Alex Gray: Shadows of Sounds

‘Yes,’ he answered shortly. ‘Be sure to sign out with Security at the stage door.’

They rose together, the violinist’s black skirts shivering against the carpet. Lorimer held open the door then followed her to the end of the corridor where he again untied the striped tape.

‘Thank you,’ Karen Quentin-Jones gave him a small nod and headed for the stairs that would take her back to the musicians’ dressing rooms. Lorimer watched her go. There was something in her manner that had disturbed him. Either she had told him too much or else there was something she knew that she was keeping entirely to herself.

The music room was flooded with light when Karen Quentin-Jones stepped towards her French windows. She could see the outline of the beech trees, their bark silvered from the light of the moon. A smile hovered around her mouth. What a perfect night this could have been! She’d played her socks off. Even that great bear of a Russian had tapped his baton against the podium. Laying her violin case on an ornate table by the window, Karen undid the clips that kept it fastened then opened it slowly and for a moment she simply gazed at the instrument. Then, like a woman afraid to awake her sleeping lover, she stroked the chestnut-coloured wood with one finger.

Giving a sigh, her eyes turned from the violin nestled within its case and she looked again at the darkness outside. She could have had such a triumph but her performance had been brutally overshadowed. Even in death George Millar had outplayed her. Or had he?

Karen’s smile straightened out and her eyes narrowed into a frown. This would mean some changes all round. She would be asked to fill George’s shoes, she thought suddenly then shuddered at the image. And it would affect other people too, she thought, her lip curling in contempt.

A sudden impulse made her dart across the room. Her fingers dialled the digits she needed and she listened as the number rang out. At the sound of his voice she paused.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘you won’t have to worry about your darling boy any more, will you?’

The blue lights of Buchanan Street lent an eerie glow to the hill that sloped down from the steps of the Concert Hall all the way down to Saint Enoch’s Square. Oblivious to the drama above them, a crowd of football supporters crossed the pedestrian area on their way from Queen Street Station. Their team had beaten Hibs and the post-match jollies that had begun in the inter city shuttle were continuing in raucous celebration.

Flynn sat on the steps outside the Concert Hall cowering into his parka. They were far enough away to leave him in peace. Sometimes he’d take the risk of touting for loose change from the football crowds. They were unpredictable in their response. Flynn knew he could be the butt of abuse from the more belligerent of the fans; sometimes, though, a handful of coins would be spilt into his empty plastic cup. It didn’t even depend on whether they’d won or not. Tonight Flynn didn’t feel like taking the risk. He watched them in the distance as they disappeared down the stairs of the Underground, wondering if they had ignored the overtures of the Big Issue seller outside.

Flynn turned to look longingly at the main doors. They were late coming out tonight. Must have been a good show, with lots of encores keeping the punters in their seats, he told himself hopefully.

Maybe they’d be in a generous mood and he’d have enough dosh to score later on? One of Seaton’s mates had been around earlier, tempting him with talk of some good gear. It wasn’t too cold tonight and he’d rather spend the next few hours getting smashed than cowering into the dubious comfort of a narrow bed in the hostel.

His eyes searched the glass panels that flanked the beech wood doors. He could make out dim shapes of people moving. That was good. They’d be opening the doors any minute now. Flynn stood up, his body aching from sitting on the stone steps. Suddenly he stiffened. one of the shapes beyond the door was only too familiar; its chequered cap and dark suit showing the presence of the Busies. Flynn put one foot onto the lower step then hesitated. It could be anything, really. Maybe he’d wait and see what was up when the punters streamed out.

The doors swung open to reveal two officers and a lady in steward’s uniform. Flynn shrank into the shadows, still watching, still uncertain of his next move. But it was too late. Even as he tried to camouflage himself against the grey walls he saw a man in a raincoat come between the officers and look his way. The man’s beckoning finger was impossible to ignore and so Flynn moved grudgingly into the light.

‘Been here long, lad?’ Raincoat asked him.

Flynn shrugged. Something was up. Two uniforms and now a plain clothes cop. He cast a wary eye towards the detective. It wasn’t anyone he recognised.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ the question held a note of steel. This one meant business. To mess him around might be more bother than it was worth. All the same, they pissed him off, did the Busies.

‘It’s a don’t know. As in I don’t know ’cos I don’t have a watch,’ Flynn replied.

The man grabbed his arm suddenly making Flynn wince.

‘Look, pal, I haven’t got time for wisecracks. You can answer my questions here or I can send you down to the station. It’s up to you.’

Flynn’s arm was released but Raincoat’s face told him that this was serious. His eyes flicked past the detective to the foyer where he could see people beginning to make their way towards the entrance.

‘Aye. well Ah’ve bin here since they all went in, y’know. Like before the show began.’ Flynn looked desperately at the punters leaving the Concert Hall. This cop was getting in the way of his bread and butter, not to mention the bit of Afghan he’d been fantasising about all evening.

He sensed rather than saw a change in the cop’s attitude.

‘That right, eh? Well, well. Maybe you and me should take a wee daunder inside and talk about just how you spent your evening, son?’

Shit! Someone had seen Seaton’s mate talking with him earlier on. The wee bastard must’ve got bust. Flynn made to do a runner but that vice-like grip was on his arm again and he found himself being led into the bright lights of the Concert Hall. Curious eyes turned their way as the cop led the dishevelled youth across the foyer and into the interior of the Hall itself.

Flynn had long been desperate to see beyond the doors of his patch but it wouldn’t do to let the Busy notice his eyes roaming around like an over-eager schoolboy. He tried at first to act as if he couldn’t give a toss what it looked like, concentrating his attention on the pattern of the carpet as he followed the cop, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into this time.

It was no use. Flynn’s eyes were drawn towards the walls as naturally as a moth to the light. He gazed at the huge pictures as he passed them. what the heck was that one? He wondered, marvelling at a painting of some woman with a giant sticking plaster under her mouth. Flynn sniggered to himself. Maybe it was a symbolic way of keeping folk quiet. He knew all about that, didn’t he? They passed a large, brightly coloured picture next and then he slowed down, recognising the familiar style in the frame beyond. It was a Howson. The belligerent eyes of the fighter made Flynn take a step sideways, but he still gazed. This picture was great but the one of the big drums was his favourite. You could near enough hear the music of an orange walk, flutes, an’ all. He’d seen other Howsons in the Gallery of Modern Art. It didn’t cost anything to look at stuff in Glasgow and Flynn liked to look.

‘In here,’ the Raincoat was ushering him around into a sort of corridor with a Bar at one end where Flynn saw crowds of folk queuing up against the wall. were they getting their money back or something?