Simon Corrigan sprayed the last shelf then polished it in a rhythmic motion before scrunching the duster in a ball. There. It was as clean as he could make it. He looked at the pile of books laid neatly on the carpet. Each one had been carefully wiped clean of the offending dust that had gathered over the past few months. He’d put them back in alphabetical order, leaving a wee space at one end of the shelf for Chris’s ioniser. Simon’s eyes fell onto the rust coloured silk covering the bed. He’d even vacuumed the mattress and hauled out the bed so he could suck up all the dust balls from underneath.
Simon sat back on his heels, his imagination fast-forwarding to the evening ahead. There was no rehearsal tonight so they could have some of that Thai curry he’d defrosted before settling down for the evening. It would be just like old times again. He heaved a huge sigh that was somewhere between relief and tiredness. He should never have let Chris leave in the first place, he told himself. That had been so stupid. Well, he was coming back now, wasn’t he? Poor old George was well and truly out of the way. There’d be nothing else to come between them, would there?
Brendan Phillips put down the phone with a shudder as if it were something alive in his hand. Just what were they asking him, now? He sat staring at the desk for a moment trying to conjure up a picture of the stage on the night of George’s death. But he’d not been out front, he’d told Lorimer. The Director and Maurice had been, though. Why didn’t he talk to them? Lorimer had said that he would.
There was something, though, that he hadn’t thought of, wasn’t there? CCTV footage would give a clear picture of that half concert. Didn’t Lorimer have the tapes impounded still? If he could have them back and see the concert again, maybe he’d be able to answer the DCI’s questions.
Brendan picked up the brown envelope and pulled the folded pages out. For a moment he thought about their contents then he let them slide back into the envelope. He’d read the letter over and over until he was certain it was perfect. If they took him, fine, if not, he’d want to know why. An Orchestra Manager of his calibre and experience was not to be sniffed at. After Christmas, he thought. They’ll let me know after Christmas. Brendan breathed a sigh. What a relief to be out of Glasgow and all it had come to mean for him! If they took him, a little voice reminded him.
The telephone’s ring made Brendan start from his reverie, reminding him that there was still work to do before he could make good his escape.
‘Belshazzar’s Feast’ was sounding out the brass when the doorbell rang. With a curse, Maurice Drummond pressed the hold button of the video recorder, leaving his Chorus open mouthed across the frozen screen.
‘Yes? Who is it?’ he rasped into the intercom.
‘DCI Lorimer, DS Wilson, Strathclyde CID. We’d like to see Mr Drummond.’
‘Hold on,’ Maurice grumbled. He picked up a discarded jacket and slipped it on, then straightened his tie before pressing the buzzer to let them in. Living on the first floor didn’t give him too much time to prepare for unexpected visitors, he thought ruefully.
As he opened the door he remembered the DCI. It was the same man he’d seen at the Concert Hall, a man easily as tall as himself and with him a solid looking chap in a raincoat who looked every inch the plain clothes copper.
‘Come in,’ Maurice stood aside to let the two men into the darkened hallway and closed the door behind them.
Stepping into the light, the first thing that Lorimer saw was a grand piano placed in the bay window of the huge lounge. It was one of those older flats with ornate cornicing around the high ceiling that gave an impression of a more graceful era. Apart from the piano, however, there was nothing graceful about Maurice Drummond’s furnishings. A couple of ancient easy chairs covered in shabby cotton covers sat either side of a television and video. The screen was blurred, showing that they’d caught the Chorus Master in the middle of watching something. Piles of musical scores were stacked against the wall by the piano and other papers spilt across the carpet as if by design.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. We wanted to ask you some questions in connection with the death of George Millar,’ Lorimer said.
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Maurice picked up the piano stool and hauled it towards the two chairs so that it was facing them then sat down on it, leaving Lorimer and Wilson no option but to sink into the easy chairs or perch on their edges. Lorimer chose to do the latter.
‘Now, what can I tell you?’ Maurice asked abruptly.
Lorimer nodded to himself. The man was trying to be helpful in his own way but it was clear he’d much rather get back to whatever he’d been doing.
