Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Sunday dawned clear and cold, the sky filled with the sort of pearly brightness that foretold the threat of a storm to come. Lorimer stretched under the duvet, remembering the previous day’s events. That Austrian policewoman had been thoroughly efficient, bringing the old violin to them. It had been taken to Rosie Fergusson and the forensic pathologist had gone to work immediately. Weekend or no weekend, Rosie was ready and willing to drop whatever plans she might have made. Calling him late last night she’d told Lorimer that her first impression was that they might be in luck. There did appear to be traces on the violin case and the instrument itself that could provide fresh evidence.

Lorimer’s thoughts turned to the orchestra. Tonight the whole lot of them would be undergoing DNA testing, a procedure that might nail someone for the two murders at last. Today they’d all be up at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall for the Christmas performance. Harps and angels, Brendan Phillips had said. Well, if everything went according to plan, there could be one less angel in the firmament before Christmas.

Lorimer turned onto his side, dragging the cover tightly over his nose. There were so many threads to this case. George Millar’s involvement in drugs might have been no more than a recreational sideline for the violinist.

Carl Bekaert had provided no leads there, unfortunately. Nor had Flynn. Despite the occasional hint, Lorimer had been unable to worm the names of the boy’s drug dealing cronies out of him. It had disquieted the policeman to think the boy might be contacting them from this house and he’d been careful to monitor any outgoing telephone calls. But it appeared that Flynn really had dropped these low life friends of his for good. They’d got on well these past weeks, even Maggie’s mum had called round to see the boy and fuss over him. As Flynn’s injuries had healed so too had something within the boy, some chip on his shoulder that had formed over years of neglect and mistrust. But still he hadn’t opened up to Lorimer about his links with George Millar’s dealers.

At least Millar’s stolen instrument scam seemed to be coming more to light now that the Panormo was back. The link with the Czech Orchestra was being investigated and the Austrian police officer had hinted that there was sufficient evidence from loss adjustors in various parts of Europe to obtain some kind of pattern. Computers, he thought. Modern technology. It was a wonder anyone could sneeze without being noticed, these days, let alone get away with murder. But someone had, he reminded himself, and they were playing a dangerous game, if what Solly believed was correct.

The psychologist had insisted that the killer was still in the area, still working at a profession, still appearing to be a respectable member of society.

‘Are you wanting your breakfast?’ A voice interrupted Lorimer’s thoughts and he squirmed around in the bed to see Flynn’s grinning face at his doorway. In his hands the boy held a tray with cereal and toast and two large mugs of tea.

‘A wee treat seeing as it’s my last Sunday here,’ he went on.

Lorimer sat up suddenly, pulling the duvet around his naked form. Of course. The day after tomorrow Flynn would be going to his new flat.

‘Shove over a bit,’ Flynn said, plonking himself down by Lorimer’s side, tray still balanced in his hands. ‘Watch you don’t spill the tea,’ he added, as Lorimer heaved himself up into sitting position.

‘You sound just like my wife,’ Lorimer groaned.

‘Miss her, don’t you?’ Flynn asked, giving Lorimer a shrewd stare.

‘Aye,’ came the short reply as Lorimer bit into the slice of toast and marmalade.

‘I wanted to say, well, thanks for everything. You know? It was dead nice of you to let me stay here,’ Flynn stuttered to a halt and picked up the mug of tea to hide his embarrassment.

‘It’s OK. It’s been good for me to have you here. Meant I couldn’t keep the place a tip the way it was after Maggie left.’

‘Doubt if I’d’ve noticed,’ Flynn grinned. ‘Don’t suppose housework’ll be a priority when I get the keys tomorrow. Still, you never know. It’ll be nice to have my own pad, all the same. Shame about the TV I’ll miss that,’ he added, giving Lorimer’s arm a dunt with his elbow.

‘Aye, well, you’ll just have to save up for one of your own. And a licence,’ Lorimer told him. ‘That job with the parks department isn’t bad at all. You can decide later on if you want to take a college course. I found out about the grants. You’d be eligible for the maximum allowance if you decided to go.’

‘That right? I might just do that, ‘ Flynn said. ‘Know what, though? They’re going tae keep me in the office for the first few weeks, just till they think ah’m fit for the heavy stuff. I get to do the odd jobs and find out all about how the parks are run.’

‘Anyway, how about finishing this lot through in the lounge and letting me get up?’ Lorimer asked.

Flynn grinned at the policeman and scooped up the tray. It was funny how life worked out, he thought, as he wandered into the sunlit lounge. Here he was, living the life of Riley, a new flat and a new job awaiting him, things he’d only ever dreamt about. And all because he’d run into that van. If he hadn’t, if he’d been caught by Raincoat that day, what might have happened? Would Lorimer have put the screws on him? Made him tell all about Seaton? So far he’d body-swerved that line of questioning, though he knew fine that the police still wanted him to name names. Well, Allan Seaton was far too tricky a customer to cross, safe flat or not. Glasgow was just too wee for comfort. He never knew when he’d run into Seaton and his cronies. And if he’d grassed them up he might as well have stayed under that van.

Lorimer knew it, he mused. He’d not pressed him too sore for information, guessing that Flynn was afraid of what repercussions could ensue. He’d made one mistake in telling that big ape, Greer, what he knew about George Millar. Life was suddenly a precious commodity to Flynn, something he wasn’t about to endanger by any more loose talking.

‘What are you up to today?’ Lorimer asked, appearing at the door of the lounge, pulling his arms through his shirt sleeves.

‘Dunno. Don’t have a whole lot of packing to do, have I? How about you? Do you have to go into work?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘’Fraid so. We’ve got a hell of a lot to do before I disappear on Wednesday.’

‘I’ll miss it here,’ Flynn mumbled, turning away so that Lorimer couldn’t see his face.

‘No more of Sadie’s soups, eh? You’ll just have to frequent the station canteen,’ Lorimer chuckled. Sadie Dunlop might be the scourge of the Division but she had a heart of gold and had kept thrusting cartons of home made soup into Lorimer’s hands every day since Flynn had come to live with him.

‘Nae fear. You won’t catch me doon there. Not for any reason.’

Lorimer grinned. ‘I’ll not tell Sadie that. She’d be raging at your ingratitude.’

‘Aw, man, don’t do that! Och, you’re joking. She’s been dead nice giving us all that stuff. Tell you what. Ask her for the recipe for that chicken soup. I’ll maybe try it in ma new place, eh?’

Lorimer whistled as he closed the front door behind him. It had been good leaving home knowing that Flynn was safe there. He’d drummed it into the boy to put the chain on any time he was alone. Sure enough most nights Lorimer had to wait for the front door to be opened to him on his return home.

They’d got into the habit of watching TV together, although Lorimer was careful not to fall asleep on the sofa as he’d done the night of Flynn’s arrival. He’d been mortified to find himself wrapped in the boy’s spare blanket early the following morning.