Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘What about a harp, then?’ Dan offered, his large hands making circles in the air as he mentally unwound the filament, calculating its length.

‘Could be. We’ll know soon enough,’ Rosie replied briskly.

Lorimer stood up again, the tone in her voice telling him it was time to leave the pathologists to their duties and begin his own. With his mouth set in a grim line, Lorimer realised that one of the first of these duties would be to inform Derek Quentin-Jones that his wife was no longer a missing person.

When Maggie Lorimer stretched out her hand to halt the alarm’s intrusive bleep, she had no idea that another hand was at that moment unwinding a wire ligature from the neck of Karen Quentin-Jones. Maggie’s first thoughts on wakening were to remember the day of the week then calculate what time it was back home. She stretched her feet down to the coolest part of the bed then drew the single sheet up towards her chin, creating a tiny draught of air. The fan whirred quietly on the ceiling above, a noise she’d ceased to notice after all these weeks in Florida. Five more minutes, she told herself, five more minutes before the day need begin. She’d shower in the tiny cubicle adjacent to her bedroom then pad barefoot through to the open plan kitchen/living area, switch on the various machines that would deliver her breakfast while she rummaged in the closet for something suitable to wear. Waking up slowly gave her time to breathe before the rush began and, better still, gave her time to reflect.

Her mouth curved in a wide smile as she remembered last night’s telephone conversation with her mum. They were both coming out for Christmas! How Bill had fixed that, she couldn’t imagine. Mum had always been adamant that nobody would catch her flying on an aeroplane. But somehow Bill had sweet-talked her into it.

Bill. Maggie breathed a long sigh. They’d be here for two whole weeks. He’d promised. There was leave long overdue and he was taking it, he’d assured his wife. Maggie’s right hand drifted unconsciously to the place where her husband would lie. Two weeks. They’d be together, on holiday, for all that time. OK, Mum was going to be there too, but the nights would be theirs alone. Maggie closed her eyes and conjured up her husband’s face, the rough places around his jaw when he’d been too long away from a razor, the mole on his left cheek and the way his eyes crinkled when she made him laugh. She swallowed hard. Dwelling on such things would undermine her resolve. Better to think about practicalities.

There was so much they could all do during the holiday. Maggie forced her thoughts towards all the sights she wanted to share with the two people she loved best in the world. Some of these were right here in Sarasota. Mum would love the Marie Selby Gardens, especially all those orchids, and she’d have to take them to the Ringling Museum, its mock Venetian Palazzo looking out over Long Boat Key. There were other sights they might want to visit; places further afield that she’d been saving up to explore. Maybe they could take a mini-break down to the Keys? Her head buzzed with the possibilities. It would be fun to show off the bits of Sarasota that she knew so well, now. OK, she’d only been here for eight weeks, Maggie calculated, but already she felt proprietorial about the place. Her place. A few more weeks and they’d be arriving. She longed to show her husband the apartment. Maggie screwed up her eyes tightly. No. What she really wanted was to show him that she could do this thing on her own. It mattered that he saw her in charge of her life.

Maggie listened to the noises of traffic outside her window and that cawing bird she’d yet to identify. Bill might know what it was. How he’d love the birds out here, especially the brown pelicans flying idly over the water. Her mind raced ahead, skimming over the prospects of those precious two weeks. A sudden thought intruded like a cloud blotting out the sun. What would she feel once they’d gone home again? she asked herself. Loneliness? Regret? So far work had been a balm to soothe those self-inflicted sores. In January the new semester would begin. She’d have six more months of being busy at the High School before her exchange was up. Then what? a small voice asked. She pushed the thought away as her hand threw off the crumpled sheet.

Maggie’s feet hit the wooden floorboards that were already warm with the morning sun penetrating the slatted blinds. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she hauled the cotton nightshirt over her damp curls. Shower first, she told herself, then coffee, then …? Then the day would materialise into its usual pattern dominated by assertive teenagers and voluble colleagues, a weary voice reminded her. Her five minutes of peace were up. It was time to join the frantic tilt at accumulating credits that passed for education in this part of the world. That really wasn’t fair, she scolded herself. Maggie heaved a sigh. OK, so she had to confess: it was no better or worse than the system back home. At least it was warm here, she smiled ruefully, running fingers through her moist tangle of curls.

As Maggie Lorimer switched on the shower, her naked flesh responded gratefully to the tepid spray sloughing away the sweat of another restless night.

Four thousand miles away, Doctor Rosie Fergusson laid the harp wire on a tray beside Karen’s body.

‘You can see the ligature marks now, can’t you?’ she asked, glancing up at Chief Inspector Lorimer who was standing close to the viewing window. Despite the toughened glass they could converse easily through the Mortuary’s sound system.

Lorimer looked at the marks left by the twisted wire. The depth of the ligature was quite dramatic. Even after Rosie had removed that last twist, the neck bore a deep cleft as if the wire were still biting into the woman’s dead flesh. The wound told its own tale, one of passionate determination to put an end to Karen Quentin-Jones. To stop her breath, to stop any sound she’d ever make again, except that last choking as the wire finally did its work.

‘What are these scratch marks near the wound?’

‘Fingernails. We might find traces of her own skin under her nails. She’d been trying to get the wire off.’ Rosie looked down at the body below her. ‘Didn’t help though. She’d have lost consciousness in less than a minute.’

‘Not enough time to have made any cries for help, then?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘Hardly a peep. Still,’ she added in a cheerier tone of voice, ‘it looks worse than it is.’

Lorimer glanced at the swollen, reddened face then looked away again.

‘She’ll look better after the post-mortem once the blood’s drained,’ Rosie assured him.

‘So,’ he began, ‘when did she die?’

‘When was she last seen alive?’ Rosie countered.

‘Wednesday night. They had an evening rehearsal. Finished at ten.’

‘Hm. Can’t be precise, but it’s possible she died not long after that.’

Lorimer nodded. Karen Quentin-Jones should have been on her way home shortly after that. CCTV footage showed no sign of anyone leaving the building later than eleven-fourteen.

The last member of the Orchestra to leave had been Carl. The great Dane, she’d called him, Lorimer remembered. The camera had shown him hurrying away from the stage door, coat collar up against the chill wind, his viola case tucked beneath one arm. And could Karen’s missing violin have been inside that case? It would have been easy enough to conceal the instrument under a coat or within a music case. Easy for any of them, come to that.

Most of the musicians had left and walked uphill, towards the car park, their faces scanned only for the briefest of moments and some totally obscured beneath hoods and umbrellas. But there was no mistaking the Dane. He’d scanned that section of film over and over, watching the man’s retreating back, asking himself if he was looking at a murderer. A few of them were being invited in again for questioning, Carl Bekaert among them. Lorimer tapped a fingernail against his front teeth, oblivious to the surgical procedure that was taking place in front of him. The big Dane. Could he have fixed that duster across the CCTV lens with his bow? He was certainly tall enough. And he was one of George’s lovely boys, darling, a voice reminded him. Lorimer started as if Karen’s haughty drawl were coming through the glass.