Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘As you say, sir, your room is next to where Mr Millar met his death. I must ask you exactly what your movements were prior to the start of the concert.’

The big Russian shrugged again, ‘My movements,’ he said slowly as if savouring the words. ‘My movements were not very much. I was in this room sitting down or standing up. There was no moving outside or a visit to the man next door.’ He smiled but the smile was simply a perfunctory straightening of his lips.

‘You didn’t realise that your call was later than usual?’ Lorimer asked.

‘No. I take no notice of such things. I do not wear a watch. I do not watch the clock. When it is time to perform, I will be ready. That is all.’

‘During the time before Mr Phillips came to escort you to the stage, did you hear any noise coming from next door?’

‘No. I noticed no noise. Here I have switched on the television where I see the Orchestra. I play a few notes on the piano, perhaps? Really I do not remember what I do in that time,’ Poliakovski sounded rather irritated by the question.

No cries of anguish coming at you from the other side of that wall, then? Lorimer thought to himself. He listened intently. There were no noises at all from outside Lomond. It was perfectly feasible that the Conductor was speaking the truth, that he really had been unaware of a murder taking place so close to this room.

‘How well did you know Mr Millar?’ Lorimer shifted tack deliberately.

Poliakovski raised his eyebrows, ‘How well? Ah, but not at all, is really the answer to that. I did not know this man until today. I meet him and I listen to his music. That is all. In fact I could hardly describe him to you.’ The Russian sounded both sorry and thoughtful as he spoke, looking down at his hands and turning them as if examining his nails for any flaws. Lorimer noticed, though, that his command of English was slipping just a little. A sign of strain would be reasonable to expect under the circumstances. And yet he struck Lorimer as a man with some reserves of strength; he was a big man, not just in his enormous physique. He would withstand interrogation more than most, Lorimer reckoned.

‘You are not familiar with the members of the Orchestra, then?’

‘Ah, but you are wrong. For me this is the first time to play with them here in Glasgow but I have met one or two of the musicians on my travels. The American lady in Percussion; she was in Russia with another Orchestra some years ago.’

Lorimer smiled as Poliakovski rolled the R of Russia. He sounded much more like his memory of one of Le Carre’s Cold War spies now. But the Russian was continuing.

‘And a fellow countryman. I forget his name. He is second desk horn. We play together when he is much younger.’

‘When was the last time you saw Mr Millar alive?’

Poliakovski stared at Lorimer for a moment, thrown by the question’s change of direction. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. I remember he was with the Orchestra at the end of our rehearsal but I do not remember seeing him again.’ The Russian frowned as if he was trying hard to think.

‘And after the rehearsal what did you do?’

‘I came here. There was some food brought in to me. Brendan, the good fellow, he sees that I am happy to be on my own with no interruptions until the concert begins. It is my way,’ he explained to Lorimer.

It could be true. The man might have been quite oblivious to the scene next door. And it was interesting to know that the Russian preferred to keep himself alone in his room during the hour or so between the rehearsal and the concert. Who else would know that?

Lorimer asked him.

‘Hm. A difficult question, Chief Inspector. I do not have an answer to that. Perhaps the people I already worked with? Perhaps any person who hears me speaking to Mr Brendan Phillips? Maybe you should ask of him that question, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed, his mind already working towards that objective.

‘Were you planning to leave Scotland immediately after the concert, sir?’

Poliakovski smiled. ‘Ah, but no. I will take a little holiday for some days. I do not return to Russia for quite some time. This is my first concert in what will be a short series with this orchestra.’

‘And where may we find you meantime?’ Lorimer asked.

‘The Island of Skye. From tomorrow I will be with Lady Claire MacDonald and her husband.’

Lorimer was impressed in spite of himself. He had taken Poliakovski for a city type who’d have been booked in to Number One Devonshire Gardens. But he preferred the delights of Skye, did he? Kinloch Lodge would provide the man with the pleasures of the flesh but the island itself, as Lorimer knew well, would grant him the real soul restoring treatment.

There was something else he had meant to ask the Russian but it had slipped his present thoughts. Lorimer tried to remember what it was, admitting to himself that tiredness was catching up with him. Maybe he’d sleep better tonight.

‘I shan’t keep you any longer, sir. If you would please let Security know when you are leaving then you may go back to your hotel now.’ As Lorimer stood up, Poliakovski heaved himself out of the leather armchair and offered his hand. As Lorimer grasped it, he could feel the clamminess on the man’s palms. He’d certainly concealed his nervousness well, if that was what had made his hands so moist.

Out in the corridor once more, Lorimer leant against the wall opposite Morar. His thoughts about the killer were beginning to crystallise. Not only had he foreseen the necessity of disabling that CCTV camera, had he also known that the technician would be off sick? If he was one of the musicians then he might well have known that Poliakovski liked to be left alone in his room. This had the hallmarks of a crime that was prepared well in advance just like an act of terrorism. The thought made Lorimer feel cold.

Yet it could narrow things down, too. How many people would be aware of Poliakovski’s preferences?

Most of all, why would anybody want to murder George Millar in the first place?

That was a question he’d like to ask Dr Solomon Brightman, if only he could. Solly’s expertise as a criminal profiler had been useful in the past; however, he couldn’t see the psychologist being involved in this case. Serial killings were more his forte. And this was surely just a one-off murder.

Lorimer could hear the sound of the telephone ringing upstairs as he opened the front door. His long legs took the stairs two at a time.

‘Lorimer,’ he breathed heavily into the mouthpiece.

‘It’s me,’ a voice replied. Her voice sounded as if she were in the next room, not the other side of the Atlantic.

He let himself sink down to the carpet, his spine coming to rest against the wall.

‘Well, hallo, you,’ he replied softly. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Fine,’ Maggie gave a short laugh. ‘God, that’s what all the kids say when you ask them the same question. Isn’t it maddening? Anyway, I am fine. Just about to make tracks for bed. Thought you might get this as a message in the morning. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ Her words came out in a rush and Lorimer detected a slight tremor in her voice.

‘Have you been trying to reach me tonight?’

‘Several times. I thought you were going to be at home,’ she spoke in a voice that tried not to sound accusing.

‘Got called out.’

‘Oh?’ The question offered Lorimer a chance to tell her all about it. Suddenly Lorimer felt desperately tired. All he wanted was to curl up in bed with Maggie beside him and give her some of the story about tonight’s case. That was what he used to do. His wife would snuggle in and he’d tell her the less grisly details. Sometimes she’d fall asleep again before he’d finished. Other times she’d make them tea and he’d talk to her until the dawn came up.