Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Whether or not Karen Quentin-Jones had been a popular member of the community, the turnout at her funeral was certainly respectable. Most of the congregation were middle-aged or older but there was a row of youngsters near the front. Beside the Consultant Surgeon sat a girl with long dark hair falling down her back. As she turned her face towards Quentin-Jones, Lorimer saw the pale face with its firm jaw. Younger and perhaps even prettier, there was no question whose daughter this was. what else might Tina Quentin-Jones be feeling, apart from the obvious grief at losing her mother? Lorimer ground his teeth. There were so many victims never taken into account in a murder case; children, parents, friends, a whole gallery of suffering.

His eyes slid along the row to where an elderly lady sat, her face veiled from sight. She sat upright, hands crossed on top of a stick, staring straight ahead as if to blot out the murmur of conversation around her. Beside her a woman’s grey head was bowed in prayer. For a moment Lorimer thought he recognised Edith Millar then his view of the front row was masked by the arrival of the undertaker and the request for the congregation to stand.

He watched as the coffin was brought forward, noting that it was being borne by professionals in their black livery, not by family members. Then, as the coffin was laid across the trestles, a sound like deep organ pipes came from the Choir Stalls as the Chorus began their vocal tribute to the dead violinist. Lorimer listened, moved in spite of himself as they intoned Taverner’s ‘Song to Athene’. As the women’s voices reached the triumphant crescendo, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, then the Basses resumed their sonorous notes, letting the sound fade into darkness. There was a long moment of silence as the notes reverberated into the vaults. After the obligatory coughing and shuffling, the minister began his address.

Lorimer hadn’t intended to follow the funeral party to the hotel afterwards but professional curiosity managed to subdue any qualms about obeying protocol.

Quentin-Jones had booked a room at Lang’s, the upmarket hotel directly across from Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, much to Lorimer’s surprise. OK, it was the nearest decent place to the Cathedral, but surely its proximity to the murder scene was in poor taste? Or was the bereaved husband so consumed with grief that such niceties had been lost on him?

Sipping the whisky he’d been offered by a solemn faced waiter, Lorimer glanced around the room.

Brendan Phillips was in conversation with the Chorus Master when he caught sight of Lorimer. His beckoning finger and tentative smile were all the invitation Lorimer required. That Maurice Drummond was there under the circumstances surprised Lorimer. How would Quentin-Jones feel about seeing his wife’s former lover there? But, he reasoned to himself, as musical director for the funeral service he might be expected to put in an appearance afterwards.

‘Chief Inspector. This is someone I want you to meet,’ Brendan began. His companion tilted his head towards Lorimer in a gesture of politeness. ‘Maurice, Chief Inspector Lorimer. Maurice Drummond, Director of Music for the City of Glasgow Chorus.’

‘Actually Brendan, we’ve already met,’ Maurice Drummond replied dryly. He took Lorimer’s hand in a firm grasp. ‘I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of meeting one of Strathclyde’s finest today,’ Drummond said, dropping Lorimer’s hand like a stone.

‘No? Well we usually have a presence in such cases,’ Lorimer replied. ‘That Taverner was something pretty special,’ he said, swiftly changing the subject. ‘Well done.’

The Chorus Master shrugged. ‘He wrote it, I only hold the stick.’

‘Maurice, the Chief Inspector was asking me some time ago for your first name. I don’t think that’s something I’ve ever known,’ Brendan said teasingly.

A tiny frown crossed Drummond’s brow. ‘No, Brendan. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to you, have I?’ he said, his voice quiet, belying the obvious disapproval in his tone. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, there’s somebody over there I need to talk to. Nice to have met you again, Lorimer,’ he said politely.

‘Oh, dear, looks like I’ve ruffled poor old Maurice’s feathers,’ Brendan laughed, regarding the Chorus Master’s retreating back. Lorimer eyed the man speculatively. Had Brendan Phillips deliberately riled the man? And if so, why? He’d never come across as a particularly malicious individual; in fact he’d appeared quite the opposite up until now, anxiously solicitous for his musicians. But perhaps that was the answer: the choristers weren’t within his jurisdiction, were they? Was he beginning to sense some sort of rivalry between Orchestra and Chorus?

‘What does the C stand for, Chief Inspector?’ Brendan asked.

‘Well, if he doesn’t want you to know I don’t think I ought to say,’ Lorimer told him, his voice flat and even as though the conversation bored him, then drained the last of his whisky. ‘Better be going. I’ll be in touch.’

Lorimer made his way across the room to where the Quentin-Jones party stood, placing his empty glass on a convenient table without breaking stride.

The Consultant Surgeon saw him at once.

‘My condolences, sir, once again,’ Lorimer said, taking the man’s hand in a firm grasp.

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. It was good of you to come,’ Quentin-Jones replied, his words gracious enough, but his voice husky with emotion.

He looked suddenly older, the handsome face drained of colour. Lorimer guessed the man hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in the weeks since Karen had first gone missing.

He recalled the Surgeon’s guilt as he’d agonised over his purchase of the stolen violin.

‘If only I’d told her. If only I’d known!’ he’d cried to Lorimer in his storm of remorse. Lorimer had kept silent. How could he placate the man when his own suspicions were that Quentin-Jones’s dealings with George Millar might indeed have led to Karen’s death? Suddenly Lorimer regretted his impulse to follow the funeral party. Surely the very sight of the policeman was heaping anguish on the bereaved man. Besides, he should really be getting back to work.

Lorimer was almost at the door of the hotel when a touch to his sleeve made him turn. It was the girl with the long dark hair, Karen’s daughter.

‘Chief Inspector?’

‘Miss Quentin-Jones.’ Lorimer put out his hand but the girl seemed not to notice. She was looking at him in a distracted manner.

‘I just wanted to ask you. Will you find him? Whoever killed my mother?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Oh!’ Suddenly the girl appeared more agitated than before. ‘But how would you be sure that you’d got the right person? I mean … what if you made a mistake?’

Lorimer frowned at her, unsure of how to reply, wondering what had prompted the strange question.

‘Tina!’ a voice called from within the room.

‘I’d better go. Sorry.’

Lorimer watched as she practically ran across the room to where her father was standing then he looked up to meet the Surgeon’s gaze.

There was no disguising his expression of utter hostility. But to whom was it directed, to his daughter or Lorimer himself?

Pulling the door towards him Lorimer felt that Karen’s funeral had raised more questions than ever, not least about the relationship between her husband and her daughter.

‘Play something to me, will you?’

‘Like, what?’

Simon rolled over onto his side, considering. ‘Something sad. Sad but not morbid,’ he added, qualifying his request with a grin that lit up his eyes.

Chris tucked the fiddle under his chin and paused for a moment, bow in the air, his eyes looking beyond the man on the bed and out towards the grey patch of sky framed in the window. Then he looked back fondly at the strings and began to play.