Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

As Rosie smiled a wintry smile and shook her head, Lorimer’s mouth closed in a thin line of disappointment.

‘There is something we want to show you, though.’

Rosie Fergusson sat clutching a cup of coffee, her sheepskin jacket tucked around her shoulders. She had driven straight to Lorimer’s home from the lab, Solly in the passenger seat at her side clutching the envelopes that contained the test results.

‘Thanks for this,’ Rosie raised her cup, ‘we needed it.’

‘My pleasure. Least I can do after your efforts tonight. I just wish you’d brought me some good news,’ Lorimer sighed heavily.

‘No. Sorry. There’s no match for any DNA material taken from Karen’s violin. It was a pretty long shot anyway after all this time and the handling that instrument must have had.’ She sipped her coffee, catching Solly’s sympathetic glance.

‘So, why come here at this hour in the morning?’

‘Rosie made an interesting discovery tonight,’ Solly spoke quietly so that neither Flynn nor Maggie’s mother, sleeping upstairs, would be disturbed.

‘Maurice Drummond shares his DNA with another member of the Orchestra. Christopher Hunter.’

Lorimer whistled softly. ‘Another violinist. What does that tell us?’

For a few moments there was silence in the room as three people concentrated on the implications of Rosie’s discovery. Outside it was still pitch dark. No sounds came from the street, not even a sigh of wind at this dead hour of night.

‘Maurice Drummond must have known he was Hunter’s father,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And Karen. She knew. I know she did,’ Lorimer punched his fist into his open palm. ‘I sensed the night of George’s death that she was holding something back, something important.’

‘But does this man, this Christopher Hunter, know the identity of his real parents?’ Solly mused. ‘Nobody else seems to have known. Edith Millar had no inkling of the fact that her husband was sitting only yards away in the Orchestra from Karen and Maurice Drummond’s son.’

‘C. Maurice Drummond,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘C for Christopher.’

Rosie looked up suddenly from the depths of her collar. ‘C also stands for Christina,’ she remarked.

‘Of course,’ Lorimer sat up suddenly. ‘Tina Quentin-Jones. Christina! Derek Quentin-Jones told me that Drummond must have fathered his daughter. He’d found out some time back that he couldn’t have kids himself. Karen deliberately named her children for their natural father.’

‘Grounds for murder?’ Rosie murmured.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘I didn’t think so at the time. Quentin-Jones had treated the girl as his own for years and Karen’s affair with Drummond really did seem to have ended.’

‘Anyway,’ Solly pointed out reasonably, ‘why would he kill George Millar first? There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to that, in my humble opinion.’

Lorimer’s eyebrows rose at the psychologist’s words. Solly’s opinion, as they very well knew, was anything but humble.

‘Well why don’t you ask him?’ Rosie suggested.

‘Which one? Derek Quentin-Jones or Maurice Drummond?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Oh, no, neither of them,’ she grinned, ‘I was thinking of Christopher Hunter, actually.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Isn’t he a better fit for Solly’s profile?’

‘What was his reaction on being tested, Solly?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

Solly flipped back the pages of his notebook. ‘There was nothing untoward in his manner. He was calm and relaxed. Like quite a few of the others he tried to crack a joke about it, but it wasn’t to put himself at ease so much as to lighten the atmosphere for the medical staff, I believe.’ The psychologist looked up from his notes. ‘In fact he was so run-of-the-mill that I had to look this up, didn’t I?’ he smiled ruefully.

‘What about the others? Were there any reactions worth noting?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed. Nobody made a fuss about it, really. I mean there were no outright refusals, though that harpist chewed Rosie’s ear off a bit. And some of the men were a bit stroppy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Simon Corrigan laboured the point a bit about invasion of privacy and all that. Made a comment about Scotland turning into a police state.’

‘Did he, indeed?’ Lorimer commented. ‘Wonder who’s been rattling his cage? According to his statement he’s been very cooperative up till now.’

‘And he’s the right age,’ Rosie added.

Solly regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. ‘I hope I haven’t been so dogmatic about the profile’s age, you know. A single, fit male who has no fear of taking huge risks is more likely to be a younger man, that’s all.’ He regarded Rosie fondly. ‘Thanks for being supportive, though,’ he smiled.

‘It’s like forensics, isn’t it,’ she said sleepily. ‘Usually makes more sense after we’ve put the whole jigsaw together.’

‘Come on, you two,’ Lorimer stood up suddenly. ‘Go home while you’re still fit to drive, Rosie. Get some sleep and I’ll deal with this during the day. Give me a note of any of those reactions you think might be worth following up, Solly,’ he added, putting out his hand for the psychologist’s notebook.

As Lorimer watched the tail-lights of Rosie’s BMW disappear along the street he reflected on the day ahead. This would be the day when Flynn took possession of his new flat, when he’d have to arrange several visits to various persons connected with the case as well as clear the paperwork for the next acting Superintendent and try to find the time to throw some stuff into a suitcase. It was the shortest day, Lorimer thought as he gazed up at the stars still pricking the night sky. But with this early start it looked like being one of the longest in terms of sheer hard graft.

Tina Quentin-Jones stared at her father in disbelief.

‘But why? Why leave such a valuable instrument to someone she’d only known for a short time? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You mean your mother wasn’t exactly known for her philanthropy,’ her father replied with a twist to his mouth.

Tina’s eyes widened. She’d never before heard such bitterness in her father’s voice.

‘Perhaps there was a side to her that we didn’t understand,’ she said slowly.

Derek Quentin-Jones ran an exasperated hand across his forehead. ‘There was quite a lot you didn’t understand about your mother,’ he replied wearily. ‘And I think, my dear, that the time has come to enlighten you about what sort of person she really was.’

Tina glanced down at the paper in her hand. The simple words Will of Karen Quentin-Jones made Tina realise that even beyond the grave there were things her mother continued to control.

The trouble was, the name that drew her eyes back to the document, the name she had uttered only minutes before with such astonishment belonged to the last person she had expected to see printed there in black and white.

‘She did what?’ Lorimer’s voice rose in astonishment.

‘My wife left her violin to Christopher Hunter, her natural son,’ the Surgeon replied, his voice clipped with disapproval.

‘And you knew nothing of this until her solicitors made contact with you?’

‘Chief Inspector, I didn’t even know my wife had made a will,’ he replied icily.

‘But surely her solicitors …?’

‘They contacted me when they’d heard about Karen’s death. Of course they did. But I told them I wanted to leave things for a while,’ he looked up at Lorimer. ‘Well, you know what a state I was in,’ he added ruefully. ‘Then last week I instructed my own solicitors to ask for Karen’s documents to be sent to their office.’