Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Lorimer’s mouth opened in horror as he looked at his watch. ‘Oh great! I’m supposed to be at Glasgow airport as of ten minutes ago! Forget the hospital.’

‘What about Mrs Finlay?’

‘Flynn was picking her up by taxi.’ He slumped helplessly against the seat. ‘Just in case I didn’t make it in time,’ he added, his voice heavy with irony.

‘Phone him. Tell him we’re on our way.’ Solly signalled to the constable who was still regarding Lorimer with interest. ‘We need a driver. Now!’

Flynn put down the phone. The flight had been called five minutes ago and Mrs Finlay was fretting by his side, calling her son-in-law all manner of unseasonal names.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘An emergency,’ Flynn told her briefly. ‘He’s on his way now.’

‘That’s not much good,’ Maggie’s mother bristled. ‘If I don’t make a move soon we’ll both miss that plane.’

Flynn looked around the departure lounge wildly. Surely there was something he could do? Over by the door he spotted two transport policemen, their jackets vivid yellow against the dreich December afternoon.

‘Wait here a minute. I’ll be straight back. Don’t move. Right?’ Flynn grasped his new mobile phone and leapt out of his seat, grinning slightly at the elderly woman’s astonished face.

A few minutes later Flynn clicked off the mobile phone that Lorimer had given him. It was a wee cracker, but it just couldn’t be helped. With a sigh he dropped it into the water bucket and turned away.

He had just time to return to Maggie’s mum before the alarm went off, heralding the calm voice that resounded through the airport asking everyone to evacuate the building.

Christmas day in Glasgow dawned bright and clear with just a hint of frosting to transform the park below Solly’s windows into a winter wonderland. The psychologist had risen early, moving away from Rosie’s warm body as quietly as he could. Now he stood wrapped in his dressing gown gazing down at the scene below him. It was early but there were two little boys playing in the park, their heads bare but their hands brightly mittened. His gaze travelled to where a couple walked slowly behind them, hand in hand.

Smiling at them, Solly felt in his dressing gown pocket. His hands closed round the tiny box that had been so carefully wrapped by the jeweller. As he turned it over in his palm he gave a sigh, savouring the moment. He’d waken her soon, but not just yet. Solly watched until the family was out of sight before he turned back towards the bedroom.

Rosie lay sleeping, her hair spread out upon his pillow, the expression on her face so peaceful it almost seemed a pity to disturb its repose.

Solly’s lips brushed against Rosie’s cheek and he grinned as she wrinkled her nose, as his beard tickled her into wakefulness.

‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ he whispered, his fingers drawing the box from his pocket. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Derek Quentin-Jones knocked on the door of the room before quietly turning the handle. Tina lay asleep. In the half-light from the window the bruises on her face were like dark shadows, but her split lip was still dark and swollen. He opened the door, fingers to his mouth as he glanced at the others in the corridor behind him.

‘Still asleep,’ he whispered down at the man in the wheelchair. ‘Let’s leave her for a while longer.’ He looked up at the person grasping the handles of the wheelchair and at the woman standing by his side. ‘How about it, Maurice? Mrs Millar?’

Maurice Drummond bit his lip and smiled. ‘I’ve waited this long for my family,’ he said at last. ‘I think I can wait a wee bit longer,’ he added, his gaze travelling down onto his son’s head. Maybe he would tell Chris one day about Edith’s visit. She had been quite adamant that Chris’s homosexuality had been at the root of the whole business, spurring him on that night to confront his son. In a way she had been right.

Chris Hunter nodded. ‘I can’t imagine why it took you so long,’ he grinned up at his father.

The Surgeon watched them. Something new and good was growing there between these two. There were things that Derek Quentin-Jones had come to understand in these past few days that he’d never dreamt of knowing. Like the kind of love that turns to violent hatred or the way that people could share their love for the same person. Looking at Maurice Drummond he wondered if they would both come to love this young man who was Karen’s son, Tina’s brother. And Karen, he thought, remembering the way her loveliness had twisted his heart. Had that too been love? He supposed it had.

What he felt now was a sense of gratitude towards these people around him.

Edith had opened her home to him after the fire that had devastated his house in Pollokshields. Her Christian duty, she’d called it in tones that brooked no refusal. Now, on this Christmas morning, Derek had the sense of having found far, far more than those things he had lost.

Before he followed the others down the hospital corridor towards the day room with its bright paper garlands, Derek turned back to the room. Despite everything that had happened she was still his daughter, his darling girl. He stood there for a moment looking down on Tina as she slept, then blew her a silent kiss.

‘Happy Christmas, son!’ Alistair Wilson pulled the cracker with Flynn, the crack of the paper exploding as they both fell back, laughing. Flynn stuck his tongue out at the Detective Sergeant. He hated being called ‘son’. It was dead naff.

‘You’re a couple of big weans, so ye’s are,’ Sadie told them. ‘Just as well Betty an’ me are here tae keep ye’s in order, eh?’ she winked as Betty Wilson placed the soup tureen carefully onto the red tablecloth.

Flynn pulled out the rolled up paper hat, letting the motto fall to one side. He laughed again out of a sense of sheer delight as he placed the yellow crown onto his head. Who would’ve thought it? Having Christmas dinner here with Raincoat and his missus, not to mention the wee woman who had been supplying his meals from the police canteen for all these weeks!

‘Wonder what they’re up to in Florida,’ Sadie went on. ‘Bet they don’t have as good a turkey as us,’ she said, grinning up at her hostess.

‘Ach, it’s only about eight o’clock there. They won’t have had their breakfast yet,’ Alistair told her. ‘Besides, the boss is probably still recovering from jet lag. Or the panic he had when he thought he was going to miss his flight,’ he added, giving Flynn a meaningful look. Nobody had asked him outright but everyone seemed to guess that Flynn had been behind the bomb hoax at Glasgow Airport.

‘Aye, well,’ Flynn giggled, ‘At least he’ll have a merry Christmas, won’t he?’

Maggie sat up suddenly, hearing Lorimer roll over and groan. Gratefully she sank back against the pillows. The last two days had passed in a dream. After Bill and Mum had arrived (late!) Maggie had taken them back to the apartment to sleep off their journey. Her husband had spent most of the next day ostensibly recovering while she and Mum had busied themselves with preparations for Christmas dinner. She knew fine that Lorimer had been off and on the telephone to Scotland, anxious to tie up all the facts. He had not told them everything about the case until last night, and even then, he’d been considerate enough to leave out the nastier aspects to spare Mum’s feelings.

Later, they’d sat side by side, his arms holding her close, while he had related the whole story. Simon Corrigan had been a man obsessed by his lover, his outward carefree personality hiding a deeply passionate, jealous nature. When George Millar took Chris as his latest conquest, that passion had been transformed into murder.