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.
Chapter Five
Simon Corrigan found he was shivering despite the warmth of the room. He’d even had to draw his leg away from the radiator by the table where he’d sat waiting for something to begin. At first it had been a matter of routine, like giving his name and address to the officers the night George had been killed. But now, in this small room in a Police headquarters, Simon sensed that he was in some danger.
Part of him wanted to believe that Scottish police were nice, trustworthy men and women; the ‘polis’ of his youth who would tell you how to get home if you were lost or got into trouble for kicking your football into an old lady’s garden. But then the polis of his youth had been country constables who’d helped them with their cycling proficiency tests in the playground at Primary School, not the hard-faced lot in the city of Glasgow that you saw on TV shows. He’d heard all sorts of stories about how guys got a kicking down in the cells and no apology afterwards. They knew how to hurt without making a mark for a police doctor to see, he’d heard. Simon shivered again and looked at his watch. How long would they make him wait?
Suddenly he felt angry. He was being detained against his will, wasn’t he? The scrape of his chair against the floor alerted the young officer who stood impassively, back to the door.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked as Simon stood up. His polite, deferential tone made the musician hesitate. ‘How long will he be? The Inspector, I mean.’
‘Oh, not long, sir. I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long. It’s always like this, I’m afraid,’ the constable smiled thinly as if he were taking Simon into his confidence somehow. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘No. Thanks,’ Simon replied, sitting down again, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. He was wrong. They were simply busy, that was all. His imagination was running away with him. As if they’d be wasting precious time deliberately making him wait; that was the stuff of TV dramas, not real life.
He looked up as the door opened and a blonde woman entered the room followed by the Detective Sergeant he’d spoken to at the Concert Hall.
‘Inspector Grant, DS Wilson,’ said the blonde, waving a hand in her colleague’s direction as they sat opposite Simon.
‘Have you had a cup of tea?’ she asked, ignoring the beige plastic cup sitting between them.
‘Yes,’ Simon replied, holding his hands together to stop them from shaking.
‘Thanks for agreeing to come in today, Mr Corrigan. As you can appreciate this is a mammoth task we have here, with so many people who were friends or colleagues of Mr Millar,’ DI Grant began. She smiled at him as if he would understand that a policeman’s lot was not a happy one. Simon felt himself relax. It was going to be OK.
‘We’re really grateful that you could spare us the time. It must be awfully hard to carry on after this,’ the DI continued.
Simon mumbled a reply and felt his cheeks redden. So, they knew about George and him. He’d suspected as much. That cow, Karen, must have told them. He’d seen her swan off with the tall detective.
‘If I could just take down a few details. Sorry about all this. Red tape, but we need it all the same,’ Jo Grant was all apologies as Simon reeled off his name, date of birth, and current address.
Jo Grant glanced at the man opposite. He was a good-looking lad, with his red-gold hair falling forward over his brow. Green eyes, she’d noticed. Cats’ eyes with that measured look as if he were studying her just as she was trying to study him. But wary, too, though he was visibly relaxing now that the preliminary stuff was out of the way. He’d become almost chatty, telling them about his early career and what he hoped to do in the future. Enthusiastic, too, she had liked that. But it was time to slip in the odd reference to a murdered man, to remind them all just why Simon Corrigan, French horn player with the City of Glasgow Orchestra, was sitting opposite two police officers.
‘We have to ask everyone who knew Mr Millar about him. It helps us to build up a picture of the victim.’ Jo saw the man shift in his seat. The word victim always had that effect on the innocent and guilty alike.
‘What can you tell us about Mr Millar?’ DS Wilson asked.
‘What do you want to know?’ Simon shrugged. There was silence for answer so he continued. ‘He was all right, was George. A bit of a scamp, really. Liked to spread his favours, if you know what I mean.’
‘Didn’t you mind?’ Jo asked, a conspiratorial smile playing about her lips.
‘No. Not really. Everyone knew he was an old rogue. Only Carl …’ He bit his lip and stopped.
‘Carl Bekaert?’
‘Aye. Carl, the Great Dane, we all called him. Superb viola player but he took himself too seriously. Had a huge pash for George. Wanted to have him all to himself.’
‘But Mr Millar was married. Lived with his wife,’ DS Wilson put in.
‘Och, that was different. George would never have moved in with any of us. We were his boys; that was all.’
‘So there was never a serious relationship between Mr Millar and any of the male members of the Orchestra?’ Jo asked.
Simon frowned. ‘Not like that. I mean there’s serious and serious, isn’t there? You’d move in with a person if you really were committed, wouldn’t you?’
‘Tell me about Mr Millar as a musician,’ Jo said, switching tack.
‘Ah, now you’re asking something,’ Simon leant back in his seat, stretching his long legs out under the table, then leant forward again. ‘He was the best, was George. And I’m not just saying this because he’s dead. Why he’d never played with some of the big European outfits, I’ll never know. He’d been Leader with The City of Glasgow for as long as I can remember. Even saw him perform when I was still at school.’
‘What was his attitude to the younger players like yourself?’
Simon grinned. ‘I expect you want to hear if he encouraged us, made some guys his proteges. But it was nothing like that. Sure he hung about with the younger ones, but only in a social sense, like down the pub after rehearsals. He had great stories, you know. We all loved hearing the gossip about people he’d known. I suppose that’s how we became friends,’ he added.
‘And how did that friendship deepen?’ Wilson asked so politely that Jo Grant had to suppress a grin.
‘He asked me to come to bed with him.’
