Shadows of Sounds

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.

‘In here,’ Lorimer ushered the man into his own room, pulling a chair from its position against the wall so that they were facing one another.

‘I take it you had some tea or coffee downstairs?’

Quentin-Jones shook his head. ‘Sorry. It was kind of them but I couldn’t take a thing right now.’

Lorimer nodded briefly. If Sadie Dunlop had failed to force her canteen hospitality down this bloke’s throat, then he was certainly not faking his anxiety.

‘I suppose this has something to do with George Millar’s death.’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Have you seen today’s Gazette?’

‘No. It’s not a paper I read. Why? What’s going on?’

Lorimer fished a copy out of the waste paper bin and handed it over. The front page carried a photograph of George Millar and Quentin-Jones stared at it for a few moments before opening the page out to read the article alongside.

‘I see,’ he said at length. ‘That’s why he was murdered. Drug-related. But what’s that got to do with my wife, Chief Inspector?’

‘How long has Mrs Quentin-Jones owned her violin, sir?’

The Consultant’s face turned pale as the implication of Lorimer’s words sunk in.

‘Karen’s violin? You mean it was stolen?’

‘We do have reason to think so, yes.’

‘My God,’ the Consultant leant forward, burying his head in his hands and groaning. ‘I had no idea. I’d never have …’ the man broke off suddenly.

‘Never have what, Mr Quentin-Jones?’ Lorimer rapped out.

‘Never have bought it for her,’ the words came out as a whisper.

‘You’re telling me that you purchased the violin from George Millar?’

Derek Quentin-Jones nodded silently. He looked simply bewildered, Lorimer thought. Was he telling the truth, or was this just a desperate attempt to cover up whatever scandal might attach itself to his wife?

‘Karen’s fortieth birthday was coming up.’

‘When was this, sir?’