‘Did we disturb you, sir?’ Wilson asked, his eyes travelling towards the television.
‘Yes, actually. You did.’
‘Watching something interesting?’ Wilson continued, feigning innocence.
‘A recording by the City of Glasgow Chorus. ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’, if you must know.’
‘Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting,’ Lorimer quoted.
Maurice Drummond’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes. He hadn’t expected a mere policeman to know the scripture text, Lorimer thought to himself.
‘The fall of a great king. The rejoicing of a persecuted people,’ Maurice said slowly, taking a closer look at the tall man whose eyes met his in a sardonic smile.
‘You’re performing it soon?’ Wilson asked.
‘Next May. But we begin rehearsals straight after Christmas.’
‘Could you cast your mind back to the performance the night of George Millar’s death?’ Lorimer asked smoothly.
‘Hard to forget. Don’t think any of us will ever get over that.’
‘The actual performance is what I’d like you to focus on, if you will, sir,’ Lorimer persisted. ‘The first half of the programme when Mrs Quentin-Jones took over as Leader of the Orchestra. What can you remember about the quality of the performance?’
Maurice Drummond sat up straight and frowned, hand to his chin. ‘I’m not sure I can recall, Chief Inspector. There was nothing really memorable about the performance. Karen played the Albinoni beautifully and my singers were in top form. I do remember watching Poliakovski, though, because I’d never seen him conduct our Chorus before.’
‘He’s not a man for Choral music, then?’
‘On the contrary, he’s renowned for his expertise with singers,’ Maurice replied dryly.
Lorimer cocked his head. Was there something underlying the man’s words?
‘And were you satisfied he treated your Chorus well?’
Maurice Drummond hesitated before answering. ‘They were all pleased with their performance. I think they enjoyed having him conduct them on the evening.’
‘But not at the rehearsal?’
‘You heard, then?’ Maurice looked up as Lorimer gave a nod. ‘He gave them an absolute bollocking in the afternoon. Some of my sopranos were in tears.’
‘Oh? What exactly was the cause of the Maestro’s temper?’
‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Drummond looked at Lorimer accusingly.
‘Only that the rehearsal had been a bit fraught. Mr Phillips didn’t go into any details,’ Lorimer replied.
Drummond gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘The man’s a monster. All charm when it suits him, fawning over the ladies of the front row then screaming abuse at them if he thinks they’re not giving of their best.’
‘And were they?’
Drummond scowled. ‘Of course. But it was a rehearsal. I always tell my singers to save something for the actual night. I won’t have their voices wrecked just because some Russian Bear wants a sustained top C over and over again.’
‘But he was good with them on the night?’
‘Had them eating out of his hand. You should have heard them afterwards, positively cooing.’
‘So the afternoon rehearsal was put behind them?’
Drummond nodded.
‘You were in the audience before the concert began, that’s correct?’
‘Yes. Once the Chorus are on stage I make my way upstairs to the back of the Circle. Somewhere I can see all that’s going on,’ he smiled wryly.
‘There was nothing about the performance, maybe by one of the musicians, that you found unusual, perhaps?’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘An extra nervousness. Maybe caused by the Maestro’s earlier temper?’
‘Not that I recall. The band was fine. No jitters from any of them. But they’re all pros. Hysterical conductors are like water off a duck’s back to that lot.’
‘And no outstanding performers among them?’
‘Karen, of course. But I’ve already mentioned her. No. I can’t think that there was anything else,’ Drummond looked towards the carpet and bit his fingernail as if trying to run the concert through again in his mind’s eye.
As he closed the door on the two policemen, Maurice’s heart was beating loudly. Had they seen his hesitation? Would they have figured out that he was lying to them? And what on earth did they think an individual player’s performance had to do with George’s murder?
Maurice sank into an armchair. Had his concern for the Chorus deflected attention from the other aspects of the performance? He hoped so.
There was no way C. Maurice Drummond wanted his name linked to a particular member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra, someone who had held his undivided attention for the whole performance; especially during a murder investigation.