Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

The strains of the music filled the room with their sense of unfulfilled longing as ‘The Dark Island’ reminded the two men of a people who had been bereft of their homeland so long ago. As the music trembled and died, Chris lowered his bow and smiled.

‘Will that do you?’

‘Ah, such sweet music! You’re a born romantic, so you are, Hunter!’ Simon teased. ‘All that Scottish sentimentality, it’s really got to you, hasn’t it?’

‘We learnt that at school,’ Chris told him. ‘Lots of the old pipe tunes were standard fare for violin lessons down in Bristol. That one’s always stuck with me for some reason, though.’ He smiled a secret smile to himself.

‘Thinking about when you were wee?’ Simon asked, watching the other man’s face.

Instead of replying to his question, Chris picked up the bow again and began a lively reel. He swayed from side to side in exaggerated sweeps, his foot tapping wildly on the bedroom carpet.

Simon leapt to his feet, clapping his hands and twirling around in time to the music, sending out the occasional ‘Heuch!’ The music became louder and faster as the violinist changed the tempo, jigs and strathspeys following in rapid succession until Simon fell, exhausted and laughing, back onto the rumpled bedclothes.

‘Oh, man,’ he said, weak with laughter and the effort of prancing around the room, ‘That was just what we needed!’ Simon sank back onto the pillow, one hand behind his head, his cheeks flushed and the red-gold hair clinging damply to his forehead. ‘The perfect antidote to a funeral,’ he murmured.

Chris Hunter turned away to put the violin back into its case.

‘Blast!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I need a new bow. This one’s a wreck. Look at it!’

Simon yawned and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Forget it. Come to bed. Brendan’ll get you something tomorrow if you ask him.’ He looked over at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, noting the sudden slump to his shoulders. ‘Wish you’d taken up George’s offer, now?’ he asked, a malicious glint in his eye.

‘Hell, no! I couldn’t afford it then and I can’t now. A new fiddle? Any idea what a decent one would set me back?’

‘Aye, poor old Georgie boy. Who’d have thought he was dealing in suss instruments, eh?’

Something in the other man’s voice made Chris Hunter look up.

‘Did you know what he was up to?’

‘Me?’ Simon feigned innocence, his eyes laughing behind their wide stare. ‘A clean-living country boy like me? Come off it!’

‘Did you, though, seriously?’

Simon shook his head. ‘Never suspected a thing. Knew he did the odd line, well he hardly kept that a secret, did he?’

‘No,’ Chris replied. ‘Liked to flaunt that, didn’t he?’

‘Aye, it fair annoyed the old women, didn’t it? Remember how Karen used to go on about it?’

‘Come on, Si, she’s only just been buried, for goodness sake,’ Chris protested.

‘With full honours,’ Simon replied. ‘Wonder how much Drummond charged for the Chorus’s services today.’

‘Surely they’d be singing for free?’

‘You don’t know Maurice Drummond. I bet even now he’s invoicing Quentin-Jones.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ Chris replied shortly. ‘Nobody could be that cold-blooded.’

Simon ran a hand through his hair. ‘Someone is, though,’ he said darkly. ‘Someone’s cold-blooded enough to do in two of our orchestra.’

‘You think it might be Drummond? Why?’ Chris twisted around to look at Simon’s expression.

‘There was something between him and Karen.’

‘What sort of thing?’ Chris asked, a frown creasing his brow.

‘Och, I don’t know really. I’d seen them arguing together. There was no love lost between that pair, I can tell you.’

‘Have you told this to the police?’

Simon made a face. ‘Tell them what? That Drummond didn’t like our Assistant Principal Fiddle? There were quite a few who would come in to that category. Come on, let’s be honest, she wasn’t everyone’s favourite person, was she?’

Chris shook his head and sighed. ‘I suppose not, but it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. Especially today.’

Simon laughed, ‘Nothing you or I can say will hurt her now, pal.’

‘I was just thinking of the family,’ Chris protested.

‘Aye, I know. You’re a soft-hearted lad, aren’t you,’ Simon told him, reaching out and grasping Chris’s wrist. ‘That’s one of the reasons I love you,’ he whispered, drawing Chris’s hand up to his mouth. He began sucking gently at his fingertips until Chris gave a groan and swung his body onto the bed beside him.

The light was beginning to fade when Chris finally fell asleep. Simon observed the faint shadow of his chest as it rose and fell in a steady rhythm. There was only that whisper of gentle breathing in the room now and the murmuring hum of the ioniser, mere shadows of sound. Even familiar shapes became blurred and indistinct; the fiddle in its open case was a dull gleam of polished wood. Simon stared at it for a long moment.

‘I wonder what’s happened to her violin,’ he asked himself dreamily, then a sudden shiver made him pull the covers over his naked feet.

‘We’ve found the violin!’ Jo Grant stood breathless opposite Lorimer, her hands on his desk, her face radiant.

‘Well, well! Sit yourself down, Inspector, and tell all,’ Lorimer smiled at her enthusiasm but his own heart had jumped at Jo’s words.

‘It was in Vienna. In the back of a van that was transporting instruments for the Berlin Philharmonic. Can you believe that? I mean they’re one of the best known …’

‘OK, just the main facts. How was it spotted?’ Lorimer cut in.

Somewhat chastened, Jo continued, ‘The truck, van, whatever it was, had been stopped at customs for a spot check on the Austrian/Czech border. Seems they’ve had trouble with drugs coming over from Eastern Europe by way of Prague. The Orchestra had just done a series of concerts in Prague and had returned to Vienna for the next part of their tour.’

‘And the violin was found at the border?’

‘No. The truck was stopped at the border for a check. Nothing was found. Squeaky clean lot the Berlin Phil,’ Jo remarked, ‘unlike some of ours,’ she grimaced.

‘Anyway it prompted the driver and his second in command to take a look for themselves. And, bingo! Here was a violin surplus to their listed instruments.’

‘How did you find this out?’

‘Well, we’d posted the violin as missing on a website that’s dedicated to stolen instruments. Company called Smartaction operate it. The Berlin chap cottoned on to that and this fax came through,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘twenty minutes ago.’

‘What took you so long?’ Lorimer asked dryly then smiled as Jo made a face at him. Here was one officer who didn’t feel intimidated by her boss. The realisation came with something approaching delight. Suddenly all his misgivings about DI Grant and Superintendent Mark Mitchison vanished.

‘Have the Germans any idea how the instrument came to be there at all or is that a daft question?’

‘Yes,’ Jo grinned. ‘Not a single soul is putting up their hands for this one, but I will tell you that the First Violin in the Karlovy Vary Symphony Orchestra reported a Vincenzo Panormo missing a few years ago. They’ve collected the insurance now, right enough. There was a certain reluctance on the original owner’s part to identify the violin, I believe.’

‘Aye, I can believe that,’ Lorimer growled, remembering the fantastic price tag that the instrument had carried. With that kind of insurance money the owner would surely have bought some other violin by now. ‘So what’s happening to our instrument?’