himself.
The journalist gave a sigh. ‘What d’you want?’
‘All of it. How you got your story, your sources, names, addresses. And don’t miss out a single detail,’ Lorimer told him.
Greer glanced over his shoulder towards the bar. ‘Mind if I order another?’
Lorimer gave a shrug. Greer might as well have his tongue loosened. The Detective Chief Inspector certainly wasn’t buying and he didn’t feel much like drinking either.
‘So,’ Lorimer began, still keeping Jimmy Greer pinned with the stare that had discomfited not a few hard men.
‘Who was it?’
Greer pretended not to hear as he signalled the barman for another whisky but one look from Lorimer made him respond.
‘A wee nyaff. A bum. Comes to me with his story, right. I do a bit of checking up, that’s all. Seems the toe- rag’s got some real handle on the violinist, so I goes to my editor and, bingo! Front page with my byline. Not bad, eh?’ Greer pulled out a packet of Benson amp; Hedges and lit up a cigarette without offering one to Lorimer. As Greer blew the smoke over their heads, Lorimer saw the man’s eyes narrow speculatively. He’s wondering just how much of this bravado I’ll let him away with, he thought. Part of him wanted to haul the journalist to his feet and shove him into the nearest squad car. Let him stew for a bit in Police Custody. But that could wait. Right now, what Lorimer wanted were facts and a bit of cooperation.
‘Name?’
‘Said he was George Millar’s son. Loada’ rubbish of course. Millar never had any weans. Told me his name was Flynn. Hangs about in front of the Royal Concert Hall. That’s his regular pitch.’
‘Is he a
‘Naw. Just a wee bum. No fixed address.’
‘So what exactly did he tell you and, more to the point, how did he get his information?’
Greer took another drag on his cigarette, his fingertips stained ochre with nicotine. ‘Well, that’s the thing. His sources, as he put it, weren’t up for grabs. He obviously hangs about with some druggies in the town. That much was clear. But I didnae get any names and addresses. Didnae expect to,’ Greer glanced back at Lorimer but the expression on the policeman’s face hadn’t changed.
‘And?’
‘He knew our fiddle-man. Like, personally. Must’ve come across him at the Concert Hall. Anyway, the wee nyaff does his stuff for Millar. Puts him in touch with the coke machine. Ends up being the man’s gofer.’
Lorimer frowned. There was more to this street bum than met the eye. ‘How did he know about the reset? I don’t believe for a minute that George Millar would have confided in this low life you’re describing.’
‘Naw, you’re right there, Chief Inspector. Seems he kinda stumbled across it. I didnae ask for too much detail.’
Lorimer left that one. He’d need to find the boy himself and prise these details out of him if he could.
‘So, how did you go about verifying this Flynn’s story?’
Greer paused mid-drag, giving Lorimer the impression that he was considering his reply.
‘Well, now. That might be incriminating to some other people, know what I mean?’
‘Names,’ Lorimer snapped back at him.
‘All right. There were a few of the musicians who’d bought Millar’s hot goods. One of them was his boyfriend, that big Danish Guy, Carl. Had a word with him on the QT. He was daft enough to admit that George had sold him a suss viola. He was fulla’ shit about not being able to afford a top class instrument and how good it was of old George to help him out. Even said George had let him pay by instalments. Anyway, it’s all there,’ Greer flicked his hand towards the
‘And the others?’
Greer gave a half smile as he spoke. ‘Aye, there were others, but I only went to see one. A lady. Dead posh, she was. Name of Karen Quentin-Jones.’ Lorimer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Greer stared back at him and nodded, adding, ‘Thought that myself, squire. Why did a rich bitch like that get mixed up in a reset scam?’
‘And did you ask her?’
‘Ho! Ask her? My God, she gave me the bum’s rush and no mistake. Wanted to know who’d sent me. Fair rattled that one’s cage and no mistake.’
Lorimer watched the journalist as he took a swig of the whisky. There was no apparent tremble to his hand.
‘Saw the instrument, though. It was right there in its open case. Couldn’t help but notice it as I passed the French windows, could I?’ Lorimer suppressed a smile. The journalist was still skating on thin ice as far as the law was concerned, but Lorimer had to admire his persistence in following up a juicy story.
‘How much did you pay this Flynn character?’
Greer’s hesitation in replying told Lorimer that whatever he said would be a lie.
‘Ach, the wee bum touched me for a ton. Said he’d sell the story elsewhere if I didn’t cough up. Well, my editor agreed, y’know. Ye have to speculate to accumulate, know what I mean?’ Greer’s yellowing teeth showed in a smirk below his moustache. Lorimer drew in a deep breath, controlling an urge to wipe the grin off the journalist’s face. He supposed the story had been told in confidence and that this Flynn was totally unaware that Greer would be spilling the beans on him. But like rats coming out of a sinking ship, Greer had to scuttle away from any promises made to save his own skin.
‘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.
