Authors: Alex Gray
‘You’ll need to go down to make a written statement,’ Lorimer told the journalist. ‘Better make it now.’ Lorimer’s tone told the journalist he was telling, not asking. Greer’s shoulders twitched in a shrug then he swallowed down the remaining whisky, set it down beside the folded paper and followed Lorimer out of the pub.
‘Flynn? Joseph Alexander Flynn?’ DS Alistair Wilson’s voice was incredulous.
‘He didn’t give me first names. Why?’
‘From your description it must be the same fellow I picked up outside the Concert Hall the night of the murder.’
Lorimer gave a snort. ‘Would you believe it? So where’s this Flynn’s statement, then?’
Wilson smiled as he indicated a file well to the bottom of the heap of paperwork on Lorimer’s desk.
‘Interviewed him and gave him a cup of tea. Poor
blighter looked frozen. Scared, too, though that’s the norm when we come into contact with those boys. They’re suspicious of us being suspicious of them. Can’t seem to break the vicious circle, more’s the pity.’
Lorimer knew what Wilson meant. There was little trust between the street people and the Police but sometimes a relationship could be built up and one of them would trade information for a few quid to keep body and soul together.
‘Any address or is that a daft question?’
Wilson’s raised eyebrows told Lorimer that it was. ‘Could try to find him around the town, though. He hangs about between the Concert Hall and St Enoch’s, usually. I’ll go out, if you like, since I’ve got his ID.’
Lorimer nodded, still reading what little information the boy had given his Detective Sergeant. It was coming up to midday and the streets crowded with lunchtime workers might well tempt the beggars into the city centre.
‘OK, do that, but don’t ask around for him just yet, I don’t want him doing a disappearing act. Just see if he’s in the city.’
Once Wilson had left, Lorimer stood looking out of his window. Greer’s revelations had given him some disquiet. Not only had George Millar been mixed up in various shady dealings, he’d involved Karen Quentin-Jones. He recalled the woman’s superior attitude and her obvious dislike of the late Leader of the Orchestra. Why on earth had the woman bought her violin from him? She’d struck Lorimer as a very knowing type. Surely she’d been aware of the Leader’s scam?
Well, there was one way to find out.
The girl with the long dark hair put down two brimming lattes and sat beside her companion, a young man who was hunched into his leather jacket. He seemed not to notice the coffee, for she had to slide it closer to him and nudge his knee to make him sit up. The lights from the mosaic floor in the centre of Princes Square reflected on the glasses, making miniature stars on their sides. She pushed one glass of coffee closer to him.
‘C’mon, Chris. You have to have something. It’s no good moping like this. That’s not going to achieve anything, is it?’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’ The young man smiled. ‘Still trying to be the amateur psychologist, are you?’
The girl gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Maybe. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so bossy.’
‘Getting just like your mum, you are,’ he told her, taking a sip of the latté.
‘God, don’t say that! I’ve not been that bad, have I?’
‘It’s OK. I probably need a bit of geeing up. It’s not
that easy to cope with, y’know. Who’d have thought that George …’
His voice broke suddenly and he felt for a handkerchief in his pocket but the girl was too quick for him and passed him a tissue from her handbag.
‘You’ll all miss him, won’t you? Especially your own section,’ the girl whispered. The strings had all looked up to George Millar, she knew. She had even heard her own mother, who was Second Violin, admit what a great Leader he had been. Chris had simply doted on the man.
Around them the buzz of lunchtime shoppers merged with the sound of a piano playing. Strains of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ floated over the cafes clustered around the atrium. Nobody paid any attention to the young man blowing his nose or of the anxious glances he was receiving from the girl by his side.
‘What’ll you do now?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ he sniffed. ‘Maybe move back in with Si?’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Probably not, but we’ll have a lot of fun cheering one another up.’
The man’s sudden grin transformed his face at once making the girl sigh.
‘Oh, Chris. Why are all the loveliest boys unavailable?’ she whispered, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes as she spoke.
‘I’m always available for you, pal. You know that,’ he replied, his hand covering hers.
‘Aye, for coffee and sympathy,’ she groaned. ‘Just as well I don’t fancy you, isn’t it?’
‘Bit of a waste of time that would be,’ he laughed in
reply.
A shadow blocking out the light from the circular floor made Chris Hunter look up but it was just someone pausing to look around. Possibly looking for a seat? Chris twisted round and watched the figure disappearing in the direction of the escalator. Funny, he thought to himself. Just for a moment he thought he’d recognised the man. Don’t be daft, he told himself. It’s just shadows playing tricks with your imagination. Anyway, wasn’t he bound to be jumpy after what had happened?
‘That’s right,’ Brendan told her. ‘He changed his address recently and it was scored off my original list. No problem, Constable. Anything else I can help with, just ring me.’
