percussionists paid for that night’s concert, two men and two women. Three were British, one American, Lorimer noted. No Eastern Europeans amongst them. Why had he made that mental remark to himself? Was he becoming paranoid over the
The CCTV footage had helped enormously, though not in the way Lorimer had first hoped. The members of the audience who had come into the auditorium had been checked out. Very few had left their seats during the first half of the performance. Most had visited the toilet area by the cloakrooms. One had been seen taking a telephone call on his mobile at the foot of the stairs. He’d been confirmed as a Consultant Surgeon on call. There were no suspicious punters mooching about backstage. To take the audience out of the equation gave Lorimer a huge sense of relief. The members of the Chorus had trooped on stage in a particular pre-ordained order. There was even a pegboard with their names in a seating plan that had been checked against a still from the monitor. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a killer amongst them, but it did narrow the possible time of death to the twenty minutes before the Chorus had appeared on stage. Prior to that, they’d been clustered on the stairs leading from dressing rooms 5, 6 and 7 for a final briefing from their Chorus Master.
Lorimer stopped reading and frowned. Where had the Chorus Master gone after that? He scrolled up and down but failed to find the man’s name amongst the musicians or members of the Chorus. Odd. After the thoroughness of the rest of the team’s efforts this was a glaring omission. He searched back through the list of members of the audience. It wasn’t there either. The final check had to show his name amongst all the back room boys, surely? People like Brendan Phillips and other administrators, the drivers and shifters and the permanent Concert Hall staff were all listed in a separate file. But the name was still missing. Lorimer chewed his lip. He didn’t even know who he was looking for, simply a name against the designation: Chorus Master, City of Glasgow Chorus. When he’d checked the lists again he lifted the phone and dialled Brendan Phillips’s number at the orchestra Manager’s headquarters.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. Any news yet?’ Brendan Phillips’s voice sounded breathless as if he’d been running to pick up the phone.
‘Nothing to pass on to you as yet, sir. But I do have a question to ask you. Do you have the full name and address of the Chorus Master?’ Lorimer’s question was intended to make it seem as if he was querying information he already had rather than fill in an embarrassing blank.
‘Could you hold just for a minute?’ Lorimer heard the clunk of the handset being placed on Brendan’s desk as he waited for the Orchestra Manager to return.
‘Here we are. C. Maurice Drummond, 24 Belmont Street. Afraid I don’t know what the C stands for, Chief Inspector. we all know him as Maurice.’
Lorimer grinned to himself. This was a piece of pure luck. Phillips would think he needed the man’s Christian names. Whatever C stood for it wouldn’t make Chief Inspector Lorimer look a right Charlie. He’d follow it up, nonetheless, he thought as he scribbled down the man’s telephone number. Someone would have to go and check this one out. He’d enough to do without running around the West End every minute of the day. Lorimer dialled another number and gave instructions for a visit to be made to Mr C. Maurice Drummond.
Funny, though, he mused after he’d spoken to WPC Irvine, how he had slipped through the net like that.
By Rosie’s reckoning the murder had taken place before the musicians had gone on stage. The events behind the scenes during that half hour before the scheduled performance were pretty much visible on the CCTV footage. He’d spent hours watching the screen show men in dress shirts milling around their dressing rooms, folk smoking outside at the back door, musicians and members of the Chorus alike wandering through the warren of corridors backstage. And in the minutes before that particular camera had gone blank there was only an empty corridor. The last people seen moving along there had been Brendan Phillips and one of the female stewards. If Lorimer’s hunch was right, the camera had been tampered with by someone coming in from the area behind stage left, not someone who had calmly walked down the corridor towards it.
Rosie’s latest report had shown the substance on George Millar’s fingers to be nothing more sinister than resin from his bow. Lorimer supposed things like that were kept in the man’s violin case. The black duster, on the other hand, showed traces of a stronger adhesive than mere double-sided sticky tape. It was an industrial strength adhesive not usually found in the normal outlets like newsagents or supermarkets. Bostik 6092 had only one supplier in Glasgow. It was a place up in the Balmore Industrial estate, according to Rosie. Lorimer grinned to himself. It was tiny details like these that could be followed up and become promising leads in a murder investigation. The murder weapon itself had been wiped clean. Lorimer imagined a figure bending over George Millar’s body then placing the percussion instrument where it might easily be seen.
The detective’s grin straightened into its customary frown, the twin creases deepening between his eyebrows. Had that been a deliberate ploy on the part of the killer? Had he been trying to draw attention to one of the percussionists? Poliakovski had mentioned working with Cassandra Austen, the American percussionist. She might have known the famous conductor’s habit of closeting himself in his dressing room, certainly. But why would she have left such an obvious clue as the murder weapon behind her? No. He could rule that one out on the grounds of simple common sense. But what if one of the men in that section had been having a clandestine affair with George Millar?
Lorimer harked back to Karen Quentin-Jones’ statement. She’d told him that George’s two current boyfriends had been a French horn player and a viola player. But, according to his wife, the lead violinist had been a promiscuous old boy. Lorimer drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. The two men had already been invited in for questioning. Perhaps their statements might shed some light on whether George had been playing around with anyone else in the Orchestra. Brendan Phillips had provided a CV for them both, Lorimer remembered, riffling through the papers in front of him. There it was, stapled to DI Grant’s report.
Simon Corrigan was a young man from Fife who’d come up through the ranks of local brass bands, going on to study at Glasgow’s prestigious Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. He’d been with the Orchestra since graduating, Lorimer read. Carl Bekaert wasn’t much older than Corrigan, although his CV showed he’d had experience of other orchestras before coming to Glasgow. Lorimer was puzzled. He’d still to meet them both, it was true, but he couldn’t help wondering what on earth these two young musicians had seen in an older man like George Millar.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and he looked up to see DI Josephine Grant. Lorimer gave a perfunctory nod. Jo had been one of Superintendent Mitchison’s officers and had transferred to their Division not long after the Superintendent’s appointment. It was a promotion they all thought had been Lorimer’s for the asking. But Jo Grant had been more than simply one of Mitchison’s old team, Lorimer reminded himself. He recalled the Superintendent’s blonde companion at his previous boss’s retiral dinner. She’d scrubbed up well, too, as he remembered. The long running friction between himself and Mitchison could extend to any of his acolytes if Lorimer let it happen, but so far Jo showed no signs of taking sides with either of her superiors. Nor did it seem as if there was any lingering relationship between the Super and Josephine Grant.
‘This has just come in on email from Dr Fergusson,’ Jo said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Thought you might want me to do something about it,’ she added as he read its contents. Rosie had underlined one of a list of George’s personal effects, things that had been taken away for forensic examination. It was the bow for his violin.
‘Strange, don’t you think, sir?’ Jo Grant was watching his face as Lorimer took in the fact that no fingerprints had been found on the bow.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his mind flicking back to the scene in Morar where George Millar had breathed his last.
‘Any ideas, Jo?’ he leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded her.
‘Well, obviously the killer had touched it and had to wipe it clean of prints,’ she replied, then made a face, ‘But why did they touch it in the first place? That’s what you’re asking isn’t it?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘Yes.’ His mind was racing with possibilities. ‘Listen, Jo, can you find out the exact length of that bow for me?’
