Solomon Brightman had been asked in as an observer to this second interview with Carl Bekaert. Lorimer had scanned Jo’s notes accompanying his first statement made shortly after George Millar’s death. Reading between the lines, DI Grant had seemed to feel sorry for the Danish viola player. He’d blustered about his friend George, but had stopped short of admitting any closer relationship with the victim. Jo hadn’t pressed the point. Why?
‘Sit somewhere out of the way,’ Lorimer had asked him, hoping that the psychologist might be discreet. It was pretty hard to hide such a man, however; his black beard and curling locks drew the eye even in the darkest corner of the room.
Nevertheless he was out of the Dane’s line of vision and Lorimer hoped to keep it that way throughout the interview.
Carl Bekaert had stooped as he’d entered the poorly lit room. His eyes flicked back and forth as the Chief Inspector motioned him to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. Even as the musician folded his long limbs under the table that lay between them Lorimer saw that he kept his eyes fixed to the floor.
From his corner position Solly watched the man’s body language give up its secrets.
Carl held his hands together, pressing fingers against knuckles until the tips showed blood red. His head was bowed in a position of utter defeat as if he were waiting for something he felt was inevitable: an accusation, perhaps? Or was he simply afraid to admit his homosexuality? His pale, blond hair was cut close to his ears like a schoolboy’s, Solly noticed. In fact the man’s whole demeanour was like that of a recalcitrant boy facing his headmaster.
‘Carl Bekaert?’ Lorimer’s tones were entirely neutral but the man’s head jerked up as if his name had been screamed out.
‘Yes. I am he.’ He lifted his head and looked at his interrogator for the first time. Lorimer’s initial impression was of a human being devoid of any colour; all the life seem to have leached out of his skin and hair making him look like a faded sepia print. Even his eyes had that pale yellow tinge. It was as if the Dane had emerged from years of dwelling in some subterranean chamber. was he always so anaemic looking or was this the effect of grief? Lorimer continued to study the musician. Carl’s hands clutched the sides of the chair making him sit bolt upright. A muscle on his right cheek twitched involuntarily. Lorimer shifted in his chair.
‘We asked you in again today, partly to discuss your relationship with George Millar.’ Noticing Carl pursing his lips in defiance, Lorimer held up a hand. ‘Don’t try to deny it, please. It will only make things worse for you in the long run.’
A tide of colour rose over the Dane’s clenched jaw, instantly making him appear more human.
‘It was known,’ he faltered, rubbing his finger against his nostrils. ‘Our relationship. The other members of the Orchestra, they know about George and I.’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed, ‘It was Karen Quentin-Jones who told me about it.’
Carl nodded, ‘So. She tells tales and then she is put away. That is what you want to talk to me about, yes?’ The musician leant to one side, searching in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. He took it out wiping his nose briefly.
That was interesting, Solly thought to himself. He’d instinctively used a euphemism for death. She is put away. What was he afraid of: death in general or the act of killing? or had he tried to blot out the horrors surrounding the two murders? Solomon Brightman could understand that reaction. He’d been close enough to cases of murder to know the emotions such events could produce. And was the musician so choked with emotion that he needed to wipe his nose? That hadn’t been apparent from his voice. Maybe he just had a cold coming on. Solly’s eyes shifted to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer’s expression betrayed nothing at all, neither kindliness nor harshness. His was the face of the trained professional, open and receptive, welcoming any statement that might help the case. Any change in that expression would work on the person who had to endure his unflinching gaze.
‘She told me that you and Simon were both lovers of George Millar. Is that true?’
Carl sat back in the chair, hands below the level of the desk, avoiding Lorimer’s stare. There was a momentary silence as if the Dane was struggling to decide what his answer should be. Then he looked up at Lorimer, a sudden light in his eyes. ‘Yes. Yes it is true. We love that man. OK? What’s so bad about that, Chief Inspector? Love. It’s not a dirty word, no?’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘Your relationship with George Millar only concerns me insofar as it concerns his death.’ He clasped his hands together on the desk. ‘Tell me, Mr Bekaert, were you still on good terms with George Millar at the time of his death?’
