a brightly lit corridor Trish cleared her throat.

‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? The poor wee man.’ She risked a glance into Lorimer’s face but he didn’t offer any comment in reply. The woman gave a sigh, whether about the passing of George Millar or Lorimer’s reluctance to engage in conversation, he didn’t know. They reached the end of the corridor, pushed through another two sets of swing doors and entered an open area that had a low ceiling and no windows. Lorimer saw with some relief that it was already full of uniformed policemen. Some were behind hastily erected trestle tables and taking statements from the musicians who were still in evening dress. A couple of officers from his own Division looked up as he came in, acknowledging his presence with a nod.