Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘I’m walking in the air,’ the small, pure voice rang out clear as a bell sending a shiver of wonder through those whose eyes were fixed on that slight figure caught in the spotlight. Lorimer listened as the voice cast its spell over the audience, watched as the strings swept the music along on a tide of sound and heard his own voice cry aloud with delight as the clapping began. The string sections tapped their bows appreciatively against the music stands as the lad took his bow. For a few moments Lorimer let his eyes rove over certain of the other musicians to see if they, too, were responding to this highlight in the programme. Simon Corrigan was looking towards the boy, his French horn by his side, hands clapping in obvious delight. Now Poliakovski was shaking the soloist’s hand to more tumultuous applause. Surely Maurice Drummond would be standing out of sight applauding this young singer? The Conductor waved a hand towards the wings and a woman came forward, took the boy’s hand in hers and bowed in recognition of the youngster’s rendition. His singing teacher, then, thought Lorimer. She deserved to be included in the audience’s adulation. It would be surprising if the boy were not asked to repeat his solo later on as an encore.

Finally the first half of the concert concluded with the resounding ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.

As the lights went up, Lorimer made his way along the corridor towards the doors leading backstage. The rest of the audience would return to find a Christmas cracker laid on each of their seats, but the detective would not join in such niceties; there was too much work to be done on the DNA testing for him to remain out front. If he had hoped to see a sign of weakness from any of the musicians then he had been disappointed. There was nothing in their manner to suggest a guilty conscience. But was that what he should have been expecting? Lorimer could almost see Solly’s dark head shake in disagreement. Wasn’t he looking for someone with irony in his soul? Well, there had been no sign of that either.

He could never tire of gazing at the woman’s face as she proceeded with her work, thought Solly. Rosie Fergusson had somehow become a feature of his life, as necessary to his continued existence as breathing. There had been no sudden explosion of fireworks, no moonlight serenade cascading through the inner reaches of his imagination, only a quiet but growing assurance that the woman before him was the person he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.

Rosie had come to the last member of the Orchestra to be tested. She’d shown no fatigue whatever, dealing with each person as professionally as Solly had expected she would. His own remit, to note the reactions of those members of the Orchestra undertaking a DNA test, was far more tedious, Solly was sure. Nobody had caused a fuss nor had there been any refusal to comply with the request to volunteer, obviating the need for the warrant. Yet there had been some interesting behaviour from a few of the musicians, something he would discuss with Lorimer.

The Chief Inspector had been off and on his mobile phone all evening, checking up on Flynn and his minder. Solomon grinned. Maggie’s mum might have been a traditional Jewish mother the way she’d fussed over Flynn. The boy didn’t stand a chance of missing a meal or staying up later than he should. Mrs Finlay was staying over at Lorimer’s home for the next couple of nights so Flynn would feel more secure. The lad was still determined to move into his flat, despite this morning’s traumas.

Solly looked thoughtful as Rosie called ‘Goodnight’ to the last musician on their list.

‘OK. That’s it,’ she said, stretching her arms widely as she yawned. ‘But I promised you-know-who that I’d have the results back from the lab as soon as humanly possible.’ Her face held a mute appeal for Solomon’s understanding.

‘That means an all-nighter, doesn’t it?’ Solly asked. Rosie nodded ruefully, her face putting on that little-girl expression that didn’t fool him for a moment.

‘Fifteen hours from the time these babies hit the lab,’ she replied. ‘There’s no way we can have them ready before tomorrow night at the earliest.’

‘Fine,’ he went on, ‘but you’re going to have some company tomorrow, unless we can make a start on them tonight?’ Solly’s face creased in a beatific smile. He didn’t feel at all sleepy, in fact the very thought of spending a whole night in bed alone seemed suddenly wasteful, especially when he was rewarded by a sudden hug.

‘You’re a sweetie, y’know that, Doctor Brightman?’ Rosie murmured into his shoulder. ‘But I really think we’ll need to leave it till the morning. Come on, let’s get these down to the lab then I’ll take you home.’

Solly shrugged. DNA testing had come a long way in recent years but even Rosie couldn’t perform miracles in the next twenty-four hours. And in that time there was the danger that their killer might well disappear from the city. Yet instinct told the psychologist that turning tail and bolting did not fit the profile he had so painstakingly drawn up of the person who had killed those two musicians.

Chris Hunter felt the warmth of the arm around his neck as he came to drowsily. Slowly he shifted his position, leaving Simon’s wrist free against the pillow. He propped himself up and gazed at his companion sleeping by his side. The red-gold hair had fallen back from his face. In sleep he looked like a child, his lips slightly parted, the pale blue veins of his eyelids so delicate, so very vulnerable that Chris wanted to reach out with his finger and trace each tiny line.

Simon had clung to him with such passion tonight, his moans interspersed with avowals of love that Chris, to his astonishment, had felt embarrassed to hear.

But why? a little voice asked him now as he saw the tiny rise and fall of Simon’s chest. Surely this was just what he’d wanted, to be cherished like this?

Simon had felt soiled after the routine tests had been done, he’d told him. They’d been larking around in the shower when he’d suddenly become serious and started complaining about the police procedure. ‘It’s a bit of me,’ he’d protested to Chris, ‘they’ve got something of mine and of yours. Something that’s going to be on a file somewhere for the rest of our lives,’ he’d raged. It had taken Chris some time to calm him down, but afterwards they’d slipped between the silken sheets and that anger had been translated into quite a different passion.

Had he done it deliberately, wondered Chris? Had his lover’s raging been quite intentional, working himself up into a frenzy that could spend itself against his own unresisting body?

Chris sighed. Love was so complicated. He’d never understand it and he wasn’t at all sure that Simon Corrigan would, either. He’d flown into a fury when Chris had refused to stay in Glasgow over Christmas.

‘I want to be with my mum because I love her,’ he’d explained with a simple innocence that had seemed to provoke Simon.

‘What about our love?’ had been the defiant rejoinder.

Chris had not answered him then and he was unsure if he could answer him now. Was what he felt for the man slumbering at his side truly love? Or was it an outpouring of some other emotion? Sometimes, as tonight, it felt like some selfish, primeval force that shuddered through his loins leaving him weak and dazed, its monstrous strength overcoming his very reason.

Loving George had been so different. There he had felt safe and secure, pampered almost by the older man. George had beguiled him, he knew, but he’d gone willingly down that road of charming seduction. They all had, he thought ruefully, remembering Carl’s tense face earlier that night, Simon’s outburst in the shower.