Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer pressed the mute control on the TV remote as his mobile rang out. His eyes watched the silent antics of figures on his screen as he listened to a voice that demanded his full attention.
‘OK. I’ll be there,’ Lorimer spoke into the phone. ‘About twenty minutes.’
He flicked the red button and turned his attention to the television once more. A man and woman were having a heated argument. He could see her lipstick-red mouth wide open. The man was slapping the table between them noiselessly. Lorimer switched them off. He knew how it would end. They’d come over all sweet and sorry later on just as they always did. That’s why this soap opera had such a huge following, he thought. with its happy endings it was so unlike real life. He couldn’t have explained why he’d started to watch it after Maggie had left. She’d have been appalled at how hooked he’d become.
Anyway, this wasn’t getting him nearer the start of a new case. And, from what he’d just heard, there certainly weren’t going to be any happy endings. There were squads of men being called out from every Division in Glasgow to cope with this one. There would be a whacking great overtime bill by the time all the punters had been screened. Not to mention the musicians. And they’d had a bloody great Chorus on stage too, just to compound the logistical nightmare. Lorimer shook his head. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad being a mere Detective Chief Inspector. At least he didn’t have to worry about budgeting all of the time.
Lorimer shrugged himself into the jacket that had been hanging on the handle of the lounge door. The remains of a Chinese takeaway lay on the coffee table beside a half empty bottle of Irn Bru. He’d tidy them away later, he assured his absent wife, along with the week’s supply of newspapers strewn across the floor. For a moment Lorimer stared into space, seeing the room as it had been only two months before. It had never really been tidy what with Maggie’s piles of jotters to mark and both of them leaving books in various corners but now it was simply neglected. Then, at least, the place had been vacuumed and dusted, he supposed, or whatever she’d done to make it comfortable. But the difference was really more than mere housework, if he was honest with himself, much, much more.
With a grimace at the sight of it, Lorimer switched off the light and headed for the front door.
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer.’
The Security man at the stage door looked keenly at Lorimer’s warrant card then into the face of the tall man who stood just inside the doorway.
‘Mr Phillips, the Orchestra Manager, is waiting for you upstairs, sir,’ he said. ‘Trish will show you the way.’ Neville, the Security man beckoned forward a comfortable looking middle-aged woman. Lorimer recognised her steward’s tartan uniform. ‘Aye, it’s up here, Chief Inspector,’ Trish started to smile at him, but pursed her lips almost immediately as if she realised that the circumstances demanded some gravity of demeanour. Lorimer followed the woman up a steep staircase and through two sets of heavy swing doors. As they walked along a brightly lit corridor Trish cleared her throat.
‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? The poor wee man.’ She risked a glance into Lorimer’s face but he didn’t offer any comment in reply. The woman gave a sigh, whether about the passing of George Millar or Lorimer’s reluctance to engage in conversation, he didn’t know. They reached the end of the corridor, pushed through another two sets of swing doors and entered an open area that had a low ceiling and no windows. Lorimer saw with some relief that it was already full of uniformed policemen. Some were behind hastily erected trestle tables and taking statements from the musicians who were still in evening dress. A couple of officers from his own Division looked up as he came in, acknowledging his presence with a nod.
‘They’ve set up their stuff in here,’ said Trish. ‘It’s where the Chorus and musicians usually assemble just before they go on stage. Mr Phillips should be around somewhere. Oh, there he is,’ she told him, just as a figure in dark tails approached them.
Lorimer’s first impression of Brendan Phillips was of a slight, rather dapper man whose smooth, boyish face belied his age. He was probably in his late thirties, Lorimer reckoned. Not much younger than himself.
‘Chief Inspector, thank goodness you’re here,’ Brendan Phillips seemed on the point of reaching out to take Lorimer by the hand, but after one look at the policeman’s face, the Orchestra Manager’s hand fell to his side. Trish, Lorimer noticed, had vanished discreetly.
‘The Doctor said you would want to go straight to the dressing room. Where the body is,’ Phillips added in deliberately hushed tones. Lorimer followed the man out of the claustrophobic room. Round a corner, they emerged onto the entrance to the stage.
The auditorium was brightly lit and there were full spots still directed onto the stage itself. Both, mercifully, were empty. Lorimer followed the Orchestra Manager across the front of the stage, skirting the music stands and the Conductor’s podium. Several instruments were lying in their cases on the pale, varnished floor. Lorimer had to squeeze past a large harp as Phillips took him towards the stair leading to the other stage exit. He noted a booth with a board full of controls and a close circuit television that showed the empty stage. His policeman’s eyes also took in the CCTV cameras angled at regular intervals from the ceiling.
