Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘You think whoever killed George Millar also killed the woman?’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer sounded surprised at the psychologist’s question then frowned. ‘Why? Don’t you?’

Solly was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip. ‘There are reasons for supposing it might be. The locus is the same. The murder weapon on each occasion was part of a musical instrument. There were many people about so it looks as if he is a risk taker. Not too many of those, I shouldn’t imagine.’

Lorimer grinned. Solly had his engine up and running. Any minute now, though, he’d throw a spanner into the works.

‘But?’ Lorimer prompted.

Solly looked up at him. ‘You see it too?’

‘Nope. I could feel it coming though.’

‘Ah. The But. Yes there is a But, I’m afraid. Someone tried to hide the woman’s body. There was no effort to do the same for George Millar.’

‘And no opportunity, either. Come on, Solly. Don’t you think the first murder was carefully planned? Think of the duster over the CCTV camera. It would have been easy for a tall man like him to place it there with the bow. And wouldn’t he have known that the Leader would be on his own in Morar?’

‘Ah, that’s just it. I do believe the first murder was planned out. It’s the second one I’m having difficulty with.’

‘You think he just happened to have a harp string in his pocket? Give us a break.’

‘No. But he might have lifted it from that library box on impulse.’

Lorimer frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘I think,’ Solly began measuring his words carefully, ‘that the second killing was a matter of opportunity. Not planned, not thought out at all. She was in the right place at the right time. And hiding the body was a stroke of sheer luck. The trap door on stage provided that.’

‘It also suggests someone who knew their way about the place, doesn’t it? And even you can’t seriously suggest that this is the work of a different killer.’

‘No,’ Solly admitted, ‘but it’s something I think we ought to consider.’

Lorimer shook his head. He didn’t want to consider anything of the sort. As far as he was concerned there was one person to profile and one person alone. OK the modus operandi was different but in his view that wasn’t as crucial as the fact that two musicians had met their ends in the same place, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And if Carl Bekaert’s DNA matched any trace on Karen’s body, he’d have him charged with murder.

Brendan Phillips watched as the Conductor took the Orchestra through their paces. Poliakovski was rehearsing the programme as if nothing had happened. Were they all such cold-blooded types? Brendan wondered. He’d always felt a stirring in his soul from listening to Russian musicians. And, watching the Conductor, Brendan realised that Poliakovski exuded such passion. Funny how some people changed the minute they walked off a platform. Like Karen, a voice came unbidden into his mind. Brendan shuddered. Concentrate upon the music, he told himself, watching the Conductor once more.

The rehearsal was well under way and the musicians caught in the Russian’s spell. Poliakovski did not hold a baton but guided the players only with his hands.

Brendan stared at him, fascinated as the Conductor’s fingers rose and fell rhythmically like a puppeteer commanding the movements of his dolls from invisible strings. They’d been lucky to have the Russian’s help at such short notice. Their own resident conductor had been in a car crash and would be out of action for weeks. Poliakovski had agreed to come over to Scotland for the remainder of the year, thus solving Brendan’s problem. There were other problems still to be resolved, however.

Simon and Carl were both being questioned by Strathclyde CID and the Third Fiddle was obviously nervous about taking the Leader’s position.

‘I don’t know, Brendan,’ the man had told him in all seriousness. ‘It’s a risky business stepping into the shoes of two dead people.’ The police presence on each of the exits had done little to reassure his musicians. If anything it served merely as a stark reminder of their murdered colleagues. Brendan had urged the Chief Executive to cancel all the remaining concerts for the year, but his boss’s argument about keeping a sense of normality for the players as well as the public had won the day. The Orchestra Manager had hoped the shambles beneath the stage might go some way to cancelling all their commitments, but the backstage crew had assured Brendan that this lower area was OK now. He’d had a hard time explaining the Executive’s decision to Derek Quentin-Jones, though. The man had been beside himself with rage when he’d learnt that the Christmas concert would go ahead as scheduled. Listening to his tirade on the telephone, Brendan could only sympathise.

There was a sense of unease throughout the whole Orchestra. It would go away in time, he supposed, but he might not wait around that long. Already the Orchestra Manager was casting his mind to other jobs away from the Glasgow music world. Brendan Phillips wanted a fresh start in a place where he was not constantly reminded of that blood-stained body on the tiles of his dressing room or the coiled harp string that had been stretched around a woman’s throat.

Victor Poliakovski strolled into his dressing room. The rehearsal had been awful but he’d kept his temper as he made the players go over and over the same bits of score.

They had further rehearsals before the Christmas show and by then their confidence would have returned. The familiar old tunes would steady their nerves, no doubt. Still, he thought as he towelled his sweating face, there were quite a few who looked as though they’d not slept since the night George Millar had been found dead in his room. Poliakovski gave an involuntary glance towards the wall that separated Lomond from Morar. That policeman asking questions had given him lots to think about. For instance, who had alibis for the time when the First Violin was being killed? It didn’t bother the Russian too much that he himself had little in the way of an alibi. For he was Maestro, and nobody questioned his judgement, not even a tall policeman with fire in his eyes.

A knock on the door made Poliakovski turn.

‘Your tea, sir,’ one of the women in tartan uniform came across and laid a tray on the main table by the window. Her eyes did not meet those of the Conductor as she performed her task and hurried out. Poliakovski tossed the damp towel over the back of a chair and sat down to enjoy his pot of tea. It was not so bad then, having to stay on awhile in Glasgow if the people became familiar with his little ways. His tea, for instance, was something they brought up automatically when he came off stage. Victor heaved his huge frame onto the leather settee and began to pour out the strong brew. He spooned four sachets of sugar into the teacup and stirred, his mind going over the Orchestra’s listless performance and what he would do about it next time. Even the brass section, which could normally be relied upon to liven things, had failed to come up to scratch. The First Trumpet’s rendering of a horse’s neigh at the end of ‘Sleigh Ride’ had sounded more like a hyena with a bad cold.

Victor frowned a little. He could have been at home now with Valentina and their grandchildren instead of sitting in this overheated dressing room sipping black tea.

Christmas was coming, the snows had carpeted Moscow and there were things he’d need to do before the family took its customary holiday to the dacha. Lady Claire MacDonald and her husband had been kindness itself towards the Russian conductor, he mused, letting him bask in the warmth of their country house hotel. And such excellent cuisine! Victor swallowed a mouthful of tea as memories of Lady Claire’s table came back to him. It had been some compensation, truly, for his enforced stay here in Scotland. Brendan, the good fellow, had an open ticket for his return via London Heathrow. Surely by the time he’d conducted the Christmas show in a few weeks’ time there would be no need to detain him further?