Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘They’ll never be back to normal for Edith Millar or Derek Quentin-Jones,’ Lorimer reminded him quietly.

Brendan had the grace to look ashamed. ‘No, of course. And I’m sure the players will appreciate that more than anybody.’

‘We are grateful for your cooperation, sir. I know it’s meant a lot of extra work for you, contacting so many people.’

He pushed himself off the door and nodded towards the television monitor.

‘We’ll be starting with the musicians directly after the performance but perhaps the backroom staff would oblige Dr Fergusson by making themselves available from five o’clock onwards.’ Lorimer nodded at Brendan who instantly recognised his words as a command rather than a polite request. The whole procedure was going to take some time unless they got their proverbial skates on.

‘I believe you’ve been asked to make rooms one and two available for Dr Fergusson and her staff,’ Lorimer continued.

‘And you have given my officers a list of all the participants. You’re quite sure the same people are here, including those who were augmenters on the previous occasions?’

The Orchestra Manager looked up swiftly, but nodded.

‘Yes. Rooms one and two are normally used as a place to relax and have their meals. You know I’ll have a small mutiny on my hands when I tell them they’ll have to restrict themselves to their own dressing rooms for the rest of the day? Chloe Redpath was a bit cross about having to come into the Concert Hall. Said she’d be rushing straight from a church recital,’ Brendan explained. A swift glance at the two men told Brendan that his attempt at pique seemed to be falling on deaf ears yet the Orchestra Manager struggled on, ‘It’s not awfully convenient to cart a harp about all over the city, you know. And she’s not going to be the only one who’ll be put out.’

‘I’d appreciate it if you could make it clear that nobody is to leave the building from now until after tonight’s performance. It just makes things a little easier,’ Lorimer told him, ignoring the vexation on the man’s face. Any news that DNA testing was to take place could easily spook their killer; the unspoken words hung there as Lorimer watched the Orchestra Manager flick his gaze from the Chief Inspector to the psychologist.

Brendan rose to his feet. ‘In that case, I’d better make a start, hadn’t I?’ He smoothed down his dress trousers as Lorimer opened the door for him.

The door closed behind him with a click.

‘Our Mr Phillips isn’t a happy bunny, is he?’ Lorimer said wryly when he was certain the man would be out of earshot.

‘Can’t say I blame him,’ Solly said. ‘Did you know he had applied for a post with the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra?’ he added.

Lorimer’s eyebrows rose. ‘Trying to escape from it all, is he?’

‘Put yourself in his position. wouldn’t you want a fresh start? It can’t be easy going in there all the time,’ Solly jerked his thumb in the direction of the dressing room along the corridor where George Millar had been murdered. ‘He strikes me as a rather sensitive man, you know. And he did find the body.’

‘No irony in his soul, then?’

‘If he has, then he’s doing a remarkably good job of hiding it,’ Solly answered slowly.

Lorimer was suddenly reminded of Brendan’s uncharacteristic, probing question to the Chorus Master after Karen’s funeral. He had seemed almost a different man, then. Was that a mask slipping? Or did Maurice Drummond simply bring out a less savoury side to Brendan’s nature?

‘You’re going to be attending every test?’ he asked Solly.

‘Most of them, hopefully. I still think that the behaviour displayed by each person could provide something tangible.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Especially if anyone tried to refuse being tested.’

‘Hence the warrant?’

Lorimer patted his jacket pocket. ‘Right here. Full authorisation. Signed and dated.’

The possibility that DNA material could match the traces found on Karen’s violin had given him new hope. Perhaps the events of the coming evening would prove extremely fruitful.

Lorimer had been offered a seat at the back of the balcony. The show was a sell-out and even the Choir Stalls were full but somehow they’d found an empty seat for the DCI. He suspected that it was the one Maurice Drummond usually occupied during concerts. The Chorus Master had been backstage with his singers all during the time between the rehearsal and the moment when they filed onto the stage. It was quite a sight, thought Lorimer, the entire platform covered with rows of singers above the ranks of the Orchestra.

As he settled down to watch the first half of the Christmas concert, Lorimer had the sudden realisation that he was seeing the whole Orchestra and Chorus for the first time almost as it would have been on the night of George Millar’s death. A stranger to the city would never suspect the aching void left by two of the Orchestra’s leading violinists. As if to show that things were back to normal, the lights dimmed and Victor Poliakovski strode towards the podium amidst thunderous applause. In the weeks he had been guest conductor, the Russian had evidently endeared himself to Glasgow audiences, Lorimer realised.

The First Trumpet sounded a clarion call then the Chorus burst into a fanfare of ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo’ that resounded around the Concert Hall. Lorimer watched the singers’ faces.

Even from this distance he could see their clear enjoyment of the music and, as the Conductor lowered his baton to more applause, various members of the City of Glasgow Chorus were smiling with pleasure. The programme continued with ‘The Shepherds’ Farewell’, a quieter piece that showed off the sopranos’ delicate upper register to advantage. Lorimer’s gaze was drawn to the Conductor. Poliakovski’s hands were making graceful motions as he drew out the slightest of crescendos then brought a finger near to his lips to signal a pianissimo. Lorimer found his lips twitching into a smile. There was no doubt about who was in control on this platform, he thought.

It was easy to relax as the Orchestra rolled out its old favourites in a medley that included ‘Chestnuts roasting by an open fire’ and ‘Sleigh Bells’. For the first time that day Lorimer felt a pleasant tiredness wash over him. Christmas was coming and in three days’ time he’d be on a plane winging his way to Maggie, her old mum by his side. Mrs Finlay had been marvellous, insisting on staying at Lorimer’s house for the next two nights with Flynn.

‘He needs someone to keep an eye on him,’ she’d told her son-in-law when she’d heard about his latest injury. He was OK, really, more shaken than anything else, and had not objected when Mrs Finlay had bundled him into a taxi at the Southern General Hospital’s A amp;E Department. Lorimer had been gratified that Maggie’s mum had taken such a shine to the lad. She might be an opinionated old so-and-so but her heart was in the right place. Trying to tell her as much had been met with the gruff reply, ‘Och, it’s Christmas!’ Nor would Flynn be alone over the festive season; there had been several offers of hospitality from folk within the Division that Lorimer intended to take up on the boy’s behalf. Christmas seemed to be bringing out the best in even the busiest of people.

Suddenly a murmur from the audience made Lorimer look down towards the stage. A small boy in school uniform had appeared and was now standing on the Conductor’s left, his young face turned expectantly towards Maestro, waiting for a signal to begin. The lights deepened to twilight blue and, as the piano music began, snowflakes whirled magically around the walls of the Concert Hall.