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.
‘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.
WPC Irvine scrolled down the list of names on her computer screen. She shook her head in disbelief as the names rolled on and on. How the heck did they get that many people on the stage? It hadn’t seemed that big when she’d taken Dad to see Shania Twain for his birthday. Something caught her eye and she slowed down to take a closer look. Funny. The whole list of musicians had been in alphabetical order until that very last name. Maybe he had just newly joined them or something? That Mr Phillips would know. It had been his list that she’d scanned in. Maybe she should mention it?
‘Irvine, the Boss wants to see you,’ Alistair Wilson drummed his fingers lightly over the edge of her desk as he passed by.
WPC Irvine rolled her eyes. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ she sighed, wondering what other task Lorimer had in store for her.
Outside the station the rain was beginning to spot the windscreens of the cars in the car park. Lorimer unlocked the door of his ancient Lexus and swung himself into the driver’s seat. As always, the feel of leather beneath him gave him a sense of comfort.
He was more at home behind the wheel of his car than in his own armchair at home, Maggie had once told him. And it was probably true.
‘Sorry, sir,’ WPC Irvine flung herself breathlessly into the passenger seat. ‘It’s Huntly Gardens. Number 39.’
By the time they’d crossed the city centre, the wipers were flipping back and forth as rain fell steadily. Lorimer needed all his concentration as he negotiated Woodlands Road with cars parked on both sides and pedestrians battling to escape the deluge. The policewoman sat by his side, keeping silent. Chattering to the Boss when he was deep in thought was never a good idea. Up Glasgow Street and over the hill he drove, crossing Byres Road, turning at last into the faded gentility of Huntly Gardens where George Millar had lived.
Lorimer had to park right at the top of the hill. The road was virtually a single lane due to the double parking, Huntly Gardens being one of the few streets off Byres Road that lacked a residents-only zone. As they walked back down, Lorimer found himself looking into the bay windowed rooms of every flat at pavement level. It was a habit of his to gauge what sort of district a person inhabited from the houses of their neighbours. He stared at a variety of window dressings; that hanging wind chime might denote a student flat, those crisply laundered nets probably belonged to a resident out at work and who needed a bit of privacy. There was a grand piano in one bay window with a metronome on top. Music spilt out from behind the fly blown glass window. Lorimer stopped abruptly, checking the address.
‘This is it, sir.’
As he buzzed the call button opposite ‘Millar’ the music stopped. A crackling sound emanated from the system then a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, WPC Irvine, Strathclyde Police. We’ve come to see Mrs Millar.’
There was a pause then the same voice said, ‘Wait a minute.’
Beyond the frosted glass panel Lorimer could see a figure hurrying towards him. The door swung open and Mrs Millar stood regarding them seriously.
She was, he supposed, around sixty, though her black jeans and embroidered top gave her a much younger appearance. Her bare feet, thrust into a pair of Birkenstocks, showed purple painted toenails. Lorimer absorbed all this in one glance as he cleared his throat.
‘DCI Lorimer. Mrs Millar?’
‘Yes,’ she answered him simply. ‘Would you like to come on through?’
Lorimer followed George Millar’s widow through the hall and into the ground floor flat. She showed them into the front room. Lorimer’s first impression was of a high ceiling and lots of ornate plasterwork then his eye fell on the grand piano that sat dominating the bay window. Had that been Mrs Millar playing as he’d passed by? Could you do something as creative as making music the morning after your husband had been murdered?
‘Please sit down, Chief Inspector, Constable. Would you like some coffee?’ Her tone seemed to indicate that this was merely a social visit. There was no trace of anguish in her voice. Maybe she was still in denial, he told himself.
‘Thanks. Coffee would be fine,’ Lorimer replied, but didn’t sit down. Instead he followed Mrs Millar into the kitchen and leant against the wood panelled wall, watching her as she filled a kettle jug and set about preparing their coffee.
WPC Irvine followed them in and sat by the oak table, glancing up at Lorimer as if trying to gauge what was on his mind.
‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock.’ He watched her face as she turned towards him.
‘I’m used to shocks, Chief Inspector. Yes, this was dreadful, but it’s happened and I can’t make it un-happen. Just as I couldn’t change the way George was. Don’t think me harsh but I’ve become used to accepting the things I cannot change.’
There was an inflection in her tone that made Lorimer realise she was quoting something he’d heard before. For a moment he was at a loss then it came to him. Wasn’t it part of a prayer by Saint Francis of Assisi? Or was he mixing that up with something else? Mrs Millar was looking at a corkboard next to the doorway on Lorimer’s left. He followed her gaze and saw the small green card. On it was written,
God
Grant me the Serenity to accept
The things I cannot change …
Courage to change the things I can
And Wisdom to know the difference.
She looked back at him, the ghost of a smile hovering apologetically around her lips.
Lorimer didn’t know what to say. Even if she was a devout woman that shouldn’t stop her from expressing her emotions, should it?
For a moment Lorimer wished he’d asked the officer who’d come here last night for the widow’s first reaction. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now he was curious to know how she had responded to the terrible news.
‘Thanks,’ he said as she handed them mugs of coffee. He thought they’d make their way back into the sitting room, but Mrs Millar motioned for him to join his colleague at the kitchen table. She leant into a chair with a patchwork cushion at her back then raised her mug of coffee.
‘To life,’ she said and smiled in Lorimer’s direction.
Her easy familiarity with a complete stranger gave Lorimer some disquiet. For a moment they locked eyes as he raised the mug of coffee to his lips. Lorimer looked away first. There was nothing malevolent about the woman’s gaze, just a calm directness. Usually he’d be probing a person’s behaviour for undercurrents of emotion, indications that could help in establishing the nature of relationships. But how to get behind that mask of tranquillity, if indeed it was a mask, was a problem.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about your husband,’ Lorimer began.