Annie Irvine slotted the name neatly into its correct alphabetical place. Hunter Chris, c/o 135 Ingram Street. Not a permanent residence, she saw. Fairly new to the Orchestra, Brendan Phillips had told her. Funny he’d had two addresses already then, wasn’t it? Maybe digs were hard to come by for musicians, she supposed. They weren’t all that well off, were they? Still, he’d been interviewed at the Concert Hall. There wouldn’t be much cause to call on him at home, would there? Annie flicked the mouse button and the list of names vanished into its file somewhere in the ether.
Alistair Wilson stepped out into the middle of the pedestrian precinct, looking this way and that. Anybody glancing his way would have seen a well dressed middle-aged man out doing his shopping, the Habitat carrier bag part of his camouflage. A strong sweet scent told him he was nearing the corner where the perfume from soaps and
bath ballistics wafted out of Lush. Betty loved stuff like that. And it was her birthday soon. He stopped to look at the beribboned boxes stacked by the door. He could always get them to make her up a big box of stuff, couldn’t he? Wilson told himself. But his shopping would have to wait. It certainly wouldn’t be today when he was trying to find one particular boy in all these crowds of shoppers and lunchtime diners.
Outside TGI Fridays there was often a wee lassie selling the
Issue.
She had a special knack of appearing to be on her last legs and Wilson always gave her the obligatory
£
1.20. She wasn’t there today and still there was no sign of Flynn.
The area outside the Concert Hall had proved fruitless. The
Big Issue
sellers were there all right, but there had been no sign of any beggars who might look like Flynn. He hadn’t been daft enough to go back to his usual haunt around there. It was probably a waste of time but he’d make his way down to St Enoch’s underground station before calling it a day. Wilson thought ahead to how he might join the queue at the cash point in order to scan the area around St Enoch’s Square. The policeman strode past Fraser’s shop windows. There was a distinct chill in the air that lent itself to the winter display in the windows of the department store. He paused for a moment to scan the dresses and sparkly accessories strewn artfully behind the glass then set off towards the Underground.
Wilson stopped as he reached the corner. To his right, just protruding from a shop doorway he could see the familiar bundle that told of yet another down and out. Abandoning the crossing, he moved towards the huddled figure.
As he approached the beggar, his eyes widened. It was Flynn. He was sitting with his back against the steps to an upstairs restaurant, polystyrene cup in one hand and a ragged blanket tucked over his legs. Wilson ducked behind a woman weighed down with bags of shopping in both hands. But it was too late. The boy had clocked him.
In one swift movement, Flynn leapt up from the pavement discarding the blanket as he ran, loose change scattering all over the pavement. Wilson broke into a run, dodging between the shoppers, barely pausing to apologise as they were elbowed out of his way.
As the boy headed off along Argyle Street, Wilson was aware of passers-by turning to see what it was all about. It was only a short burst to the next junction and the lights were at red. The boy put on a spurt, turning into Mitchell Street, his boots thudding on the cobbles. Wilson’s face broke into a grin. Just around the corner, concealed by the bend in the road, a Police car was waiting. They’d corner him then, for sure. Wilson saw his breath fog out in the frosty air as he thundered after Flynn. The backs of warehouses and the department store leant over them.
Pedestrians stood back to let them pass as Wilson gave chase, their faces registering alarm.
He felt his feet slipping on the icy stones but he could afford to slow down now that he was certain Flynn would be caught in their trap.
Just as the squad car came into view, Flynn turned round and stared wildly at the Detective Sergeant. The boy hesitated for a moment then looked towards his left. Wilson could read his mind. Flynn was thinking of making a dash into the NCP car park. But how could it offer a hope of escape? They’d get him in there just as
easily. Surely he realised that?
Flynn suddenly swerved away towards the car park then, to Wilson’s horror, a white van emerged from the shadows of the off-ramp.
Wilson made to dash after him but a squeal of brakes rooted him to the spot.
As Flynn’s body made contact with the bonnet, the policeman heard a collective gasp of anguish from the folk standing opposite. It was like seeing a bundle of rags tossed skywards then coming to earth with a sickening thud.
‘Oh, my God! The poor laddie!’ a woman’s voice exclaimed. Wilson put out his hand to stop anybody crowding around the broken figure lying in the road.
‘Police. Keep back, please.’ The words had their intended effect though there was a marked reluctance amongst those who had witnessed the accident to move away. The two uniformed officers further up Mitchell Street had left their car and were heading towards him as Alistair Wilson bent over Flynn’s body.
‘Ah couldnae help it. He jist came like a bat oot o’ Hell!’ The driver had slid from his seat and was standing over Wilson, white-faced and shaking. He was a young guy with cropped hair and a silver cross dangling from one ear.
‘Aw naw. Whit’s he done?’ The van driver clutched Wilson’s arm. ‘This is terrible. Ah’ve only just got this delivery job, no’ right used tae the van yet, but it wisnae ma fault.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I saw what happened. The lad didn’t see you coming. He just dashed right in front of your van,’ Wilson assured him.
