Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Now the psychologist was heading into town to the Division where he was to meet Mitchison. Lorimer hadn’t been in touch for weeks but Solly knew about the murder at the Concert Hall. It would be hard not to know from the way the media was stepping up its interest, but Solly had information that came from quite a different source. Rosie Fergusson had kept him up to date about the violinist’s death from the start. She’d even suggested that he should be involved in the case, but Solly knew better than to offer his services as criminal profiler until he was asked. Officially. Superintendent Mitchison was one of those vexatious persons the Desiderata on Lorimer’s desk urged one to avoid. It was an irony not lost on Solly that the Detective Chief Inspector had opted to ignore the lofty advice that stared him in the face each day.

The cab swung away from the main road, spraying a fan of decomposing slush from its wheels. Solly leant forward as the vehicle came to a halt, ready to pay the driver. As he stepped out his feet slipped on the uneven surface and he had to grasp the door handle to save himself from falling.

‘A’right, pal?’ the taxi driver grinned from the safe interior of the cab. ‘Mind how you go, now, eh?’

Solomon managed a weak smile in reply and steadied himself. As he drove away from the kerb, the driver shook his head and glanced at the bearded man’s reflection in the rear view mirror.

Elsewhere in the city the early snowfall was still making its presence felt. The melted snow had created a steady trickle of water running off the Glasgow rooftops now that the winter sun had penetrated the early morning clouds.

It caused extra work for caretakers who were trying to clear the drifts from doorways and stop the drains choking with debris swept down with the sudden heaps of melting snow dislodged from the roofs above.

That morning the staff at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had to contend with another sort of misfortune than the scandal surrounding the late George Millar. The security guard noticed it first as he tried to flush the toilet downstairs. When nothing happened he listened for the familiar sound of gurgling in the pipes. What he did hear was a low rumbling noise coming from the ceiling. Neville put his hand up as if to ward off the noise then, realising the cause of the rumble, wrenched open the toilet door just in time before the gloss painted ceiling bulged like a naked, overfed stomach. He heard the crash behind him even as he bounded up the steps that led to the ground floor then a gush as water cascaded out of the burst pipes.

Like a tree whose trunk and branches are all that is visible to the passer-by, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall has hidden roots that penetrate deeply into the subterranean spaces. The water that fell from the pipes found its lowest level, as water will inevitably do, obeying the laws of physics. Puddles formed down in the dungeon, covering dark shapes then submerging them completely so that by the time the maintenance crew waded in there was a veritable lake of slimy water. Several bits of detritus bobbed on its surface, illuminated by the flashlights the two men carried.

‘We cannae do this ourselves,’ one of the men remarked in tones of protest. ‘It’s a job fur the Fire Brigade.’

‘Aye. Looks like it,’ the other remarked. ‘Whew! They’re welcome to it, ‘n’ all. That smell’d gie’ ye the boak.’

‘Must’ve been something rotten in the drains, eh?’

‘Well, ah’m no’ waitin’ tae find oot. ur ye comin’?’

As the two men sloshed their way back from the edge of the water their torches made arcs of light against the dripping walls.

Suddenly one of the men gave out a cry, ‘Jesus, Hughie! Whit the hell’s that?’

His companion stopped and turned, following the torch beam directed towards a corner of the cave-like storeroom they called the dungeon. For a moment his eyes stared, uncomprehending, then the shape fixed beneath the torchlight took on familiar proportions. Despite the darkness he could make out a paler shape that could only be a face. He took a deep breath as his innards churned and his breakfast threatened to escape. Then Hughie McCallum swallowed hard and whispered, ‘‘Sno’ the Fire Brigade we’re wantin’, Rab. It’s the polis.’

Solly clipped the visitor’s identity badge onto his lapel and turned away from the reception desk. Mitchison’s office was on the third floor with a view that looked out towards the Kingston Bridge where traffic constantly flowed north and south over the River Clyde. He would wait here until someone came to escort him into the Superintendent’s presence.

For once the psychologist was on time for his meeting at Police headquarters. The snowfall may have caused some chaos early on during rush hour but his journey here had been without incident.

‘Doctor Brightman?’ A young WPC stood at the entrance to a corridor, holding back the door for him to follow her.

‘Terrible day. You got here alright, though?’ she commented.

‘As you see,’ Solly nodded, unwinding the knitted scarf from his neck. ‘It’s fine now. A trifle slippery underfoot, but that’s all,’ he smiled at the girl, considering the small talk that always centred upon the subject of weather. It might be an idea to throw that into a tutorial with the first years. Could be interesting to make them think about the ways strangers interacted with one another. He could use comparisons from other cultures too, he mused, as they entered the lift. Or he might use the idea of conversations in another way altogether. How did a murderer first approach his victim? By commenting on the weather?

The answer to his hypothetical question remained unanswered as the lift doors opened.

‘Superintendent Mitchison asked me to ask you if you’d like some tea or coffee, sir,’ the WPC told him.

‘Ah,’ Solomon replied, his mind shifting from the tutorial room to the matter of hot drinks. His tongue watered at the memory of strongly brewed tea. Police catering didn’t include camomile or peppermint, he was sure.

‘A glass of water, perhaps?’ he beamed at the girl who raised her eyebrows in surprise. He could almost hear her thoughts as she knocked on the door marked Superintendent M. Mitchison. Cold water? On a day like this?

‘Come,’ a voice commanded.

Solomon stepped inside the beige office. He hadn’t been here since that spring morning when Mitchison had requested his help with a case involving what had looked like stranger killings.

It had been Lorimer’s case, really, but he’d put in his tuppence worth to good effect. Now he’d been summoned here again and he was curious to know what the Superintendent’s request would be this time.

‘Do take a seat, Doctor Brightman,’ Mitchison stood up to greet him, the handshake just the wrong side of perfunctory. ‘I suppose you know what this is all about. Can’t escape it with all the media brouhaha.’

‘The murder in the Concert Hall?’

‘Murders,’ Mitchison answered shortly, ‘There’s been another one.’ He glared at the psychologist as if he were somehow to blame. ‘A body was discovered at the Concert Hall this morning. Lorimer’s there now,’ he added. He continued to look at Solomon, expecting a response, but the man across the desk merely nodded, the ghost of a smile hovering around his lips.

Mitchison leant forward in his seat, wagging a finger toward Solomon. ‘It’s been a shambles of a case up until now. The press have been out of line and so far there’s little in the way of forensic evidence to give us any leads.’ As the Superintendent spoke, Solomon wondered if there was a veiled criticism of Dr Rosie Fergusson contained in his words, a criticism that Mitchison intended to be communicated through him.