‘Of course. Whatever I can tell you, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Millar’s reply was polite, almost but not quite grave. It was as if she were about to discuss someone she’d encountered in the street, not her own husband. Was that telling him something? Lorimer wondered.
‘First of all, could you tell me when you last saw Mr Millar?’
‘Yes. He was at home yesterday until just after lunch. He left about two o’clock. There was a three o’clock rehearsal call.’
‘Did he drive into town?’
‘No. He took the underground from Hillhead into Buchanan Street. It’s the easiest way.’
‘Was there anything unusual about your husband’s demeanour before he left?’
He watched her face as she took another sip of coffee. She was thoughtful, considering her words carefully.
‘No. I don’t think I noticed anything untoward. He was a fairly cheerful person as a rule. No, he seemed perfectly normal. He was looking forward to the programme, I know that.’
Remembering the Albinoni solo, Lorimer wondered if that had been something George Millar would have enjoyed. Something he’d been denied.
‘Mrs Millar, can you think who might have wanted your husband dead?’
‘My goodness, that’s direct enough,’ she smiled but her eyebrows were raised. ‘Who might have murderous tendencies towards George?’ she mused, looking away from Lorimer and gazing into space. Then she frowned and shook her head. ‘That’s a question that puts me in a difficult position. It makes me have to judge how other people should behave.’
Lorimer nodded, silently noting the plural reference. ‘Let me put it another way, then. Had your husband done anything to provoke anybody?’
‘Oh, dear Lord, yes. George was about the most provoking man you could meet.’
‘I need you to be specific. who in particular had he provoked?’
She smiled sweetly at him again, ‘Why me, of course, Chief Inspector. But I’m not the killing type.’ She glanced across at the policewoman as if to affirm her statement.
‘Anybody else?’
‘I’m sure he drove many of his fellow musicians mad at times. He was a bit of a perfectionist. And of course he was incorrigibly promiscuous,’ she added as if it was a mere afterthought.
‘Can you give me some details about anyone who may have had a grudge against Mr Millar?’
She shook her head slowly then answered, ‘No, I don’t think I can.’
‘Do you mean you don’t know of anybody or you can’t bring yourself to tell me?’ he asked.
The woman’s head came up and Lorimer saw the first flicker of annoyance disturb that serene expression. He’d rattled her cage at last.
‘Chief Inspector, I want to do anything I can to help your investigation. I do not know who killed my husband. Nor do I have the faintest idea who would wish to do something so evil.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening, Mrs Millar?’
The question took her completely by surprise, Lorimer saw. Her face changed colour as she immediately realised the implication of his words. He could be easy on her, tell her gently that he had to ask such questions, but something made him hold back from the softly, softly approach. This lady had an inner strength of some sort. Well, let her make use of it now. He regarded her as she swallowed the last of her coffee, noting how carefully she set down the mug on the table as if to conceal her trembling fingers. She saw his gaze and hastily drew her hands away out of sight.
‘I was here. I spent the evening on my own. I don’t think anyone can verify that,’ she gave a shaky little laugh, ‘unless somebody upstairs heard me playing the piano.’
‘We can look into that,’ he told her sombrely. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your husband, something about his habits, his personality. It helps to have a picture of the victim when we’re conducting a murder inquiry.’ Mrs Millar gave a small, involuntary sigh and raised her eyebrows again.
‘George was a homosexual, but I suppose you know that by now. He came out a few years ago so it was no secret. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was, in fact I think he enjoyed being different.’ She paused. ‘You ask about his personality. He was an outgoing man, the sort of person who liked attention. He enjoyed an audience off stage as well as on. But he was totally wrapped up in himself and in his music.’ She paused. ‘George wasn’t a cruel man, Chief Inspector, I want you to understand that, but he simply didn’t think about other people’s feelings.’
‘Even yours?’
‘Especially mine,’ she gave a mirthless laugh.
‘So why did you …?’
‘Stay with him?’ she finished the sentence for him. ‘Hard to say really, though goodness knows I’ve asked myself the same question often enough. I suppose it’s because he never wanted to leave. He had plenty of lovers but he didn’t bring them back here. There would be nights when he didn’t come home. And I got used to it after a time. When we were together we got on rather amicably. Does that surprise you?’ she asked, seeing the policewoman’s bemused expression.
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.
‘George was never bad to me, though he’d been pretty hopeless in bed. Understandable once we knew why. But we got on. We were fond enough of each other not to mind.’
‘You don’t seem terribly upset by the violent death of someone you were fond of,’ Lorimer remarked at last.
There was silence as Mrs Millar regarded him. She seemed to be searching for a reply then her eyes dropped from his gaze as she said, ‘Perhaps it hasn’t really sunk in yet.’
Lorimer drained the last of his coffee. She could have been equally blunt in her response but had chosen to be polite instead.
‘Thanks,’ he said, handing her the empty mug. ‘I’d be grateful if you did have a word with these neighbours of yours upstairs. Just so they can verify that you were in last night.’ Lorimer spoke the words more kindly than he had intended, trying to assuage the guilt he felt at his previous accusation. It wasn’t, after all, a crime to behave inappropriately at the sudden death of your husband. Still, it would keep him wondering about George Millar’s widow for some time to come.
As she closed the door Lorimer lingered on the top step, listening for any hint of anguish from within, even a groan of relief that he’d gone. But there was nothing like that.
Once again he found himself wishing for the familiar sight of the bearded psychologist, his perceptive eyes twinkling behind those horn-rimmed glasses. What would Solomon Brightman make of this woman and her strange reactions? he mused.
By the time they’d reached the street again the melody from the grand piano could be heard once more and Lorimer could have sworn that the newly bereaved Mrs Millar had taken up exactly where she’d left off.