Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Lorimer was thoughtful. This was information he’d already had from the Concert Hall’s security boys. Surely Phillips realised that.

Or was he deliberately trying to take away from the fact that he had been solely responsible for the Orchestra’s management that night? Was he experiencing guilt for what had happened?

‘So. You were on your own. Did you watch the rehearsal from the wings or were you out front?’

Brendan frowned. ‘A bit of both. I have to take the register so I’m always in the Hall until everyone’s arrived. But I wasn’t on my own. Maurice Drummond was there too. It was a Chorus night, you see. Once they’d started the programme and I knew they all had music and everything, I stayed out front with Maurice and listened for a while. It helps to get an idea of the balance of sound,’ he added.

‘Then?’

‘Then I’m back in Ness. That’s the room I always use here. Everybody knows where to find me. There are people popping in and out all the time.’

‘I’ve got a list of everyone who took part in the rehearsal,’ Lorimer said. ‘It looks like everyone who was there also took part in the concert that was on the night George Millar died.’

‘And why should that be significant?’

‘Well, think about it. They’ve hardly got over that night. Surely some of them are still in shock. It wouldn’t have come as a surprise to find that certain people had pulled out and had to be replaced at short notice.’

‘Chief Inspector, don’t forget these are professional musicians we’re talking about. They are well able to cope under strain. But, remember this: performing isn’t simply a matter of choice for most of them. It’s their bread and butter.’

The Orchestra Manager had become more assertive, thought Lorimer, as he sought to defend his Orchestra. The mother-hen act came naturally to him, he realised wryly. Brendan Phillips was probably just the right sort of bloke to have around an organisation like this.

‘You mentioned once before a library box, I think you called it, where spare strings and reeds are kept. I take it you had this at the rehearsal?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s with the Orchestra every time they play.’

‘And would you have noticed if there had been anything missing?’ Lorimer looked keenly at him. Neither man needed to mention the harp string that had been wound around the neck of Karen Quentin-Jones.

‘Yes. But not right away. I make a note of all the items used about once a month. Partly to replace them if we’re short, but also to keep tabs on the costs as we reorder,’ he added.

‘And where is this record kept?’ Lorimer asked.

Brendan Phillips coloured up at once. Lorimer could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallowed. He broke eye contact with the detective and rustled in among the papers on his desk but it didn’t take too much attention on Lorimer’s part to see that the paper in question had been on top of the pile.

‘So,’ Lorimer gave him a lopsided smile. ‘You were there ahead of me, were you?’

Brendan Phillips raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘What do you expect? I’m not stupid. Of course I wanted to check if there was a missing string.’

‘And?’

‘Yes. There was. There should have been a number 34.’

‘Can you describe it to me?’

‘Yes. It’s a fifth octave string, wire, not plastic, and it, it … wasn’t there.’ He looked up tentatively and Lorimer knew what he wanted to ask so he nodded.

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having a look at the one we have in Pathology?’

The man’s shudder was possibly exaggerated but his sense of horror was quite real. There was a pause before he whispered, ‘I suppose I have to, haven’t I?’

Solomon Brightman had been asked in as an observer to this second interview with Carl Bekaert. Lorimer had scanned Jo’s notes accompanying his first statement made shortly after George Millar’s death. Reading between the lines, DI Grant had seemed to feel sorry for the Danish viola player. He’d blustered about his friend George, but had stopped short of admitting any closer relationship with the victim. Jo hadn’t pressed the point. Why?

‘Sit somewhere out of the way,’ Lorimer had asked him, hoping that the psychologist might be discreet. It was pretty hard to hide such a man, however; his black beard and curling locks drew the eye even in the darkest corner of the room.

Nevertheless he was out of the Dane’s line of vision and Lorimer hoped to keep it that way throughout the interview.

Carl Bekaert had stooped as he’d entered the poorly lit room. His eyes flicked back and forth as the Chief Inspector motioned him to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. Even as the musician folded his long limbs under the table that lay between them Lorimer saw that he kept his eyes fixed to the floor.

From his corner position Solly watched the man’s body language give up its secrets.

Carl held his hands together, pressing fingers against knuckles until the tips showed blood red. His head was bowed in a position of utter defeat as if he were waiting for something he felt was inevitable: an accusation, perhaps? Or was he simply afraid to admit his homosexuality? His pale, blond hair was cut close to his ears like a schoolboy’s, Solly noticed. In fact the man’s whole demeanour was like that of a recalcitrant boy facing his headmaster.

‘Carl Bekaert?’ Lorimer’s tones were entirely neutral but the man’s head jerked up as if his name had been screamed out.

‘Yes. I am he.’ He lifted his head and looked at his interrogator for the first time. Lorimer’s initial impression was of a human being devoid of any colour; all the life seem to have leached out of his skin and hair making him look like a faded sepia print. Even his eyes had that pale yellow tinge. It was as if the Dane had emerged from years of dwelling in some subterranean chamber. was he always so anaemic looking or was this the effect of grief? Lorimer continued to study the musician. Carl’s hands clutched the sides of the chair making him sit bolt upright. A muscle on his right cheek twitched involuntarily. Lorimer shifted in his chair.

‘We asked you in again today, partly to discuss your relationship with George Millar.’ Noticing Carl pursing his lips in defiance, Lorimer held up a hand. ‘Don’t try to deny it, please. It will only make things worse for you in the long run.’

A tide of colour rose over the Dane’s clenched jaw, instantly making him appear more human.

‘It was known,’ he faltered, rubbing his finger against his nostrils. ‘Our relationship. The other members of the Orchestra, they know about George and I.’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed, ‘It was Karen Quentin-Jones who told me about it.’

Carl nodded, ‘So. She tells tales and then she is put away. That is what you want to talk to me about, yes?’ The musician leant to one side, searching in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. He took it out wiping his nose briefly.

That was interesting, Solly thought to himself. He’d instinctively used a euphemism for death. She is put away. What was he afraid of: death in general or the act of killing? or had he tried to blot out the horrors surrounding the two murders? Solomon Brightman could understand that reaction. He’d been close enough to cases of murder to know the emotions such events could produce. And was the musician so choked with emotion that he needed to wipe his nose? That hadn’t been apparent from his voice. Maybe he just had a cold coming on. Solly’s eyes shifted to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer’s expression betrayed nothing at all, neither kindliness nor harshness. His was the face of the trained professional, open and receptive, welcoming any statement that might help the case. Any change in that expression would work on the person who had to endure his unflinching gaze.