Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘What’re your dealings with Bekaert?’ Lorimer asked, silently adding, as if I didn’t know.

Seaton shrugged again. ‘Ach, he was a pal, y’know. We met up from time to time.’

‘Listen to classical music together, did you, Mr Seaton?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm even made his detective sergeant wince.

‘Aye, well,’ Seaton’s attempt at a grin failed as his eyes met Lorimer’s.

‘You were his supplier, son. We have this on good authority so don’t give us any of your nonsense.’

‘Flynn tell you this, did he?’ Seaton sneered suddenly.

‘Not until you cracked him over the head in my kitchen,’ Lorimer thumped the desk between them. Seaton’s expression changed, his sudden belligerence gone.

‘Didnae mean tae hurt the boy, know what I mean?’ he whined. ‘Should’a known he was a’right. A misjudgement of character on my part,’ he’d added, trying to retrieve the image of the big man he thought he was.

‘Right then, let’s just see what other misjudgements of character you’ve made, shall we? Let’s start with the late George Millar.’

‘Aw, c’mon, man, that wis nothing tae do wi’ me! Ah’m not intae killin’ folk.’

‘Just whacking them over the head and driving them off in rolled up carpets?’

‘We just wanted to scare Flynn, that was all,’ he muttered.

‘Your pal, Michael O’Hagan, might have a different version of that story,’ Lorimer warned him.

‘No he’ll no’,’ Seaton said shortly. ‘I told him we were jist puttin’ the frighteners on the boy. Wanted to know what he’d been sayin’ tae youse.’

‘George Millar,’ Lorimer began again. ‘What was his involvement with you?’

Seaton sighed. ‘OK. He wis after coke. I supplied it tae him through Flynn.’

‘How did Flynn come to know Millar in the first place?’

Seaton shrugged. ‘Met him in the street outside the Concert Hall. Flynn was high and old Georgie asked him where he could score. Put him onto me. Then the big Danish guy gets in touch, becomes a regular customer.’

‘And the stolen instruments?’

‘Dunno,’ Seaton muttered.

For the second time the table between them shook as Lorimer’s fist came crashing down upon it.

‘Listen to me, Seaton. This is a murder investigation. Get it? Try to hide one little thing about George Millar and you might find yourself charged with perverting the course of justice!’

Allan Seaton flinched, his hands flying up as if to ward off imaginary blows.

‘OK, OK! Millar was just part of an organisation. He’d pick up an instrument here and there when the Orchestra were out of the country. Like on tour, see? There was someone he knew in Europe who supplied him with the stuff. He’d bring them back and sell them on here.’

‘How did you find this out?’

Seaton laughed. ‘Old George had a big mouth. Had a few sessions at my place, didn’t he?’ The dealer licked his lips nervously. ‘Told me all about his business. Wanted to know if I could do him a favour from time to time.’

‘What sort of favour?’

Seaton’s eyes shifted from one policeman to the other. ‘Like puttin’ pressure on a couple of guys when their payments were late, know whit ah mean?’

‘George Millar used you and O’Hagan as his heavies?’ Lorimer’s eyes widened in disbelief.

‘Aye, well no’ very often. Word gets round fast when someone won’t tolerate bein’ messed around.’

‘And who exactly were the recipients of your persuasive techniques?’ asked Lorimer.

‘Eh?’

‘Who did you duff up?’ DS Wilson explained, seeing the blank look appear in the dealer’s eyes.

Seaton nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘A wee nyaff called Ruskin and another yin called Karger. They’re no’ in the Orchestra onymair, by the way,’ he added. ‘Anyway, this wid be a coupla’ years ago.’

Lorimer saw in his mind’s eye a younger Joseph Alexander Flynn. He couldn’t have been much more than fifteen when he’d first met George Millar. The streets with their characters like Seaton had shaped the boy into becoming the dealer’s go-between. Yet something had happened to the boy these past few weeks. It was a strange sort of Providence that had thrust him into the path of that van in Mitchell Street. Lorimer would swear that Flynn would never end up now like the man across the interview desk.

Seaton’s statement had made interesting reading. Not only had Bekaert and Millar been supplied cocaine by the Glasgow dealer, George Millar had been one small part of an international ring, using the Orchestra’s tour programmes as a cover. Lorimer hoped that the Austrian Police would benefit from another known link in what was undoubtedly a complex chain. The question now was, Lorimer told himself as he approached the Royal Concert Hall, whether he wanted to bring Carl Bekaert in for questioning just yet.

The Orchestra were at that moment rehearsing for the evening’s performance. Lorimer had to remind himself that this was a murder investigation he was conducting. Taking him away to the station now might alert the killer. Solly was convinced that the Dane was not their man and somehow Lorimer’s instinct told him to trust Solly’s judgement. No irony in his soul, the psychologist had said.

Well, somebody’s dark soul was full of irony and it was up to him to find out who that somebody was. The DNA testing would be undertaken straight after the concert, each member of the Orchestra and Chorus being given little warning of the impending tests. He didn’t want anyone slipping through that particular net.

Lorimer nodded to Neville, the security man, as he entered the stage door and made his way through the now familiar corridors.

‘Doctor Brightman here yet?’ he asked one of the stage crew.

‘Just arrived two minutes before you, sir. He’s in with Mr Phillips, I believe.’

Lorimer strode along the passageway that led to the Orchestra Manager’s room. It was barely three o’clock and yet so much had already taken place on this, the last Sunday before Christmas. He glanced at the television monitor set at an angle inside Brendan’s room. The rehearsal was already under way. He could hear the strains of Prokofiev’s ‘Troika’ from the Lieutenant Kije Suite as he pushed the door open to see Solly and Brendan seated at an overflowing coffee table. Several garment bags hung around the room, suspended from the window blind rails or the backs of cupboard doors, revealing the black evening suits that would be donned between rehearsal and performance.

Protocol demanded that even the administration staff were properly attired and men in full evening dress would drift in and out of Brendan’s room several times before the Christmas concert began.

‘Chief Inspector, or should I be addressing you as Superintendent?’ Brendan smiled quizzically but the smile failed to reach his eyes. There was something bothering the man, Lorimer realised. Just what had the two men had been discussing before his arrival?

‘Oh, that’s only a temporary designation,’ Lorimer replied smoothly.

‘I was explaining to Mr Phillips about what Dr Fergusson would require for her visit later on,’ Solomon glanced at Brendan as he spoke.

‘I still can’t believe that you are really going to test everyone for DNA. I mean, it’s as if we are all suddenly under suspicion,’ Brendan protested.

‘Look at it this way,’ Lorimer replied as he leant casually against the door. ‘It’ll help to eliminate an awful lot of people from our inquiries. That should give your players peace of mind, surely?’ he smiled encouragingly.

‘I suppose so,’ Brendan muttered. ‘It’s gone on for so long now, we all just want things to go back to normal.’