‘Good terms! What you mean good terms? We were friends. No, more than friends. I admit it now. OK? We were lovers!’ The Dane’s voice rose in a crescendo.
‘At the time of his death?’ Lorimer persisted.
‘I was not there at the time of his death. I tell this to the other officer. She writes it down. OK?’ Carl was leaning forward now, glaring at Lorimer.
‘What I mean is, you were still lovers right up until Mr Millar’s death?’
Carl sank back once more into the plastic seat, the rage taken out of him by Lorimer’s measured tones.
‘Of course.’
‘And Simon Corrigan?’
‘That one was never serious. They just fooled about. George laughed at him. That was all.’
Lorimer didn’t respond. Simon Corrigan’s statement backed this up, but only to a point. Had George Millar been quite so dismissive of the horn player?
‘I’d like you to describe what happened after the rehearsal for your Christmas concert.’
‘What happened? Nothing happened. We put our instruments back into their cases, took our coats off their pegs in the dressing room and went home.’
‘Which dressing room would that be, sir?’
‘Number one. We have decent tables in there so we can eat our food in a more civilised manner.’
Listening to the Dane, Solomon realised that his English was becoming better and better the more he grew in confidence. Had the stilted responses been an act, then? Had he been cultivating an imaginary language barrier? That was a ploy that could gain sympathy in confrontational situations. Interesting, the psychologist nodded to himself. And was Lorimer aware of it too? He wondered.
‘You left the Concert Hall at fourteen minutes past eleven. That was over an hour after the rehearsal had finished. Do you mind telling us what you were doing in that time, Mr Bekaert?’
Carl Bekaert’s eyes avoided those of Chief Inspector Lorimer. He mumbled something to himself.
‘Yes, Mr Bekaert?’
‘I was in the men’s lavatory.’
‘For a whole hour? Mind telling us just what you were doing?’
Solomon looked up. Lorimer’s voice had an edge to it that the psychologist recognised. He looked from one man to the other. Lorimer’s demeanour was as impassive as ever but Solly knew that it was like a snake waiting to strike.
‘I had some stuff with me. It took a while, that’s all.’
‘Stuff?’ Lorimer was playing the innocent, Solly knew, grinning in his corner as the conversation batted back and forth between them.
‘Cocaine,’ as the word was wrested from the Dane, he clasped his hands behind his neck and gave a sigh concentrating his gaze towards the floor.
‘I see. And is there anyone who can verify this?’
Carl Bekaert looked up, clearly shocked. He’d come clean about his relationship with George Millar and had admitted being a cocaine user. What more did this policeman want?
‘You think I have others there watching me?’
‘Perhaps someone saw you going into the gents? Maybe someone who could testify that you were there for, how long did you say?’
‘I don’t know,’ the Dane replied, his face now troubled. ‘I think other people came and went. I heard voices but I was, well, preoccupied.’
‘Was it generally known that you were a user?’
The musician shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? It’s not something I discussed with the other players.’
‘How long were you actually in there?’
Again the Dane gave a shrug, ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when … well, when you’re …’ he sighed as if trying to find the right words, ‘when you’re experiencing something uplifting,’ he said, meeting Lorimer’s eyes to see if the policeman was maybe on his wavelength. But there was no empathy from the blue stare that met his gaze.
‘We have something of a difficulty here, Mr Bekaert. You see, unless you can give us proof that you were exactly where you say you were, then we may have to look at the possibility that you were with Karen Quentin-Jones.’
From his corner, Solly listened in admiration. Despite the gravity of the situation Lorimer managed to sound as if he were discussing the man’s overdraft rather than an alibi for murder.
Carl Bekaert simply stared, slack-jawed, as if the notion of being a murder suspect had never dawned upon him. He looked at Lorimer in disbelief then turned to see who else in the room had heard the detective’s words. The duty officer at the door made no movement and the bearded man in the corner merely smiled sadly as if he would like to help but couldn’t.
Then, ‘No. No. You must not think these things. I did not see Karen after the rehearsal was finished. As far as I know she went to the ladies’ dressing room and …’
‘Did you actually see her go into the ladies’ dressing room, then?’ Lorimer interrupted.
