Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Another knock interrupted the Conductor’s thoughts and another face appeared in the doorway. Poliakovski scowled at the intruder, then his face cleared as he saw the man’s dark beard and twinkling eyes. This was a compatriot, no?

‘Mr Poliakovski? May I come in?’

‘Sit down,’ Victor drawled, curious to know the identity behind the London accent. Not a Russian, then, but a Jew, by the look of him.

The stranger held out his hand, then, realising he was still wearing gloves, hastily removed them. He held his hand out once more, a shy smile playing about his lips.

‘Solomon Brightman. I’m helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.’

‘Ah. Another policeman,’ Poliakovski made a dismissive face.

‘Oh, no. I am working on the investigation but my role is somewhat separate from that of the police. I’m a psychologist.’

Poliakovski’s bushy brows rose in renewed interest. ‘Psychologist,’ he rolled the word thoughtfully around his mouth as if he could taste it. ‘You do the profiling of the criminal mind, then? Eh?’

Solly nodded, his smile less shy now, his dark eyes already absorbing the Russian.

‘Are you free for the moment, sir?’

‘Yes,’ the Russian answered slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I thought perhaps you might be my guest for dinner this evening. I’d like to hear your views on the Orchestra and thought we could talk while we eat.’

Victor Poliakovski did not reply at once but sat fingering his own beard as if considering the psychologist’s invitation.

‘Very well. But please allow me to pay for dinner.’ He gave a sudden grin that transformed his sombre face into that of a caricature villain. ‘They hold me here on a contract that includes my bed and board,’ he added, seeing the psychologist’s doubtful expression.

An hour later the Conductor was sitting across from Solomon Brightman contemplating the menu in Cafe Rogano. He had remarked on the black and white portrait photographs of celebrities lining the walls and the pithy texts that accompanied them. From where he sat, Solly was aware of Nancy Astor’s beaky disapproval looking down upon the diners.

I married beneath me, all women do, her words declared.

Solomon glanced around at the other diners. One or two, like him, were intent on reading these famous quotations from another era.

A bottle of Gerwutzraminer rested in the ice bucket at the side of their table, its contents already well depleted by the Conductor. Solly sipped his wine carefully, taking in his companion’s mood as Poliakovski chose his dinner.

‘Back home my wife already prepares for Christmas with the baking of cakes and pastries,’ he said. ‘She does it every year at this time. This is what I am missing.’

‘You’re with the Orchestra as guest conductor until Christmas, then?’

‘That is so. My wife is so used to me being away for work and so we value the times when we can be together,’ he growled, taking another gulp of the dry wine. ‘You are married, Doctor Brightman?’

Despite his best intentions, Solly blushed and shook his head.

Lowering the menu, Poliakovski caught his expression and grinned wickedly, ‘Ah. But you have a lady friend, no doubt. Is she pretty, then?’

Solly tried a smile and nodded. Yes, Rosie Fergusson was pretty, all right. He had a sudden vision of his flat full of the smells of baking and domesticity, Rosie in an apron stirring something that they’d share for Christmas dinner. Is that what she’d like, he wondered, realising for the first time that the pathologist had not mentioned any plans at all for the festive season. Or would the lovely blonde rather dress up and be taken to one of the city’s many fine restaurants? Solly made himself a promise to ask. Suddenly it was rather important that he shared Christmas day with Rosie.

A waiter approached and took their order, Poliakovski asking about several of the dishes with the authority of a practised gourmet.

‘Now,’ began the Conductor once the waiter was out of earshot, ‘you want to know about the City of Glasgow Orchestra, yes?’

‘Can you cast you mind back to the performance on October 22nd?’

Poliakovski smiled wryly, ‘You think I could forget it, then?’

Solly shrugged. ‘Tell me what you remember about the Orchestra’s performance that evening.’

‘Hm. Damn sight better than today, I assure you, my friend,’ he remarked. ‘This is a good orchestra. I tell this already to your Chief Inspector Lorimer. They have style. Panache. And always ready for the good time afterwards,’ the Conductor grinned conspiratorially. ‘But today,’ he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair, ‘the nerves, the mistakes, the lack of life.’

‘On October 22nd,’ Solly reminded him gently.

‘They play well, you know, the programme is varied, it shows off their virtuosity.’

Solly stared into space for a moment. Lorimer had clued him up about this meeting with Poliakovski. Ask him what he saw from the podium, the Chief Inspector had urged. That was what Lorimer had meant to ask that first night, he’d told Solly, but somehow the question had been lost in the conversation.

‘You have a unique insight into their playing, do you not?’ Solly began. ‘You face the musicians as they play. You are totally aware of every nuance, every note that trembles in the air?’

Poliakovski smiled. ‘You should have been a poet, my friend. Such depth of perception.’

‘It’s what a psychologist requires also,’ Solly told him gravely.

‘Yes. I see all these things. I hear every shade within the music. But what of that?’

Solly paused before answering. ‘Was there any particular player who seemed to be off form? Did any of the musicians make uncharacteristic errors?’

Poliakovski pushed back his chair and crossed one leg over the other, staring at the psychologist.

‘You think I can identify a person with a guilty conscience, is that it?’

‘Perhaps.’

The Russian looked down at his hands, examining the fingertips carefully. His silence, Solly knew, suggested that he was remembering something that he now saw as significant. But would he reveal this to the stranger sitting opposite?

Poliakovski closed his eyes and leant back with a sigh. At last he spoke, slowly, as if he were trying to see the City of Glasgow Orchestra in his mind’s eye.

‘The violinist. She plays like the angels. Now, alas, she is with them for all eternity. The brass section, they are full of spirits. These horns! Ah, such jokers!’ The Russian shook his head as if recalling some incident. Then his expression grew sombre. ‘Yes, Doctor, I do recall mistakes. So. A trombonist slides too early? A viola is off the beat. What else? I think the harpist shows the nerves. Yes, she trembles when I look her way.’

Solly hid a smile. It was not difficult to imagine a nervous player buckling under the Russian’s sweeping gaze. The harpist had been in a flap before the performance too, he remembered from Lorimer’s notes. But was the DCI looking at this the right way? The psychologist considered his question to Poliakovski. Perhaps he had seen a few musicians off form but would poor playing necessarily have been the response of a killer? Would there not have been some elation in their demeanour, an extra verve to their playing?

Solomon knew he would soon be voicing this point of view to the DCI even although it cast him in the role of Devil’s advocate. Again. Still, he’d made a promise to Lorimer so he pushed on with the policeman’s idea.

‘And the Chorus?’

‘Ach, they do what they must do. They look at Maestro and they sing their notes. No mistakes, Doctor. The tenors, well, they could be more forte, you know. It is not unusual for a weakness in that section. But the sopranos, ah, they have the passion!’