Sipping the whisky he’d been offered by a solemn faced waiter, Lorimer glanced around the room.
Brendan Phillips was in conversation with the Chorus Master when he caught sight of Lorimer. His beckoning finger and tentative smile were all the invitation Lorimer required. That Maurice Drummond was there under the circumstances surprised Lorimer. How would Quentin-Jones feel about seeing his wife’s former lover there? But, he reasoned to himself, as musical director for the funeral service he might be expected to put in an appearance afterwards.
‘Chief Inspector. This is someone I want you to meet,’ Brendan began. His companion tilted his head towards Lorimer in a gesture of politeness. ‘Maurice, Chief Inspector Lorimer. Maurice Drummond, Director of Music for the City of Glasgow Chorus.’
‘Actually Brendan, we’ve already met,’ Maurice Drummond replied dryly. He took Lorimer’s hand in a firm grasp. ‘I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of meeting one of Strathclyde’s finest today,’ Drummond said, dropping Lorimer’s hand like a stone.
‘No? Well we usually have a presence in such cases,’ Lorimer replied. ‘That Taverner was something pretty special,’ he said, swiftly changing the subject. ‘Well done.’
The Chorus Master shrugged. ‘He wrote it, I only hold the stick.’
‘Maurice, the Chief Inspector was asking me some time ago for your first name. I don’t think that’s something I’ve ever known,’ Brendan said teasingly.
A tiny frown crossed Drummond’s brow. ‘No, Brendan. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to you, have I?’ he said, his voice quiet, belying the obvious disapproval in his tone. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, there’s somebody over there I need to talk to. Nice to have met you again, Lorimer,’ he said politely.
‘Oh, dear, looks like I’ve ruffled poor old Maurice’s feathers,’ Brendan laughed, regarding the Chorus Master’s retreating back. Lorimer eyed the man speculatively. Had Brendan Phillips deliberately riled the man? And if so, why? He’d never come across as a particularly malicious individual; in fact he’d appeared quite the opposite up until now, anxiously solicitous for his musicians. But perhaps that was the answer: the choristers weren’t within his jurisdiction, were they? Was he beginning to sense some sort of rivalry between Orchestra and Chorus?
‘What does the C stand for, Chief Inspector?’ Brendan asked.
‘Well, if he doesn’t want you to know I don’t think I ought to say,’ Lorimer told him, his voice flat and even as though the conversation bored him, then drained the last of his whisky. ‘Better be going. I’ll be in touch.’
Lorimer made his way across the room to where the Quentin-Jones party stood, placing his empty glass on a convenient table without breaking stride.
The Consultant Surgeon saw him at once.
‘My condolences, sir, once again,’ Lorimer said, taking the man’s hand in a firm grasp.
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. It was good of you to come,’ Quentin-Jones replied, his words gracious enough, but his voice husky with emotion.
He looked suddenly older, the handsome face drained of colour. Lorimer guessed the man hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in the weeks since Karen had first gone missing.
He recalled the Surgeon’s guilt as he’d agonised over his purchase of the stolen violin.
‘If only I’d told her. If only I’d known!’ he’d cried to Lorimer in his storm of remorse. Lorimer had kept silent. How could he placate the man when his own suspicions were that Quentin-Jones’s dealings with George Millar might indeed have led to Karen’s death? Suddenly Lorimer regretted his impulse to follow the funeral party. Surely the very sight of the policeman was heaping anguish on the bereaved man. Besides, he should really be getting back to work.
Lorimer was almost at the door of the hotel when a touch to his sleeve made him turn. It was the girl with the long dark hair, Karen’s daughter.
‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Miss Quentin-Jones.’ Lorimer put out his hand but the girl seemed not to notice. She was looking at him in a distracted manner.
‘I just wanted to ask you. Will you find him? Whoever killed my mother?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Oh!’ Suddenly the girl appeared more agitated than before. ‘But how would you be sure that you’d got the right person? I mean … what if you made a mistake?’
Lorimer frowned at her, unsure of how to reply, wondering what had prompted the strange question.
‘Tina!’ a voice called from within the room.
‘I’d better go. Sorry.’
Lorimer watched as she practically ran across the room to where her father was standing then he looked up to meet the Surgeon’s gaze.
There was no disguising his expression of utter hostility. But to whom was it directed, to his daughter or Lorimer himself?
Pulling the door towards him Lorimer felt that Karen’s funeral had raised more questions than ever, not least about the relationship between her husband and her daughter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Play something to me, will you?’
‘Like, what?’
Simon rolled over onto his side, considering. ‘Something sad. Sad but not morbid,’ he added, qualifying his request with a grin that lit up his eyes.
Chris tucked the fiddle under his chin and paused for a moment, bow in the air, his eyes looking beyond the man on the bed and out towards the grey patch of sky framed in the window. Then he looked back fondly at the strings and began to play.
The strains of the music filled the room with their sense of unfulfilled longing as ‘The Dark Island’ reminded the two men of a people who had been bereft of their homeland so long ago. As the music trembled and died, Chris lowered his bow and smiled.
‘Will that do you?’
‘Ah, such sweet music! You’re a born romantic, so you are, Hunter!’ Simon teased. ‘All that Scottish sentimentality, it’s really got to you, hasn’t it?’
‘We learnt that at school,’ Chris told him. ‘Lots of the old pipe tunes were standard fare for violin lessons down in Bristol. That one’s always stuck with me for some reason, though.’ He smiled a secret smile to himself.
‘Thinking about when you were wee?’ Simon asked, watching the other man’s face.
Instead of replying to his question, Chris picked up the bow again and began a lively reel. He swayed from side to side in exaggerated sweeps, his foot tapping wildly on the bedroom carpet.
Simon leapt to his feet, clapping his hands and twirling around in time to the music, sending out the occasional ‘Heuch!’ The music became louder and faster as the violinist changed the tempo, jigs and strathspeys following in rapid succession until Simon fell, exhausted and laughing, back onto the rumpled bedclothes.
‘Oh, man,’ he said, weak with laughter and the effort of prancing around the room, ‘That was just what we needed!’ Simon sank back onto the pillow, one hand behind his head, his cheeks flushed and the red-gold hair clinging damply to his forehead. ‘The perfect antidote to a funeral,’ he murmured.
Chris Hunter turned away to put the violin back into its case.
‘Blast!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I need a new bow. This one’s a wreck. Look at it!’
Simon yawned and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Forget it. Come to bed. Brendan’ll get you something tomorrow if you ask him.’ He looked over at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, noting the sudden slump to his shoulders. ‘Wish you’d taken up George’s offer, now?’ he asked, a malicious glint in his eye.
‘Hell, no! I couldn’t afford it then and I can’t now. A new fiddle? Any idea what a decent one would set me back?’
