Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘What time is it in Florida?’ he asked.

‘Just after eleven o’clock. Four in the morning your time.’

Lorimer rubbed his hand across his face as if the gesture could dissipate the terrible sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘We were called out to the Concert Hall. One of the musicians was killed,’ Lorimer told her, trying hard not to yawn.

‘Want to call me back some time tomorrow?’ Maggie had obviously heard his yawn but her voice was sympathetic, not annoyed.

‘I will. Promise,’ Lorimer said.

‘Goodnight, Love,’ Maggie whispered.

‘Night,’ he replied. He listened for an answer then added, ‘I miss you.’ He waited for the click but there was nothing. Had she heard these last words?

Putting down the phone on the floor beside him, Lorimer closed his eyes. His body ached for sleep and he knew he should pull himself off the carpet and struggle out of his clothes, but something held him there. Maggie’s presence was almost tangible. If he held out his hand, would he feel her warm fingers clasping his own?

A sudden gust of wind rattled against the skylight window and broke the spell. Lorimer opened his eyes. The upstairs hall was in darkness. The familiar shapes of the telephone table and waste paper bin were shrouded in shadows. He concentrated hard, trying to bring back the sound of Maggie’s voice, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing ending in a sigh of resignation. The muscles in his thighs protested as Lorimer stood up and headed for the bathroom.

He switched on the light. The face in the mirror looked back at him, unsmiling. Unkempt dark hair fell over his brow, almost masking the twin frown lines so deeply etched between the blue eyes. The four-in-the-morning shadow made him look like some ageing rock star staring moodily from the mirror. He pulled the light switch cord and plunged the room into darkness, extinguishing the face in an instant.

Lorimer stepped out of his trousers, leaving them on the rug beside the bed. Sliding his naked body under the duvet, he groaned at the chill of the sheet. He closed his eyes, wanting to see Maggie again, to hear her voice, preparing himself to lie there awake for hours as usual. With a trembling sigh Lorimer turned on his side, tucking his legs under him.

Seconds later he was asleep.

‘Whit’s up wi’ you?’ Sadie’s voice cut into Lorimer’s brain like a bandsaw. He looked at the wee woman behind the canteen counter. Her hair was pulled away from her face making the sharp features that nature had inflicted upon them even more severe. She was standing waiting for him to choose something for his breakfast.

‘Just the usual coffee and Danish, thanks,’ he muttered.

‘You look as if you could do with a decent plate o’ porridge, so you do. I bet your Maggie would’ve made it for you if she’d no’ been gallivantin’ away over there. Where is it she is again?’

‘Florida,’ Lorimer answered, wishing that the woman would keep her voice down. But Sadie was no respecter of persons. Not one of them in the station was above her forthright opinions.

‘Florida?’ she spoke the word as if he’d said something bad. ‘What’s she wanting to go over there for? Ma Robert went over therr wi’ his weans one time, so he did. Came back covered in mosquito bites. It wis that hot they had to stay in the hoose wi’ thon air conditioning on. Florida? Ah telt him he should’ve gone tae Millport. Saved himself a fortune, an’ all.’

Lorimer grinned in spite of himself as he took the tray back to his office. Sadie might sound like a pain in the neck but she had a heart of gold. Maybe there was something to be said for the blunt approach. And maybe she wasn’t too far off the mark, either. Maggie had already told him about the humidity that had hit her like a wall as she’d stepped out of Sarasota airport. Would he ever experience it for himself? They hadn’t yet discussed whether Lorimer would take the flight out there or if Maggie would come home for Christmas. There was the problem, too, of Maggie’s old mum. She’d hinted about seeing her daughter in Florida. Lorimer would have to take her out with him, if he decided to go there. What would the Yanks make of her? Like Sadie, Maggie’s mum was a self-opinionated old so-and-so who expressed herself often in politically incorrect terms. Lorimer loved her.

He was chewing on the last of his Danish pastry when the phone rang.

‘Hi there, it’s your friendly neighbourhood pathologist. Just thought I’d let you know the latest on your violinist.’

‘OK. I’m listening.’

‘Not a lot to add. A single blow to the skull caused fracture and internal haemorrhaging between the skull and the dura. There were pieces of bone embedded in the brain. The weapon caught him just above his right ear and I’ve matched the bruising with the diameter of the hammer. No prints on the weapon, though, as we thought. Funny it only took one blow. That percussion instrument’s only the size of a household hammer. Not such a big weapon, is it?’ Rosie asked.

Lorimer heard the note of curiosity in her voice. If she was thinking what he was thinking then his first impressions were probably correct.

‘You’d normally expect a whole lot of blows, is that it?’

‘Well,’ she began, ‘he certainly hit the middle meningeal artery with that first strike, though there wasn’t such a lot of blood about. I don’t think the killer would have had much to clean off. What d’you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘Either he got lucky with that one strike or he knew exactly how to administer the blow.’

‘A big man would have been able to bring more force to the weapon,’ Rosie suggested. ‘And, from the position of the wound, it seems like the victim had started to turn his head towards whoever came up behind him.’

Even as he replied, the image of Victor Poliakovski came into Lorimer’s mind.

‘I think that we have a very carefully prepared killing on our hands. I don’t think George Millar was struck in a moment of blind rage, do you? By the way, do you have any results on that black duster?’

‘No. Not yet. But I’ll fax them through to you as soon as, if not sooner. Will that do you?’

‘No, but it’ll have to, won’t it?’ Lorimer grumbled. ‘Was there anything else? Anything under his nails, any fibres worth talking about, or haven’t they been processed yet?’

‘Nothing on his fingernails. And nope, no results yet on the fibres, of which there are plenty. I’ll tell you what, though. We found some powdery substance on his fingertips.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘No. Not that sort of powder. You lot have narcotics on the brain. It was blue, not white,’ she replied in a withering tone of voice.

‘Interesting. See what your lab. boys and girls can make of that, eh.’

‘Will do. Speak to you later.’

Lorimer put the phone down. Rosie probably hadn’t slept much either but she sounded a whole lot brighter than he felt. Maybe it was fresh air that he needed. There was a pile of reports expected later today from last night’s massive exercise. Hundreds of statements had been taken from the members of the Orchestra and Chorus as well as from everybody in the audience. There had been officers drafted in from other divisions to undertake the operation and already their files were being processed on computer.

He’d spent hours talking to Brendan Phillips. The Orchestra Manager would have to supply him with details of the members of the City of Glasgow Orchestra; details that might help him to focus on a reason for George Millar’s death.

Lorimer had not visited the violinist’s home; that had been a task undertaken by other officers. But he should really make the effort to go out and see Mrs Millar now, he reasoned with himself. If only he didn’t feel so exhausted. He reached for the mug of coffee. It was cold but he drained it anyway, knowing he’d need the kick of caffeine.