Shadows of Sounds

different loyalties, wee boys going mad because there was nothing else for them to get excited about. Then someone would bring out a blade and change the course of someone else’s life, or stop it forever.

George Millar, now, he was nothing like the big Russian from his photo in the Gazette. The Busy hadn’t mentioned any names that night. He’d wanted to know who Flynn had seen coming and going out of the main doors into Buchanan Street. Flynn could’ve told him other things, though; things that the papers might pay him for. That was partly why he’d come in here again, to think about it.

Flynn drank the sweet tea slowly, looking around him until his gaze fell on the pile of newspapers by the bar. He hadn’t clocked them when he’d ordered his pot of tea, but now that he saw them Flynn realised they were there as a courtesy for the customers. Maybe there’d be an update on the murder? Maybe someone else would’ve spilt the beans on old George before he’d had the brass neck to do it himself? He sauntered across to the bar trying to appear nonchalant, no simple task for Flynn, used as he was to the hostile stare of passers-by. Unease lay about his shoulders like a cloak. Nobody said a word, however, as he lifted that day’s Gazette from the counter and took it back to his place by the window. Even as he shifted his glance from left to right there were no accusing eyes staring in his direction.

There was nothing about the murder on the front page and Flynn rustled the pages as he scanned the columns up and down. Yes! There it was, a headline on page four and a wee photo of George with his missus. It was a better one than they’d used before although it was a lot older. George had more hair in this one. Flynn concentrated on the article. It was both a disappointment and a relief. They’d raked up loads of stuff about George’s musical life, like where he’d travelled with the City of Glasgow and the other orchestras he’d played with. There were even bits about recordings he’d made with his wife in some chamber orchestra or other ages ago. But there was no mention of George and his boyfriends. Flynn found himself grinning, and in that moment he knew he’d not be going along to see DS Wilson. Oh, no, he had better fish to fry.

The hot water jug remained full as Flynn left his seat and headed for the exit. He wasn’t cold at all now and a brisk walk up to the Gazette’s offices would keep him warm, for sure.

‘Jimmy Greer,’ Flynn said to the woman behind the desk.

‘Wait a minute will you, till I see if he’s at his desk,’ the voice that answered his enquiry was as broad Glasgow as his own but as she spoke into the headset her manner was quite different. Flynn had heard it every day of his life on the streets, a voice for the likes of him and a voice for those and such as those.

‘Have you an appointment?’ she asked him. Flynn was ready for this. He’d prepared his patter on the way over from the Concert Hall.

‘It’s to do with George Millar. Tell him his son’s here.’ Flynn waited as she relayed the message. He’d thought about calling himself George’s nephew but that wasn’t close enough. Even if Jimmy Greer did a quick check, he’d not really be able to tell if Flynn was the real thing or not, would he?

‘You’ve to go on up. Take the lift to the second floor and Jimmy’ll meet you there,’ the receptionist told Flynn.

As the lift doors closed on him, Flynn felt his pulse begin to race. It was a bit of a thrill, this masquerading as old George’s son. He’d have to come clean eventually, but what was the worst they could do to him? Throw him out? They’d be too busy to involve the police, Flynn told himself.

All at once the doors opened and Flynn found himself facing a tall man with white hair and a moustache.

‘Jimmy Greer?’ Flynn stepped forward, cautiously.

‘Aye. And who are you, son?’ The journalist was looking at him intently and Flynn felt himself wilt under the man’s stare.

‘Can we talk? I’ve information about George Millar. Stuff your people don’t seem to have a hold of.’ Flynn’s words rushed out as he sensed his imminent departure.

The journalist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait here till I get my jacket.’ Flynn watched Greer disappear beyond a phalanx of grey partitions that separated the news desks. Eventually the man reappeared, fastening his padded jacket as he strode towards Flynn.

‘We’ll have a wee coffee while we chat, eh?’ Greer suggested. Flynn nodded, suddenly feeling unsure of himself as the man pressed the lift button and gave the boy a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

They walked in silence to the coffee bar in the pedestrian precinct, Flynn half a step behind Greer who loped along as if he was deliberately trying to put a distance between the boy and himself.

‘Two espressos, doll,’ Greer demanded, slapping down a pile of coins on the glass topped counter. The girl didn’t even look up as she relayed the order to another server.

The reporter took the two cups over to a table by the window and Flynn quickly slipped into the seat facing into the coffee bar. It wouldn’t do to be recognised, especially as they were so close to the Concert Hall.

‘Right, pal, what’s all this about?’ asked Greer, emptying three long packets of brown sugar into his espresso. ‘Better not be a waste of my time,’ he added. The phrase ‘or else’ hung unspoken between them. Flynn gave a weak smile.

‘Well, I’m not really George Millar’s son,’ he began.

‘Never thought it for a moment,’ Greer came back, his voice laden with sarcasm.

‘But I can tell you about his personal life better’n any son could,’ Flynn assured him.

‘Aye, go on then,’ Greer answered. He was trying to play it cool but Flynn could see a spark of interest in the man’s eyes.

‘He wasn’t just your regular straight bloke, like? Old George was one of the boys, know what I mean?’ Flynn tried to make his remark sound as salacious as he dared just to see which way the reporter would jump.

‘And how would a wee scruff like you know that, eh?’ Greer was leaning forward, his face so close that Flynn could smell the nicotine on his breath. He made himself sit still though he couldn’t help bunching his fists unseen below the table.

‘How d’you think?’ he leered.

‘You’re not telling me that a member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra got his kit off with the likes of you?’ Greer scoffed. ‘Now that I just don’t buy, pal.’

‘Naw, naw, no me. Ah’m no’ that way inclined anyway,’ Flynn hastened to assure him. ‘Ma pitch is up at the Concert Hall. Ah’ve done him a few wee favours, like. put him in touch with some good gear, know what I mean?’ Flynn lowered his voice as he spoke.

Jimmy Greer nodded, never taking his eyes off the boy for a minute.

‘There’s a story in this for you an’ all,’ Flynn hesitated. It wouldn’t do to give it all away too soon. It was worth a hell of a lot more than a lousy cup of espresso.

‘Aye. Maybe there is and maybe there isnae,’ Greer spoke softly, an expression of greed flitting across his face.

‘Well, what’s in it for me? Information’s no’ cheap, man,’ Flynn came back at him swiftly, sensing the other man’s interest.

‘Fifty if it’s any good,’ Greer said immediately.

Flynn hesitated. ‘Naw, I’m no sure. Ah think it’s worth a lot more’n that.’

Greer drained his coffee. ‘Waste of my time then, son,’ he said and made to stand up.

‘No,’ Flynn protested, his hand raised suddenly as if to prevent the journalist from leaving. ‘All right then, fifty,’ he said desperately, cursing Greer inwardly for having the whip hand.

Greer called out to the girl by the coffee machine, ‘Two more espressos, doll. Oh, and a jammy doughnut,’ he grinned at Flynn as he turned back. ‘For you,’ he added. ‘Just call it a wee sweetener.’ He paused. ‘So. Do you know anything about how George Millar was killed?’ Jimmy Greer whispered.

Flynn looked the man straight in the eye. ‘No I don’t. But I know some of the stuff he was involved in.’

‘OK, pal. Let’s have it.’

Flynn took a deep breath and began his story.

Chapter Eight