‘Who found the body?’ Lorimer asked.
When Phillips turned back to answer, Lorimer noticed that he didn’t meet his eyes.
‘I did,’ he replied. ‘It’s my responsibility to ensure that all the performers are on stage in time. It’s customary to fetch the Leader and the Principals personally from their dressing rooms. It’s part of my job,’ he added with a sigh that seemed to come from his well-polished shoes.
The Orchestra Manager walked on as he spoke. Round a corner they came to another, smaller assembly area.
The regulation incident tape had been fastened across an opening to the left. Phillips stopped and gestured towards an open door leading to a corridor on their right. It was parallel, Lorimer noticed, to another corridor that disappeared into darkness, its ceiling lowered by massive metal tubing. Rows of open fiddle cases lined a shelf on one side.
‘These are the Artistes’ dressing rooms. The first one, Lomond, is for our conductor. Morar is where …’ he broke off uncertainly.
‘Where you found the body,’ Lorimer finished for him. ‘And then you called Security, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ the man looked thoroughly miserable now, no doubt recalling the event that would give him nightmares for weeks. Lorimer nodded briefly and headed for the second room along the corridor that had been reserved for the late Leader of Glasgow Concert Orchestra.
‘Well, hello there, stranger,’ a blonde head turned to look up at him as Lorimer stepped carefully into the room.
‘Ah, Rosie,’ Lorimer grinned back at the pixie face below him. Doctor Rosie Fergusson, Lorimer’s favourite pathologist, was on her knees beside the body, her diminutive frame wrapped inside a clean white boiler suit.
‘I’ll just wait out here, shall I?’ Phillips called out, hovering in the doorway.
Lorimer frowned but before he could speak, Rosie answered for him, ‘That’s fine. Just keep the masses away from here. We don’t want to contaminate this area any further. OK?’
‘Yes,’ Phillips seemed uncertain if he should stay around but clearly didn’t relish the prospect of being in such close proximity to whatever they were planning to do with George Millar’s corpse.
Lorimer turned back to the Orchestra Manager. This time he laid a consoling hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Look. You’ve had a pretty tough time tonight. Why don’t you stay down in Security meantime? I’ll catch up with you when we’re finished in here.’
Brendan Phillips gave a grateful nod. The man looked simply defeated, thought Lorimer. A dead body might be all in a day’s work for Rosie, and to a lesser extent for a DCI but, Lorimer reminded himself, it was surely outside the experience of the average Orchestra Manager.
‘Well. what have we here?’ Lorimer joined the pathologist at the entrance to the tiled bathroom. The preliminary examination had taken place, he supposed. George Millar’s body still lay face down, but Rosie would have taken the body temperature as a first measure.
‘Time of death?’ he queried.
‘How did I know you were going to ask me that? You’re so predictable, Lorimer,’ Rosie teased. ‘Not that long ago, actually. The body was still warm when I got here, but rigor was coming on so I’d narrow it down to say he died two to three hours ago.’ She looked at her watch. ‘That’s about half an hour, or less maybe, before the concert was due to start. This room’s pretty well heated but I don’t think that complicates the timing too much.’
‘Good. So any CCTV footage from about seven o’clock onwards should show us who was around this particular dressing room,’ Lorimer mused.
The fact that so many people had been in the Concert Hall made this case a potential shambles. But, really, these security devices should eliminate practically all of them.
Lorimer didn’t anticipate a lot of bother with this one. once they’d seen the footage, they’d be home and dry, surely?
Sitting in the tiny space that passed for the Security department, Lorimer scanned the tapes that had purported to show all movement in and around the whole of the Concert Hall since midday. His initial optimism about finding evidence on the tape footage was rapidly being extinguished.
‘That’s when we change the tapes,’ Neville explained to him, ‘There’s maybe a two minute delay between taking the last ones out and putting fresh ones in. That’s all.’
Lorimer frowned. The screen that should have shown the area around the Artistes’ dressing rooms had been blanked out from just after seven o’clock.
‘And didn’t you do something about it when you saw that?’ Lorimer demanded of the man.
Neville shrugged. ‘Our usual technician’s off sick tonight. There’s just me and I didn’t know there’d been a murder, did I? Anyway, the outside cameras are probably more of a concern at that time of night.’
‘Oh? Why?’
Neville looked uneasy. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s not me who makes decisions about that sort of thing,’ he paused. ‘It’s all the beggars we get around here; Big Issue sellers and druggies with their wee plastic cups. It’s company policy to keep an eye on them.’
‘So what did you think when you saw that one of your monitors was suddenly blank?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
‘I was puzzled. But then His Nibs phoned down and told me to dial 999. That was when I realised there must have been something fishy about that screen.’
