Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

As he approached the beggar, his eyes widened. It was Flynn. He was sitting with his back against the steps to an upstairs restaurant, polystyrene cup in one hand and a ragged blanket tucked over his legs. Wilson ducked behind a woman weighed down with bags of shopping in both hands. But it was too late. The boy had clocked him.

In one swift movement, Flynn leapt up from the pavement discarding the blanket as he ran, loose change scattering all over the pavement. Wilson broke into a run, dodging between the shoppers, barely pausing to apologise as they were elbowed out of his way.

As the boy headed off along Argyle Street, Wilson was aware of passers-by turning to see what it was all about. It was only a short burst to the next junction and the lights were at red. The boy put on a spurt, turning into Mitchell Street, his boots thudding on the cobbles. Wilson’s face broke into a grin. Just around the corner, concealed by the bend in the road, a Police car was waiting. They’d corner him then, for sure. Wilson saw his breath fog out in the frosty air as he thundered after Flynn. The backs of warehouses and the department store leant over them.

Pedestrians stood back to let them pass as Wilson gave chase, their faces registering alarm.

He felt his feet slipping on the icy stones but he could afford to slow down now that he was certain Flynn would be caught in their trap.

Just as the squad car came into view, Flynn turned round and stared wildly at the Detective Sergeant. The boy hesitated for a moment then looked towards his left. Wilson could read his mind. Flynn was thinking of making a dash into the NCP car park. But how could it offer a hope of escape? They’d get him in there just as easily. Surely he realised that?

Flynn suddenly swerved away towards the car park then, to Wilson’s horror, a white van emerged from the shadows of the off-ramp.

Wilson made to dash after him but a squeal of brakes rooted him to the spot.

As Flynn’s body made contact with the bonnet, the policeman heard a collective gasp of anguish from the folk standing opposite. It was like seeing a bundle of rags tossed skywards then coming to earth with a sickening thud.

‘Oh, my God! The poor laddie!’ a woman’s voice exclaimed. Wilson put out his hand to stop anybody crowding around the broken figure lying in the road.

‘Police. Keep back, please.’ The words had their intended effect though there was a marked reluctance amongst those who had witnessed the accident to move away. The two uniformed officers further up Mitchell Street had left their car and were heading towards him as Alistair Wilson bent over Flynn’s body.

‘Ah couldnae help it. He jist came like a bat oot o’ Hell!’ The driver had slid from his seat and was standing over Wilson, white-faced and shaking. He was a young guy with cropped hair and a silver cross dangling from one ear.

‘Aw naw. Whit’s he done?’ The van driver clutched Wilson’s arm. ‘This is terrible. Ah’ve only just got this delivery job, no’ right used tae the van yet, but it wisnae ma fault.’

‘No, it wasn’t. I saw what happened. The lad didn’t see you coming. He just dashed right in front of your van,’ Wilson assured him.

‘Ah wisnae goin’ fast or nothin’,’ the driver’s voice cracked.

Wilson nodded. He’d not been going fast, but even so, the van had travelled those few agonising yards towards the running figure. Then there’d been that awful thump as human flesh and bone met 3,000 kilos of metal. From experience Wilson knew that would be the memory to stick in the driver’s mind.

It wouldn’t be the sight of the body on the road but that noise as he’d braked, pulling on the steering wheel as if to rein in a runaway horse.

The man let go of Wilson’s sleeve and leant against the van door for support.

‘No, son. Not your fault,’ Wilson answered him shortly, one half of his mind wondering if in fact the fault lay at his own door.

Flynn’s body lay twisted, his arms flung out like a sawdust-filled doll. There didn’t seem to be any motion visible from his chest so Wilson lifted one wrist to feel for a pulse. There it was. A flicker, but at least he was still alive.

‘Get an ambulance!’ he barked as the first officer joined him beside the body.

‘He’s not …?’

‘No. But I don’t rate his chances much,’ muttered Wilson. ‘Keep this place clear, will you?’ he added, indicating the folk hovering in the edge of this tragedy.

Lorimer touched the breast pocket of his jacket. The feel of the tickets tucked away gave him a tingle of pleasure just to know they were there. It had cost him a whack, though. He’d have saved plenty, the wee girl at the travel agency had informed him, if he’d booked up sooner. Everyone wanted to go to Florida for Christmas these days, it seemed. Anyway, it was done now and Maggie’s mum would be pleased. And what about Maggie herself? Lorimer made a mental note to phone her later on when the time difference linked his bedtime with his wife’s evening meal. Would she be glad he’d booked the trip?

Lorimer’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. WPC Irvine hovered in the doorway, one hand on the handle as if she were too afraid to come right on into the lion’s den.

‘You know that woman you wanted in for questioning, sir? Mrs Quentin-Jones?’

Lorimer looked up. Annie’s expression was a dead giveaway that something was wrong.

‘Yes?’ he drawled out the word slowly, leaning his elbows on the desk and folding his hands beneath his chin.

‘Well, she’s gone. I mean she’s not at her own place and Mr Quentin-Jones doesn’t know where she is.’

‘Why don’t you just sit down and give me the whole story, eh?’

The young policewoman closed the door behind her and came to perch on the edge of the chair that faced Lorimer across his desk.

‘She was at some late rehearsal in the Concert Hall last night and she didn’t come back home, he says. Her husband, Mr Quentin-Jones, is a consultant up at the Southern General and was late getting back from an operation. He didn’t realise his wife hadn’t come home until this morning. Says he was so tired he just went out like a light. Woke up and she wasn’t in the bed beside him. He was going to phone the Police when he got a call from us asking for his wife. Poor man was in some state when we spoke to him. Thought we were going to tell him she’d been in an accident or something.’ The policewoman’s earnest expression made Lorimer wonder. Did Quentin-Jones have any inkling of what his wife had been up to? In fact, did anybody really know?

It was only Greer’s dirt-raking that had brought her name into the equation. And Lorimer still wasn’t sure if the journalist had got all his facts correct.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Downstairs, sir. He insisted on coming over. Asked for you personally, sir.’ WPC Irvine sounded apologetic, as if the Consultant had no right to have called on someone of Lorimer’s rank.

Lorimer sat and thought for a moment. If Quentin-Jones was as overbearing as his lady wife had been, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to deal with him. Maybe she was in the throes of some extra-marital fling. It wasn’t his job to find out things like that.

On the other hand, if Karen Quentin-Jones had read an early edition of the Gazette, could she have done a bunk? Lorimer considered this. Maybe she’d risen before her husband had awoken, seen the front page and high-tailed it?

‘OK, tell him I’ll be down to see him shortly. Take him into the canteen and let Sadie look after him,’ Lorimer suggested.

‘Aye, right, sir,’ The WPC was grinning as she left. Sadie Dunlop never stood on ceremony with folks, be they consultants, chief inspectors or whoever. Mr Quentin-Jones would just have to sit and take his tea and toast like the rest of them.