‘Oh, two, no nearly three years ago, I think. George told me he could get hold of something a bit special. He said he’d been contacted by a friend overseas who was retiring and wanted to make the sale.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Of course. There was no reason not to,’ Quentin-Jones protested.
‘What did you pay him for it?’
Quentin-Jones hesitated but it was the hesitation of a man to whom questions about money are naturally distasteful.
‘Sixty-five.’
‘Sixty-five pounds?’ Lorimer frowned.
‘Sixty-five thousand, Chief Inspector,’ Quentin-Jones’s smile was almost apologetic. ‘It was a Vincenzo Panormo. The 1780 edition,’ he added as if that would explain the matter to the Chief Inspector. Lorimer merely nodded as if he were accustomed to discussing violins that cost more than he earned in a year.
‘How did your wife react when you gave it to her?’ Lorimer asked. Unbidden, a bitter little thought came into his mind; just how much love could a ?65,000 violin buy?
‘Well. I don’t remember, really. I’m sure she was pleased with it,’ the Consultant said slowly as if trying his best to recall the moment.
‘Do you think your wife may have known where it really came from?’
The Consultant shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the honest truth, Chief Inspector. I can’t imagine Karen being mixed up in anything underhand. Whether she’d know about the violin’s provenance, well, that’s another matter,’ he said. ‘But I will tell you one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘She didn’t like George Millar. She wouldn’t have bought an instrument from him of her own volition. That I do know. So I didn’t tell her where I’d bought it.’
‘And didn’t she think that was somewhat strange? Wouldn’t she want to know how you’d managed to procure such a valuable instrument?’
Derek Quentin-Jones sighed. ‘I suppose in the light of George’s death it all seems a bit shady, but at the time all I wanted was for Karen to have a lovely surprise. I thought it best not to mention the connection with George.’
‘So you lied to her?’
‘Yes. I told her I had a patient with an interest in violins. She didn’t question me much, now I come to think about it.’
Lorimer grimaced. No, Karen Quentin-Jones might not have asked too many questions but Lorimer wondered if the woman would have recognised that particular instrument.
‘What I’m most anxious about right now isn’t a stolen violin, Chief Inspector, but the whereabouts of my wife!’
‘Don’t you think the two may be linked?’ he asked.
Quentin-Jones frowned back at him, ‘How’s that?’
‘Your wife was approached recently by the journalist who wrote that article. I imagine she may not have been too eager to speak to the police about the violin. Incidentally, do you know if she took the instrument when she left?’
‘It wasn’t in the music room. I looked for any signs that she’d come back from the rehearsal last night. There were none. And I haven’t seen her since breakfast yesterday morning. God, that seems so long ago!’
Lorimer leant back, eyeing the Consultant. The man was sitting on the edge of his chair, hands bunched tightly together, the very picture of anxiety. And it was real anxiety, Lorimer guessed, but whether for his missing wife or for his own involvement with George Millar, it was hard to tell.
‘I think it might be wise to take a statement from you at this stage, sir,’ Lorimer told him.
Quentin-Jones’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘Is that really necessary? I mean, I’ve done nothing wrong, so …’
‘It’s perfectly routine, sir. Your statement will help us to piece together other information already received.’
‘Ah,’ the man relaxed just a fraction, adding, ‘you mean I’d be helping the police with their enquiries.’
‘Just so, sir.’
‘But Karen …?’
‘My officers will do everything in their power to find Mrs Quentin-Jones, sir. Given the nature of our current investigation we cannot yet treat her as a missing person. She may have wished to be elsewhere at present.’
Quentin-Jones looked steadily at Lorimer, meeting his blue eyes. What he saw there made him glance down with a small sigh of resignation. ‘Yes. I think I understand what you’re saying, Chief Inspector. And of course I’ll do anything in my power to help.’
Lorimer lifted the phone and dialled Jo Grant’s extension. His DI was just the woman to make the Consultant feel calm enough to give a proper statement.
After Quentin-Jones had left in Jo’s wake, Lorimer dialled another number.
‘Glasgow Royal Concert Hall,’ the switchboard operator announced.
‘DCI Lorimer. Put me through to Brendan Phillips, please.’
There was a knock on his door just as Lorimer heard Brendan Phillips’s voice answering. The DCI was aware of Annie Irvine hovering in the doorway, her face crumpled into its customary worried look. Lorimer waved his hand in irritation, signalling the policewoman to go away, but much to his annoyance she remained, hand on the door as if in a dither of indecision.
‘I’m looking for Karen Quentin-Jones. She was at your rehearsal last night, wasn’t she?’ Lorimer swung his chair away from the policewoman’s gaze.
‘Of course. What seems to be the problem?’
‘I don’t know if there is one yet. Her husband thinks she’s disappeared.’
There was silence on the other end as the Concert Manager digested this piece of information.
‘Sorry. She was here last night, all right. Had to be, seeing she’s taken over as Leader. It’s in her contract. Do you want me to ask around, Chief Inspector? See if anybody saw her after the rehearsal?’
‘Could you? I can rely on your discretion, of course,’ Lorimer replied.
‘Of course,’ Phillips answered, both men knowing full well that Lorimer was telling, not asking.
Lorimer swung back in his chair. Annie Irvine was still waiting by the door, her impatience barely concealed.
‘OK. What’s up?’
The policewoman moved swiftly towards Lorimer’s desk and, putting her hands on the edge, sat down in front of him without being asked. Taking a closer look at her, Lorimer realised that she was seriously agitated.
‘It’s Sergeant Wilson. He’s at the Southern General.’
‘What?’ Lorimer was half way out of his seat when the policewoman waved her hands at him.
‘No. It’s not him. There was an accident. That lad he was after. The one he spoke to at the Royal Concert Hall. He was knocked down. He’s in a bad way, seemingly. Can you go down, sir? Sergeant Wilson wanted me to ask you right away.’
But Lorimer was already on his feet, pulling his jacket from the coat stand.
‘Thanks, Annie.’ He noticed her white face and suddenly felt guilty. ‘Don’t know how you put up with me sometimes,’ he added, patting her shoulder as he strode past her.
‘Me neither,’ Annie whispered under her breath, closing Lorimer’s door behind her.
Chapter Ten
Being dead was the biggest buzz that Flynn had ever experienced. There was an absence of pain, an absence of any kind of feeling in his body but a real burst of fireworks inside his brain. He’d not expected it to be so white or that the white could be full of such brightness as if someone had switched on a 1,000 watt light bulb in