Lorimer gritted his teeth, so much for an easy solution. Whoever had immobilised the CCTV camera upstairs had planned things pretty carefully. At least he knew now that this was no random killing. Premeditated murder would be on the charge sheet in the event of an arrest.
‘OK. Thanks. We’ll need the original tapes to take away tonight. I’ll have them copied and returned to you whenever it’s possible,’ Lorimer told him. Privately he doubted if they’d ever be returned. They’d be kept as evidence in the case until after a trial, if it ever came to that. He picked up a programme from Neville’s desk, flicking through it till he came to the list of performers. This might come in handy, he mused, taking note of some of the names.
Trudging back up the stairs, Lorimer felt suddenly weary. The thought of all those people who’d been backstage tonight filled him with despair. God alone knew who had passed back and forth along the corridor of the four Principals’ dressing rooms in the half hour before the concert began. The paying public had already been herded out into the suites of rooms opposite the auditorium. They would leave names, addresses and show proof of identity before being allowed to leave the Concert Hall. Even the Hall’s stewards had been hastily drafted in to help the police officers perform this massive job.
It was time to join the troops who were busy taking details from each and every one of the members of the Orchestra, Chorus and various backstage crew.
The claustrophobia hit him almost as soon as he entered the windowless area with its low ceiling. There seemed to be no space to move amongst the masses of bodies crammed into the room. Even the tables set up by the uniformed officers had disappeared against a wall of musicians in evening dress. A quick glance showed him the various styles adopted by the female members of the Orchestra ranging from plain trousers and blouses to full-skirted gowns. All the men wore black tails.
A buzz of noise filled the room. Evidently a murder in their midst hadn’t quelled the odd artistic temperament, judging by some of the louder voices raised in protest at their incarceration in this confined space.
As Lorimer approached the nearest table to speak to WPC Irvine, one of his own officers, the woman opposite looked up at him. She was probably middle-aged, judging by the steel grey hair. Her face, still smooth and youthful looking, had a strong bone structure dominated by the long, determined line of her jaw.
‘And who may you be?’ she asked in tones that instantly reminded Lorimer of a loud-voiced neighbour in his street who was forever complaining about dog fouling and children playing football near her garden. Mrs Ellis was the self-appointed neighbourhood watch who kept tabs on everybody’s coming and going. She had even resorted to ringing his front door bell, demanding Police Action until Maggie had sent her packing with a flea in her ear. Lorimer swallowed his instant dislike of the woman in front of him dressed all in black lace, reminding himself that the Mrs Ellises of this world had their uses.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, ma’am,’ WPC Irvine replied for him. ‘And this is Karen Quentin-Jones.’ The look on his officer’s face showed that she clearly expected the mention of Lorimer’s rank to change the woman’s tune. Lorimer glanced back at the programme in his hand. Karen Quentin-Jones was the Second Violin.
She must be the one who had taken over when Phillips had decided that the show must go on, Lorimer thought.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, just how long do you intend keeping us cooped up here like a lot of cattle?’ The woman’s sarcasm made WPC Irvine flinch. People who knew Lorimer just didn’t speak to him like that in her experience. So she was surprised when Lorimer smiled.
‘Would you come with me please? Constable Irvine, may I have this lady’s notes. I’ll be through in the room marked “Ness”. All right?’
Wordlessly, the musician rose from the chair, brushing out the layers of her skirt and followed Lorimer to the door leading to the other end of the Artistes’ corridor.
The tape was fastened across the narrow space but Lorimer untied it, indicating that the woman should pass through with him. For a second she hesitated. It was clear she knew what had taken place along here and didn’t relish the prospect of being so close to violent death.
‘If you would just take a seat in here, I’ll be right with you,’ Lorimer told her, holding open the door of the empty dressing room. He closed it behind her and turned to look up in the corner by the corridor door.
The CCTV camera was covered with a dark piece of cloth. Lorimer stood on tiptoe to examine it more closely. It looked for all the world like a black duster. A few strides would take him back into Morar. He stopped at the doorway, hearing familiar voices and realised that Rosie now had the company of the Scene of Crime Officers.
‘Sorry. Stay out of here will you! Oh, it’s you, Lorimer,’ Rosie looked up as he came into the room.
‘Can I borrow someone for a minute?’
Jim Freely, one of the SOCOs, followed him into the corridor.
‘There,’ Lorimer pointed to the cloth covering the camera. ‘Can you have it photographed before you take it down, d’you think?’