‘Ah wisnae goin’ fast or nothin’,’ the driver’s voice cracked.
Wilson nodded. He’d not been going fast, but even so, the van had travelled those few agonising yards towards the running figure. Then there’d been that awful thump as human flesh and bone met 3,000 kilos of metal. From experience Wilson knew that would be the memory to stick in the driver’s mind.
It wouldn’t be the sight of the body on the road but that noise as he’d braked, pulling on the steering wheel as if to rein in a runaway horse.
The man let go of Wilson’s sleeve and leant against the van door for support.
‘No, son. Not your fault,’ Wilson answered him shortly, one half of his mind wondering if in fact the fault lay at his own door.
Flynn’s body lay twisted, his arms flung out like a sawdust-filled doll. There didn’t seem to be any motion visible from his chest so Wilson lifted one wrist to feel for a pulse. There it was. A flicker, but at least he was still alive.
‘Get an ambulance!’ he barked as the first officer joined him beside the body.
‘He’s not …?’
‘No. But I don’t rate his chances much,’ muttered Wilson. ‘Keep this place clear, will you?’ he added, indicating the folk hovering in the edge of this tragedy.
Lorimer touched the breast pocket of his jacket. The feel of the tickets tucked away gave him a tingle of pleasure just to know they were there. It had cost him a whack, though. He’d have saved plenty, the wee girl at the travel
agency had informed him, if he’d booked up sooner. Everyone wanted to go to Florida for Christmas these days, it seemed. Anyway, it was done now and Maggie’s mum would be pleased. And what about Maggie herself? Lorimer made a mental note to phone her later on when the time difference linked his bedtime with his wife’s evening meal. Would she be glad he’d booked the trip?
Lorimer’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. WPC Irvine hovered in the doorway, one hand on the handle as if she were too afraid to come right on into the lion’s den.
‘You know that woman you wanted in for questioning, sir? Mrs Quentin-Jones?’
Lorimer looked up. Annie’s expression was a dead giveaway that something was wrong.
‘Yes?’ he drawled out the word slowly, leaning his elbows on the desk and folding his hands beneath his chin.
‘Well, she’s gone. I mean she’s not at her own place and Mr Quentin-Jones doesn’t know where she is.’
‘Why don’t you just sit down and give me the whole story, eh?’
The young policewoman closed the door behind her and came to perch on the edge of the chair that faced Lorimer across his desk.
‘She was at some late rehearsal in the Concert Hall last night and she didn’t come back home, he says. Her husband, Mr Quentin-Jones, is a consultant up at the Southern General and was late getting back from an operation. He didn’t realise his wife hadn’t come home until this morning. Says he was so tired he just went out like a light. Woke up and she wasn’t in the bed beside him.
He was going to phone the Police when he got a call from us asking for his wife. Poor man was in some state when we spoke to him. Thought we were going to tell him she’d been in an accident or something.’ The policewoman’s earnest expression made Lorimer wonder. Did Quentin-Jones have any inkling of what his wife had been up to? In fact, did anybody really know?
It was only Greer’s dirt-raking that had brought her name into the equation. And Lorimer still wasn’t sure if the journalist had got all his facts correct.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Downstairs, sir. He insisted on coming over. Asked for you personally, sir.’ WPC Irvine sounded apologetic, as if the Consultant had no right to have called on someone of Lorimer’s rank.
Lorimer sat and thought for a moment. If Quentin-Jones was as overbearing as his lady wife had been, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to deal with him. Maybe she was in the throes of some extra-marital fling. It wasn’t his job to find out things like that.
On the other hand, if Karen Quentin-Jones had read an early edition of the
Gazette,
could she have done a bunk? Lorimer considered this. Maybe she’d risen before her husband had awoken, seen the front page and high-tailed it?
‘OK, tell him I’ll be down to see him shortly. Take him into the canteen and let Sadie look after him,’ Lorimer suggested.
‘Aye, right, sir,’ The WPC was grinning as she left. Sadie Dunlop never stood on ceremony with folks, be they consultants, chief inspectors or whoever. Mr Quentin-Jones would just have to sit and take his tea and toast like
the rest of them.
Derek Quentin-Jones was pacing up and down in the corridor when Lorimer arrived. He was a man of middle build whose grey hair added to his distinguished appearance. He’d taken the trouble to don a double-breasted pinstriped suit, Lorimer noticed. Was he trying to create a good impression or was that just the normal workaday clothing of a consultant?
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer. Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer offered the man his outstretched hand. Quentin-Jones took it at once, gave it a firm shake, looking the policeman straight in the eye. The Second Violin’s husband was clearly a worried man if the creases between his eyebrows were anything to go by.
‘What’s all this about? You called my home to ask me about my wife.’
Lorimer indicated the stairs to their right, ‘We can talk up in my office, sir.’ The two men were silent on the short flight up to the CID rooms.