Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Derek Quentin-Jones was pacing up and down in the corridor when Lorimer arrived. He was a man of middle build whose grey hair added to his distinguished appearance. He’d taken the trouble to don a double-breasted pinstriped suit, Lorimer noticed. Was he trying to create a good impression or was that just the normal workaday clothing of a consultant?

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer. Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer offered the man his outstretched hand. Quentin-Jones took it at once, gave it a firm shake, looking the policeman straight in the eye. The Second Violin’s husband was clearly a worried man if the creases between his eyebrows were anything to go by.

‘What’s all this about? You called my home to ask me about my wife.’

Lorimer indicated the stairs to their right, ‘We can talk up in my office, sir.’ The two men were silent on the short flight up to the CID rooms.

‘In here,’ Lorimer ushered the man into his own room, pulling a chair from its position against the wall so that they were facing one another.

‘I take it you had some tea or coffee downstairs?’

Quentin-Jones shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was kind of them but I couldn’t take a thing right now.’

Lorimer nodded briefly. If Sadie Dunlop had failed to force her canteen hospitality down this bloke’s throat, then he was certainly not faking his anxiety.

‘I suppose this has something to do with George Millar’s death.’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Have you seen today’s Gazette?’

‘No. It’s not a paper I read. Why? What’s going on?’

Lorimer fished a copy out of the waste paper bin and handed it over. The front page carried a photograph of George Millar and Quentin-Jones stared at it for a few moments before opening the page out to read the article alongside.

‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘That’s why he was murdered. Drug-related. But what’s that got to do with my wife, Chief Inspector?’

‘How long has Mrs Quentin-Jones owned her violin, sir?’

The Consultant’s face turned pale as the implication of Lorimer’s words sunk in.

‘Karen’s violin? You mean it was stolen?’

‘We do have reason to think so, yes.’

‘My God,’ the Consultant leant forward, burying his head in his hands and groaning. ‘I had no idea. I’d never have …’ the man broke off suddenly.

‘Never have what, Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer rapped out.

‘Never have bought it for her,’ the words came out as a whisper.

‘You’re telling me that you purchased the violin from George Millar?’

Derek Quentin-Jones nodded silently. He looked simply bewildered, Lorimer thought. Was he telling the truth, or was this just a desperate attempt to cover up whatever scandal might attach itself to his wife?

‘Karen’s fortieth birthday was coming up.’

‘When was this, sir?’

‘Oh, two, no nearly three years ago, I think. George told me he could get hold of something a bit special. He said he’d been contacted by a friend overseas who was retiring and wanted to make the sale.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Of course. There was no reason not to,’ Quentin-Jones protested.

‘What did you pay him for it?’

Quentin-Jones hesitated but it was the hesitation of a man to whom questions about money are naturally distasteful.

‘Sixty-five.’

‘Sixty-five pounds?’ Lorimer frowned.

‘Sixty-five thousand, Chief Inspector,’ Quentin-Jones’s smile was almost apologetic. ‘It was a Vincenzo Panormo. The 1780 edition,’ he added as if that would explain the matter to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer merely nodded as if he were accustomed to discussing violins that cost more than he earned in a year.

‘How did your wife react when you gave it to her?’ Lorimer asked. Unbidden, a bitter little thought came into his mind; just how much love could a ?65,000 violin buy?

‘Well. I don’t remember, really. I’m sure she was pleased with it,’ the Consultant said slowly as if trying his best to recall the moment.

‘Do you think your wife may have known where it really came from?’

The Consultant shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the honest truth, Chief Inspector. I can’t imagine Karen being mixed up in anything underhand. Whether she’d know about the violin’s provenance, well, that’s another matter,’ he said. ‘But I will tell you one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘She didn’t like George Millar. She wouldn’t have bought an instrument from him of her own volition. That I do know. So I didn’t tell her where I’d bought it.’

‘And didn’t she think that was somewhat strange? Wouldn’t she want to know how you’d managed to procure such a valuable instrument?’

Derek Quentin-Jones sighed. ‘I suppose in the light of George’s death it all seems a bit shady, but at the time all I wanted was for Karen to have a lovely surprise. I thought it best not to mention the connection with George.’

‘So you lied to her?’

‘Yes. I told her I had a patient with an interest in violins. She didn’t question me much, now I come to think about it.’

Lorimer grimaced. No, Karen Quentin-Jones might not have asked too many questions but Lorimer wondered if the woman would have recognised that particular instrument.

‘What I’m most anxious about right now isn’t a stolen violin, Chief Inspector, but the whereabouts of my wife!’

‘Don’t you think the two may be linked?’ he asked.

Quentin-Jones frowned back at him, ‘How’s that?’

‘Your wife was approached recently by the journalist who wrote that article. I imagine she may not have been too eager to speak to the police about the violin. Incidentally, do you know if she took the instrument when she left?’

‘It wasn’t in the music room. I looked for any signs that she’d come back from the rehearsal last night. There were none. And I haven’t seen her since breakfast yesterday morning. God, that seems so long ago!’

Lorimer leant back, eyeing the Consultant. The man was sitting on the edge of his chair, hands bunched tightly together, the very picture of anxiety. And it was real anxiety, Lorimer guessed, but whether for his missing wife or for his own involvement with George Millar, it was hard to tell.

‘I think it might be wise to take a statement from you at this stage, sir,’ Lorimer told him.

Quentin-Jones’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Is that really necessary? I mean, I’ve done nothing wrong, so …’

‘It’s perfectly routine, sir. Your statement will help us to piece together other information already received.’

‘Ah,’ the man relaxed just a fraction, adding, ‘you mean I’d be helping the police with their enquiries.’

‘Just so, sir.’

‘But Karen …?’

‘My officers will do everything in their power to find Mrs Quentin-Jones, sir. Given the nature of our current investigation we cannot yet treat her as a missing person. She may have wished to be elsewhere at present.’

Quentin-Jones looked steadily at Lorimer, meeting his blue eyes. What he saw there made him glance down with a small sigh of resignation. ‘Yes. I think I understand what you’re saying, Chief Inspector. And of course I’ll do anything in my power to help.’

Lorimer lifted the phone and dialled Jo Grant’s extension. His DI was just the woman to make the Consultant feel calm enough to give a proper statement.

After Quentin-Jones had left in Jo’s wake, Lorimer dialled another number.

‘Glasgow Royal Concert Hall,’ the switchboard operator announced.

‘DCI Lorimer. Put me through to Brendan Phillips, please.’

There was a knock on his door just as Lorimer heard Brendan Phillips’s voice answering. The DCI was aware of Annie Irvine hovering in the doorway, her face crumpled into its customary worried look. Lorimer waved his hand in irritation, signalling the policewoman to go away, but much to his annoyance she remained, hand on the door as if in a dither of indecision.