‘Sure,’ Jim gave Lorimer a quizzical look. ‘Someone’s gone to a bit of trouble to keep themselves off the screens, eh? Can’t be one of the performers, then. They’re only too keen to be on the telly,’ he joked, walking back to Morar.
Lorimer stood looking up at the cloth then back at the shape of the corridor. The doorways of each dressing room were deeply recessed in from the wall. He took a step towards the entrance of Ness but did not open the door. Instead, he stood back in the shadow of the doorway and lifted his hand towards the camera. It was several feet away. Whoever had immobilised it must have used something to attach the cloth. Something like a walking stick, perhaps? Lorimer made a mental note to scan the tape again as soon as he could. Meantime Mrs Quentin-Jones was waiting for his attention.
He gave a quick knock and entered the dressing room.
It was like George Millar’s room, only not quite so grand. Karen Quentin-Jones had placed herself in the middle of a small settee, her voluminous skirts spread out around her. There was another chair in the corner.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he began, fetching the chair and setting it down at an angle beside her. ‘Now. I gather you were acting as Leader of the orchestra tonight. Is that correct?’
The woman bent her head imperiously, steady grey eyes looking straight at him. ‘Quite correct.’
‘As Second Fiddle, you’d go on stage with the other members of the Orchestra. Which side did you come on?’
‘Violins came on from stage right,’ she answered.
Lorimer made a mental sketch in his head. ‘That’s by the Stage Manager’s cubicle, yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘And what time did you all leave your dressing rooms?’
‘Seven-fifteen. We always have a call at seven-twenty, but usually we’re ready to go on before then.’
Lorimer remembered the few occasions when he and Maggie had attended orchestral concerts. The members of the Orchestra usually came onto stage in dribs and drabs, adjusting music stands, playing snatches of music until the Second Fiddle gave them their note to tune up.
‘So everybody was on stage by what time?’
‘Oh, definitely seven-twenty-five. I remember looking at my watch and thinking it would all be over in two hours and twenty minutes. Quarter to ten,’ she added as if Lorimer was too slow to work that out for himself. He ignored the sarcasm and continued, ‘Was anybody late arriving on stage?’
Karen’s eyes widened, the reasoning behind that question clearly not lost on her.
‘No,’ she answered immediately. Then she seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing, ‘But not everybody was needed for the first half. Some of the brass section and two in percussion would still have been backstage then.’
Lorimer was interested in her faltering tone. Her mind was obviously moving on to the consideration of who might have killed George Millar. She didn’t want it to be one of her own colleagues, he could tell.
‘Did it bother you that you had to take the part of Leader at such short notice?’
Karen made a face. ‘I didn’t have time to be bothered. Anyway, it’s not the first time it’s happened.’
‘Oh?’ Lorimer raised his eyebrows, inferring that she should elaborate on her statement.
‘There was an incident earlier in the season when George was suddenly very sick just before the start of a concert. It turned out to be bad oysters,’ she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Was she insinuating that the Leader had consumed oysters to boost his sexuality or was she simply the squeamish type? Looking at her, Lorimer was prepared to bet that she had a cast iron constitution.
‘What can you tell me about Mr Millar?’
‘What do you want to know?’ she answered back, almost rudely.
Remembering Mrs Ellis in his street, Lorimer bit back a hasty retort. He knew he’d be given plenty of facts-and-figures information from the Orchestra Manager who was responsible for the Orchestra personnel, but he sensed this woman could provide a different side to the standard ‘everybody liked him, he had no enemies’ routine that invariably met his questions after a sudden, unexplained death.
‘I want to know what you thought of George Millar. What manner of man was he?’ Lorimer asked quietly.
For the first time Karen Quentin-Jones lost her imperious look and became thoughtful. Perhaps she was finally experiencing some real remorse for the man who had been her colleague, Lorimer thought. Her next words took him by surprise, however.
‘He was a total shit,’ she said calmly, leaning back and crossing her legs in a rustle of petticoats under the black lace.
‘In what way?’ Lorimer asked, trying to conceal his astonishment at her remark.
‘In his relationships. In the way he treated people.’
‘Care to expand on that for me?’ Lorimer asked wryly. ‘Tell some tales out of school?’ The question was blatantly suggesting that the woman before him would relish a good gossip. It was rather out of order under the present circumstances and they both knew it but to his relief he saw the hint of a smile play about the violinist’s mouth.
‘I really shouldn’t be telling you this,’ she began, ‘but George was a very naughty boy. Kept all his lovers in a fair old turmoil, he did, playing them off against one another.’
‘His lovers? Ladies in the Orchestra, do you mean?’ Lorimer asked, suddenly wondering if the woman numbered herself among George Millar’s lovers.
