his head. The sensation was of floating weightless in a sea of shining clouds. Flynn knew instinctively that this would go on forever. Eternity was here and now, moving slightly forward towards another light even more dazzling than the one he was leaving behind. It smashed against the optic nerves like molten metal and he felt the old sensation of screwing up his eyes against the brightness of the sun.
When he opened them the first thing he saw was another pair of eyes gazing down into his own. They were pale blue like a sky washed clean after a rainstorm and they held a question in them. Flynn was helpless in the blueness, his clouds of light melting under him as he answered the question. Yes, he was alive after all. Yes, he was here, wherever here might be. Flynn let the blueness wash over him like a blanket, surrendering to its strength, then a small sigh escaped him and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.
‘There was nothing I could do,’ Alistair Wilson shook his head in despair as the two men walked slowly down the hospital corridor. ‘He just took off like a rocket and before I knew it that van was screeching to a halt. It all happened so quickly.’
Lorimer gave a sigh and patted Wilson’s shoulder. ‘I know that and the folk that witnessed the accident know that but we still have to convince Mitchison.’
‘I suppose he’s got steam coming out of his ears, then?’ Wilson asked.
Lorimer didn’t answer for a moment, chewing the ragged end of a fingernail. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about this case. I can’t quite figure it out.’
‘Money, probably. The resources on this one are phenomenal.’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that. He seems to be on a permanently short fuse. It’s as if …’ He stopped as a trio of chattering nurses passed them by.
Wilson looked up, noting the thoughtful expression that flitted across his DCI’s face. ‘As if?’ he prompted.
‘As if he knows something about George Millar. Or Poliakovski. Or Jimmy Greer,’ Lorimer raised his hands and slapped them against his thighs. ‘God! I don’t know. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Imagination playing tricks on me. But I persistently get the feeling that the Super knows more than he’s letting on.’
Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Mitchison? No. I don’t buy that for a minute. He’s too goody-goody. Mr Do-It- By-The-Book. No. You just need a decent night’s kip.’
The two men turned out of the corridor towards the exit. Grey clouds that had built up all day were now leaden in the night sky. Lorimer zipped up his jacket against the blast of cold air that hit them as they stepped out of the warmth of the Southern General Hospital. It was the kind of wind that his mum had always described as ‘blowing off snow’. Looking at the weight of clouds above them, Lorimer thought she’d have been right. It was still only late October but it wouldn’t surprise him to wake up to a white world tomorrow.
The Lexus was parked beneath a street lamp. It had been hours since he’d left it there. Hours that had been passed sitting by the bedside of Joseph Alexander Flynn of no fixed abode, willing him to come back. The boy’s head had been swathed in bandages, his eyes two blackened masses. Lorimer had sat next to the figure beneath the sheets watching his stillness. The longer he remained the more compulsive it became to remain, waiting and watching. It was only when Flynn opened his eyes, screwing them up as if in pain that Lorimer knew he had reached him.
For a moment he wondered if that was what fatherhood felt like, that rush of protection for someone more vulnerable than oneself. Then the moment was gone and Lorimer knew it was time for them to make a move.
As he swung out into Govan road, Lorimer thought about Mitchison. Would he really throw the book at Alistair Wilson or would his Detective Sergeant convince him that there had been no dereliction of duty on his part? He remembered George Phillips, his old Super. Curmudgeonly, loud and sometimes irascible, the Superintendent had nevertheless dealt fairly with each and every one of his officers.
There would never have been this absurd feeling hanging over them, a feeling of uncertainty, as if every move made or initiative taken were somehow going to be judged.
For a time Lorimer had contemplated a move away from mainstream detective work. There had been a job going at Tulliallan for a training officer, but he’d never really got around to applying for it. He’d sent for details, right enough, but that was as far as he’d taken the matter. For now he was stuck with a boss he couldn’t respect and a job he couldn’t abandon.
Chapter Eleven
Solomon Brightman looked out over the skyline of Glasgow as the taxi made its ponderous way through the slushy streets. It was a view he had come to love. He knew this from the first time his heart had lifted on returning from London all those years ago. The train pulling into Central station had crossed the River Clyde and Solomon had seen the cranes, the hotels and the familiar spire of Glasgow University. That was the time Glasgow had truly become home to the man with the black beard and shining eyes whose exotic appearance did not excite remarks more provocative than, ‘Y’all right, pal?’ or ‘Aye, son, another lousy day, i’n’t it?’
Today was a lousy day, right enough, but it had begun with a gasp of pleasure as Solly had thrown open the velvet curtains on to a landscape purified by the overnight snowfall. His windows looked out over the west of the city above Kelvingrove Park and the graceful curving terraces that marched up from Woodlands Road. The morning had brought two new elements to sour his outlook, however; a light drizzle had turned much of the snow into a soupy brown mess and Superintendent Mitchison’s ingratiating tones over the telephone had ruffled his senses with an irrational feeling of disquiet.
Now the psychologist was heading into town to the Division where he was to meet Mitchison. Lorimer hadn’t been in touch for weeks but Solly knew about the murder at the Concert Hall. It would be hard not to know from the way the media was stepping up its interest, but Solly had information that came from quite a different source. Rosie Fergusson had kept him up to date about the violinist’s death from the start. She’d even suggested that he should be involved in the case, but Solly knew better than to offer his services as criminal profiler until he was asked. Officially. Superintendent Mitchison was one of those vexatious persons the Desiderata on Lorimer’s desk urged one to avoid. It was an irony not lost on Solly that the Detective Chief Inspector had opted to ignore the lofty advice that stared him in the face each day.
The cab swung away from the main road, spraying a fan of decomposing slush from its wheels. Solly leant forward as the vehicle came to a halt, ready to pay the driver. As he stepped out his feet slipped on the uneven surface and he had to grasp the door handle to save himself from falling.
‘A’right, pal?’ the taxi driver grinned from the safe interior of the cab. ‘Mind how you go, now, eh?’
Solomon managed a weak smile in reply and steadied himself. As he drove away from the kerb, the driver shook his head and glanced at the bearded man’s reflection in the rear view mirror.
Elsewhere in the city the early snowfall was still making its presence felt. The melted snow had created a steady trickle of water running off the Glasgow rooftops now that the winter sun had penetrated the early morning clouds.
It caused extra work for caretakers who were trying to clear the drifts from doorways and stop the drains choking with debris swept down with the sudden heaps of melting snow dislodged from the roofs above.
That morning the staff at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had to contend with another sort of misfortune than the scandal surrounding the late George Millar. The security guard noticed it first as he tried to flush the toilet downstairs. When nothing happened he listened for the familiar sound of gurgling in the pipes. What he did hear was a low rumbling noise coming from the ceiling. Neville put his hand up as if to ward off the noise then, realising the cause of the rumble, wrenched open the toilet door just in time before the gloss painted ceiling bulged like a naked, overfed stomach. He heard the crash behind him even as he bounded up the steps that led to the ground floor then a gush as water cascaded out of the burst pipes.
Like a tree whose trunk and branches are all that is visible to the passer-by, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall has hidden roots that penetrate deeply into the subterranean spaces. The water that fell from the pipes found its lowest level, as water will inevitably do, obeying the laws of physics. Puddles formed down in the dungeon, covering dark shapes then submerging them completely so that by the time the maintenance crew waded in there was a veritable lake of slimy water. Several bits of detritus bobbed on its surface, illuminated by the flashlights the
