Alex Gray: Shadows of Sounds

Trudging back up the stairs, Lorimer felt suddenly weary. The thought of all those people who’d been backstage tonight filled him with despair. God alone knew who had passed back and forth along the corridor of the four Principals’ dressing rooms in the half hour before the concert began. The paying public had already been herded out into the suites of rooms opposite the auditorium. They would leave names, addresses and show proof of identity before being allowed to leave the Concert Hall. Even the Hall’s stewards had been hastily drafted in to help the police officers perform this massive job.

It was time to join the troops who were busy taking details from each and every one of the members of the Orchestra, Chorus and various backstage crew.

The claustrophobia hit him almost as soon as he entered the windowless area with its low ceiling. There seemed to be no space to move amongst the masses of bodies crammed into the room. Even the tables set up by the uniformed officers had disappeared against a wall of musicians in evening dress. A quick glance showed him the various styles adopted by the female members of the Orchestra ranging from plain trousers and blouses to full-skirted gowns. All the men wore black tails.

A buzz of noise filled the room. Evidently a murder in their midst hadn’t quelled the odd artistic temperament, judging by some of the louder voices raised in protest at their incarceration in this confined space.

As Lorimer approached the nearest table to speak to WPC Irvine, one of his own officers, the woman opposite looked up at him. She was probably middle-aged, judging by the steel grey hair. Her face, still smooth and youthful looking, had a strong bone structure dominated by the long, determined line of her jaw.

‘And who may you be?’ she asked in tones that instantly reminded Lorimer of a loud-voiced neighbour in his street who was forever complaining about dog fouling and children playing football near her garden. Mrs Ellis was the self-appointed neighbourhood watch who kept tabs on everybody’s coming and going. She had even resorted to ringing his front door bell, demanding Police Action until Maggie had sent her packing with a flea in her ear. Lorimer swallowed his instant dislike of the woman in front of him dressed all in black lace, reminding himself that the Mrs Ellises of this world had their uses.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, ma’am,’ WPC Irvine replied for him. ‘And this is Karen Quentin-Jones.’ The look on his officer’s face showed that she clearly expected the mention of Lorimer’s rank to change the woman’s tune. Lorimer glanced back at the programme in his hand. Karen Quentin-Jones was the Second Violin.

She must be the one who had taken over when Phillips had decided that the show must go on, Lorimer thought.

‘Well, Chief Inspector, just how long do you intend keeping us cooped up here like a lot of cattle?’ The woman’s sarcasm made WPC Irvine flinch. People who knew Lorimer just didn’t speak to him like that in her experience. So she was surprised when Lorimer smiled.

‘Would you come with me please? Constable Irvine, may I have this lady’s notes. I’ll be through in the room marked “Ness”. All right?’

Wordlessly, the musician rose from the chair, brushing out the layers of her skirt and followed Lorimer to the door leading to the other end of the Artistes’ corridor.

The tape was fastened across the narrow space but Lorimer untied it, indicating that the woman should pass through with him. For a second she hesitated. It was clear she knew what had taken place along here and didn’t relish the prospect of being so close to violent death.

‘If you would just take a seat in here, I’ll be right with you,’ Lorimer told her, holding open the door of the empty dressing room. He closed it behind her and turned to look up in the corner by the corridor door.

The CCTV camera was covered with a dark piece of cloth. Lorimer stood on tiptoe to examine it more closely. It looked for all the world like a black duster. A few strides would take him back into Morar. He stopped at the doorway, hearing familiar voices and realised that Rosie now had the company of the Scene of Crime Officers.

‘Sorry. Stay out of here will you! Oh, it’s you, Lorimer,’ Rosie looked up as he came into the room.

‘Can I borrow someone for a minute?’

Jim Freely, one of the SOCOs, followed him into the corridor.

‘There,’ Lorimer pointed to the cloth covering the camera. ‘Can you have it photographed before you take it down, d’you think?’

‘Sure,’ Jim gave Lorimer a quizzical look. ‘Someone’s gone to a bit of trouble to keep themselves off the screens, eh? Can’t be one of the performers, then. They’re only too keen to be on the telly,’ he joked, walking back to Morar.

Lorimer stood looking up at the cloth then back at the shape of the corridor. The doorways of each dressing room were deeply recessed in from the wall. He took a step towards the entrance of Ness but did not open the door. Instead, he stood back in the shadow of the doorway and lifted his hand towards the camera. It was several feet away. Whoever had immobilised it must have used something to attach the cloth. Something like a walking stick, perhaps? Lorimer made a mental note to scan the tape again as soon as he could. Meantime Mrs Quentin-Jones was waiting for his attention.

He gave a quick knock and entered the dressing room.

It was like George Millar’s room, only not quite so grand. Karen Quentin-Jones had placed herself in the middle of a small settee, her voluminous skirts spread out around her. There was another chair in the corner.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he began, fetching the chair and setting it down at an angle beside her. ‘Now. I gather you were acting as Leader of the orchestra tonight. Is that correct?’

The woman bent her head imperiously, steady grey eyes looking straight at him. ‘Quite correct.’

‘As Second Fiddle, you’d go on stage with the other members of the Orchestra. Which side did you come on?’

‘Violins came on from stage right,’ she answered.

Lorimer made a mental sketch in his head. ‘That’s by the Stage Manager’s cubicle, yes?’

‘Correct.’

‘And what time did you all leave your dressing rooms?’

‘Seven-fifteen. We always have a call at seven-twenty, but usually we’re ready to go on before then.’

Lorimer remembered the few occasions when he and Maggie had attended orchestral concerts. The members of the Orchestra usually came onto stage in dribs and drabs, adjusting music stands, playing snatches of music until the Second Fiddle gave them their note to tune up.

‘So everybody was on stage by what time?’

‘Oh, definitely seven-twenty-five. I remember looking at my watch and thinking it would all be over in two hours and twenty minutes. Quarter to ten,’ she added as if Lorimer was too slow to work that out for himself. He ignored the sarcasm and continued, ‘Was anybody late arriving on stage?’

Karen’s eyes widened, the reasoning behind that question clearly not lost on her.

‘No,’ she answered immediately. Then she seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing, ‘But not everybody was needed for the first half. Some of the brass section and two in percussion would still have been backstage then.’

Lorimer was interested in her faltering tone. Her mind was obviously moving on to the consideration of who might have killed George Millar. She didn’t want it to be one of her own colleagues, he could tell.

‘Did it bother you that you had to take the part of Leader at such short notice?’

Karen made a face. ‘I didn’t have time to be bothered. Anyway, it’s not the first time it’s happened.’