‘No. No. I did not see her at all. What I mean is she must have gone there. Where else would she go?’ Carl Bekaert shook his clasped hands frantically.
‘I have to tell you, Mr Bekaert, that you appear to have been the last member of the Orchestra to leave the building that night.’ Lorimer spoke gently as if breaking the worst possible news to the musician. ‘We have close circuit camera evidence to back this up.’
Carl looked around him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘You think I put an end to her?’ he whispered.
Solly raised his eyebrows. That euphemistic phrase again. Was the man displaying one half of a split personality, one that denied the brutal act of murder, one that feared the violence of its alter ego or simply the consequences of its action? Or was this the behaviour of a man innocent of the ultimate crime? Watching him, Solly pondered these options, wondering how far Lorimer was prepared to take this.
‘Did you kill Karen Quentin-Jones?’
‘No,’ the Dane shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Never. I would never do such a thing!’
‘Even although she might have told the police something you wanted to hide?’
‘No,’ the man’s protest came out high and strangled. ‘I tell you everything. About George. About my viola. Now you know I take the cocaine!’
He was less in control of himself now, Solly realised. Lorimer was in complete command of the situation.
‘So you won’t object to a police surgeon examining you?’
‘Why? Why examine me? What do you want to do?’
Lorimer spread his hands in an open gesture. ‘Simply to take some samples. Then we may be able to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
Solomon frowned. Lorimer sounded so plausible, but as far as he knew Rosie had no real DNA samples to work on. What was Lorimer up to?
The policeman’s words seemed to have an effect on the musician however, for he slumped back in his chair with a sigh.
‘Sure. Go ahead. Then can I go home?’
Lorimer smiled briefly. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Why didn’t you charge him?’
‘With what? Doing a line in the gents’ toilets? We have no evidence even of that! There’s absolutely nothing we can do until we have something concrete. Being the last man out doesn’t even help. The security man was still there. The murderer had fixed the CCTV cameras once. Who’s to say he couldn’t have done it again?’
‘You think whoever killed George Millar also killed the woman?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer sounded surprised at the psychologist’s question then frowned. ‘Why? Don’t you?’
Solly was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip. ‘There are reasons for supposing it might be. The locus is the same. The murder weapon on each occasion was part of a musical instrument. There were many people about so it looks as if he is a risk taker. Not too many of those, I shouldn’t imagine.’
Lorimer grinned. Solly had his engine up and running. Any minute now, though, he’d throw a spanner into the works.
‘But?’ Lorimer prompted.
Solly looked up at him. ‘You see it too?’
‘Nope. I could feel it coming though.’
‘Ah. The But. Yes there is a But, I’m afraid. Someone tried to hide the woman’s body. There was no effort to do the same for George Millar.’
‘And no opportunity, either. Come on, Solly. Don’t you think the first murder was carefully planned? Think of the duster over the CCTV camera. It would have been easy for a tall man like him to place it there with the bow. And wouldn’t he have known that the Leader would be on his own in Morar?’
‘Ah, that’s just it. I do believe the first murder was planned out. It’s the second one I’m having difficulty with.’
‘You think he just happened to have a harp string in his pocket? Give us a break.’
‘No. But he might have lifted it from that library box on impulse.’
Lorimer frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I think,’ Solly began measuring his words carefully, ‘that the second killing was a matter of opportunity. Not planned, not thought out at all. She was in the right place at the right time. And hiding the body was a stroke of sheer luck. The trap door on stage provided that.’
‘It also suggests someone who knew their way about the place, doesn’t it? And even you can’t seriously suggest that this is the work of a different killer.’
‘No,’ Solly admitted, ‘but it’s something I think we ought to consider.’
Lorimer shook his head. He didn’t want to consider anything of the sort. As far as he was concerned there was one person to profile and one person alone. OK the modus operandi was different but in his view that wasn’t as crucial as the fact that two musicians had met their ends in the same place, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And if Carl Bekaert’s DNA matched any trace on Karen’s body, he’d have him charged with murder.