‘The actual performance is what I’d like you to focus on, if you will, sir,’ Lorimer persisted. ‘The first half of the programme when Mrs Quentin-Jones took over as Leader of the Orchestra. What can you remember about the quality of the performance?’
Maurice Drummond sat up straight and frowned, hand to his chin. ‘I’m not sure I can recall, Chief Inspector. There was nothing really memorable about the performance. Karen played the Albinoni beautifully and my singers were in top form. I do remember watching Poliakovski, though, because I’d never seen him conduct our Chorus before.’
‘He’s not a man for Choral music, then?’
‘On the contrary, he’s renowned for his expertise with singers,’ Maurice replied dryly.
Lorimer cocked his head. Was there something underlying the man’s words?
‘And were you satisfied he treated your Chorus well?’
Maurice Drummond hesitated before answering. ‘They were all pleased with their performance. I think they enjoyed having him conduct them on the evening.’
‘But not at the rehearsal?’
‘You heard, then?’ Maurice looked up as Lorimer gave a nod. ‘He gave them an absolute bollocking in the afternoon. Some of my sopranos were in tears.’
‘Oh? What exactly was the cause of the Maestro’s temper?’
‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Drummond looked at Lorimer accusingly.
‘Only that the rehearsal had been a bit fraught. Mr Phillips didn’t go into any details,’ Lorimer replied.
Drummond gave a sigh and shook his head. ‘The man’s a monster. All charm when it suits him, fawning over the ladies of the front row then screaming abuse at them if he thinks they’re not giving of their best.’
‘And were they?’
Drummond scowled. ‘Of course. But it was a rehearsal. I always tell my singers to save something for the actual night. I won’t have their voices wrecked just because some Russian Bear wants a sustained top C over and over again.’
‘But he was good with them on the night?’
‘Had them eating out of his hand. You should have heard them afterwards, positively cooing.’
‘So the afternoon rehearsal was put behind them?’
Drummond nodded.
‘You were in the audience before the concert began, that’s correct?’
‘Yes. Once the Chorus are on stage I make my way upstairs to the back of the Circle. Somewhere I can see all that’s going on,’ he smiled wryly.
‘There was nothing about the performance, maybe by one of the musicians, that you found unusual, perhaps?’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘An extra nervousness. Maybe caused by the Maestro’s earlier temper?’
‘Not that I recall. The band was fine. No jitters from any of them. But they’re all pros. Hysterical conductors are like water off a duck’s back to that lot.’
‘And no outstanding performers among them?’
‘Karen, of course. But I’ve already mentioned her. No. I can’t think that there was anything else,’ Drummond looked towards the carpet and bit his fingernail as if trying to run the concert through again in his mind’s eye.
As he closed the door on the two policemen, Maurice’s heart was beating loudly. Had they seen his hesitation? Would they have figured out that he was lying to them? And what on earth did they think an individual player’s performance had to do with George’s murder?
Maurice sank into an armchair. Had his concern for the Chorus deflected attention from the other aspects of the performance? He hoped so.
There was no way C. Maurice Drummond wanted his name linked to a particular member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra, someone who had held his undivided attention for the whole performance; especially during a murder investigation.
Chapter Eighteen
Superintendent Mark Mitchison put his hand to his stomach. The pain was worse than ever today, a gnawing that began in his gut and travelled all the way upwards like broken glass. Stress, the doctor had said. He’d thought it was just acid reflux at first and had prescribed the usual pills but they hadn’t worked.
Another spasm made him groan and lean over, clutching his stomach, just as he heard a knock on the door.
‘Sir!’ WPC Irvine crossed the room in double quick time. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as Mitchison tried to straighten up.
The policewoman saw the handsome face change colour from white to grey and watched, mesmerised as the man stumbled then fell forward, one hand clutched tightly to his middle.
‘D’ye hear the latest? Mitchison’s been signed off on the sick,’ Martha McKinlay wagged her head at Sadie as the two women finished drying the formica tabletops in the staff canteen.
‘Aye, well, that’ll please some of them. He’s no’ that well liked, is he?’
‘Och, Sadie, that’s terrible. A’ him that ill.’
‘Why? Whit’s wrang wi’ him?’
‘Collapsed in his office. Someone said it might be a heart attack,’ Martha’s voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Hmph. Well, we’ll see. Who’ll be taking over from him? Someone from outside again?’
‘Well, rumour has it that Lorimer’s been asked to be acting Super.’
‘That’ll no please him. He’s up to his neck in this Concert Hall case. He’ll no’ want tae gie’ that up.’
‘There’s no question of you being taken off this case,’ the Assistant Chief Constable told Lorimer. ‘You’ll still be the investigating officer as far as we’re concerned. But your time will be split between the two jobs, of course. Superintendent Mitchison has a pretty full diary,’ she frowned.
Lorimer watched the woman on the opposite side of the desk. She was older than him by about ten years, her fair hair short and neat, her face made up discreetly. Yes, Joyce Rogers was still a feminine woman despite all her experience in the Force. Some of the women became hardened after a while, the dark underside of police work showing on their faces. Had she been instrumental in Mitchison’s appointment in the first place, he wondered? If so, then this was the woman who’d rejected Lorimer himself for the job. He’d never know, and that was just as well.
‘How long is the Superintendent expected to be off?’ he asked mildly.
Joyce Rogers smiled thinly. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s suffering from stress and will be off until at least the end of the year. His doctor has told him to take a complete break and our own medical man has endorsed that.’
Lorimer nodded. That made sense. None of them would take time off willingly. So. The police doctor had had the last say. Mitchison must have gone off under protest, then. Lorimer wasn’t sorry. The man had been acting strangely for weeks now, behaviour that could be explained by his present illness.
‘He’s not the first senior officer to have succumbed to stress and he won’t be the last,’ Joyce Rogers looked Lorimer directly in the eye. ‘You’ve got your work cut out in the next few weeks, Chief Inspector, but that is no reason not to take the leave you’d planned.’ The Assistant Constable’s eyes twinkled. ‘We can’t have all our senior officers stretched to the limit. And I suppose Mrs Lorimer would be very put out if you didn’t arrive for Christmas?’
‘Indeed,’ Lorimer agreed, wondering just how much this lady knew about his domestic arrangements. Maggie would be more than disappointed. It would drive another huge wedge between them if he were to fail her this time. ‘Who’ll cover since Superintendent Mitchison won’t be back from sick leave before Christmas, ma’am?’
‘We’ve taken care of that, Lorimer.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘Just see if you can shed some of Superintendent