‘God, no!’ She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘George was as bent as his fiddle, darling!’
Lorimer stared at her. The screwed-up face describing the oysters had been an indication of her disapproval of the late Leader’s sexual appetite. The way Karen had mentioned his lovers suggested that it had been a rather voracious appetite at that. And were these signs of distaste more to do with a homophobic attitude on her part?
Lorimer thought again of the fearsome Mrs Ellis. He was sure she’d be first in the queue to protest against the gay community if she believed it was trying to encroach on her precious suburban street.
‘Did he live with anybody in particular?’ Lorimer decided to ask as a way of moving the dialogue forward.
‘His wife,’ answered Karen, her face studying his reaction in amusement. Lorimer didn’t return her smile. He was well enough acquainted with homosexual relationships to know that nothing was straightforward. often a married couple found, sometimes very belatedly, that their sexual orientation was not as they had imagined on the day of their nuptials. It was surprising how so many couples stayed together despite that. Surprising, too, the tolerance shown towards the aberrant one in the marriage.
‘Who were George Millar’s lovers?’ he asked, the question deliberately blunt.
Karen pulled a small evening bag onto her lap. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
Lorimer did mind, but it was his policy to let any smoker indulge their habit if it relaxed them into telling him what he wanted to know. He simply nodded his head and waited as she fished out a pack of Rothman’s and lit up her cigarette with a tiny silver lighter shaped like a harp. He watched as she inhaled deeply then blew the smoke over one shoulder.
‘I didn’t know who they all were, naturally, only the ones in the Orchestra. I’m sure he had lots of other friends, though.’
Was she playing with him, wondered Lorimer, or was she stalling for time, wondering whether she should tell him the whole truth and nothing but the truth?
His blue stare seemed to unnerve the woman, however, as she flicked ash from her cigarette and gave a small sigh.
‘Currently he was messing around with Simon and Carl. Simon is our Number Three Horn and Carl plays Second Viola. We call him the Great Dane. He’s six foot six. A big, blond boy,’ she added with a leer.
Lorimer made a mental note to seek out the two men for interview before the night was out. He didn’t relish the thought of prying into their affairs with George but it would have to be done. Karen, on the other hand, seemed to take pleasure in dishing the dirt on George. Lorimer thought he knew why.
‘Did you enjoy being in charge tonight?’ he asked.
‘Naturally,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good programme.’
Lorimer looked at the order of pieces played in the first half.
‘Ah. You’d have played the solo during the Albinoni Adagio, then?’ he murmured.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Good gracious. A policeman who isn’t a complete Philistine. Wonders will never cease.’
Lorimer didn’t rise to the bait. It was pure luck that he happened to have a recording of this piece of music. His classical discs rubbed shoulders with everything from Pink Floyd to REM.
‘Can you think of anything unusual that happened tonight before the concert?’ he asked, changing tack again.
‘What sort of thing?’ the woman countered, screwing up her eyes as she exhaled smoke into the air.
‘A change to the normal routine. A crisis of some kind.’
The woman gave a snort. ‘There’s always a crisis of some kind. Concerts rarely run to plan. Sometimes we have to deputise at the last minute. Other times it’s silly things like someone forgetting to pack their evening shoes.’
‘And tonight?’ Lorimer persisted. Why did he get the feeling she was still stalling him?
‘Oh Brenda was flapping about like a wet hen. Chloe, the harpist, had no music on her stand. Brenda had to run round to the library box to fetch her some.’
‘Brenda?’ Lorimer queried, but even as the word came out he guessed what Karen Quentin-Jones would reply.
‘Brendan Phillips, our very own nanny. Orchestra Manager is his official designation,’ she added.
Lorimer flinched. Was the man who had made the discovery of George Millar’s murder also gay, or was the Second Violin simply unable to talk of her colleagues without making some sarcastic remark? He was beginning to wonder about this woman.
‘And that was all? There was nothing else?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes and flicking an invisible speck from her lacy dress. ‘Is that all? May I go home now?’ she drawled as if the interview had begun to bore her.
Lorimer glanced at the notes WPC Irvine had made. Karen Quentin-Jones had given an address in a part of the city that boasted some fine, detached properties, the sort of old houses that required a lot of money to maintain.
Lorimer studied Karen Quentin-Jones briefly, taking in the well-cut hair and jewels at her throat. This lady didn’t look short of a bob or two so her reason for working with an orchestra was hardly likely to be financial. It must be love of music, he mused, though she hadn’t struck him as the dedicated, artistic type. Perhaps it was different once you were on stage.
Lorimer looked again at her home address. She wouldn’t be too hard to find again if he needed her.
‘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?’