position, leaving Simon’s wrist free against the pillow. He propped himself up and gazed at his companion sleeping by his side. The red-gold hair had fallen back from his face. In sleep he looked like a child, his lips slightly parted, the pale blue veins of his eyelids so delicate, so very vulnerable that Chris wanted to reach out with his finger and trace each tiny line.
Simon had clung to him with such passion tonight, his moans interspersed with avowals of love that Chris, to his astonishment, had felt embarrassed to hear.
But why? a little voice asked him now as he saw the tiny rise and fall of Simon’s chest. Surely this was just what he’d wanted, to be cherished like this?
Simon had felt soiled after the routine tests had been done, he’d told him. They’d been larking around in the shower when he’d suddenly become serious and started complaining about the police procedure. ‘It’s a bit of me,’ he’d protested to Chris, ‘they’ve got something of mine and of yours. Something that’s going to be on a file somewhere for the rest of our lives,’ he’d raged. It had taken Chris some time to calm him down, but afterwards they’d slipped between the silken sheets and that anger had been translated into quite a different passion.
Had he done it deliberately, wondered Chris? Had his lover’s raging been quite intentional, working himself up into a frenzy that could spend itself against his own unresisting body?
Chris sighed. Love was so complicated. He’d never understand it and he wasn’t at all sure that Simon Corrigan would, either. He’d flown into a fury when Chris had refused to stay in Glasgow over Christmas.
‘I want to be with my mum because I love her,’ he’d explained with a simple innocence that had seemed to provoke Simon.
‘What about our love?’ had been the defiant rejoinder.
Chris had not answered him then and he was unsure if he could answer him now. Was what he felt for the man slumbering at his side truly love? Or was it an outpouring of some other emotion? Sometimes, as tonight, it felt like some selfish, primeval force that shuddered through his loins leaving him weak and dazed, its monstrous strength overcoming his very reason.
Loving George had been so different. There he had felt safe and secure, pampered almost by the older man. George had beguiled him, he knew, but he’d gone willingly down that road of charming seduction. They all had, he thought ruefully, remembering Carl’s tense face earlier that night, Simon’s outburst in the shower.
He was the only one of them who had maintained his usual easy control, Chris realised. Did that say something about him? Was he lacking in something? Tina certainly didn’t seem to think so, he thought, fondly recalling his friend’s flattering comments. A small frown creased his forehead.
Tina had not been there tonight though she’d promised she would be at the Christmas concert. Usually the girl came backstage and sought him out after a concert.
Maybe she’d known about the testing being done and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Or had there been another reason? Chris had wanted to give her the gift he’d wrapped up that morning, a glass musical box with Mozartian figures that waltzed around together in a storm of fake snow. It was totally kitsch but he’d thought she’d have liked it nonetheless.
Now he probably wouldn’t see Tina at all. He would have to get cracking if he were to catch that flight on Wednesday.
Chris looked back at Simon. He hoped they’d part amicably. His mind was quite made up now. There was no way he was going to stay here. After tonight his life might become increasingly complicated and it was time to bring certain things to an end.
Lorimer sat by the window gazing out at the pinpoints of stars that pierced the darkness. It would be night time in Florida too, he reckoned, almost eight o’clock on a Sunday evening.
Maggie had been invited to a colleague’s home for a festive dinner, she’d told him. Lots of them would be there and carol singers were expected to show up early in the evening. It happened every year, she’d explained, her voice wistful for the kind of Christmases they’d never known. Even the Salvation Army had cut down its activities in Glasgow following an outbreak of thuggish violence towards the bands’ traditional Christmas offerings. That didn’t happen in America, Maggie had assured him firmly. Over there folk could leave out a host of decorations and Christmas lights and no one would dream of touching let alone vandalising them.
Lorimer made a face to the reflection in the glass. What else would be better over there? Would he be bombarded with comparisons the whole time or would his wife have any longings at all for Scotland?
The Christmas concert at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had made him proud of the City of Glasgow Orchestra and Chorus. Even Brendan Phillips had beamed his delight at the final encore. He’d watched and listened to the second half of the programme from the wings, standing by the Orchestra Manager as the Orchestra and singers had filled the hall with familiar music. Echoes of the traditional carols had flowed round the auditorium like shadows from the past, shadows of sounds. Even in the silence of this early hour, Lorimer could still hear their cadences in his head. George Millar would have played these tunes year in, year out, Karen by his side, he mused. As he stood there, Lorimer had the feeling that their music was still going on somewhere out of sight, behind a blanket of darkness.
Suddenly Lorimer drew the curtains across the window shutting out the stars. It was up to him to silence these faint echoes, if he only could.
Carl Bekaert twitched the window blind. They were still there, then, those policemen in their unmarked car, watching and waiting. The Dane’s lip trembled as he let the blind fall. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Hadn’t he suffered enough already? There was no George to comfort him any more and even that arrogant dealer, Seaton, had become unavailable to him.
Carl had not dared to seek out any sources of cocaine while he knew he was being so closely watched. His mouth pursed in a grim line as he realised the irony. He needed a line and he needed it badly. But all the usual sources were closed to him because of Karen’s death. She had been a thorn in his flesh while she’d lived and now it was as if she was taunting him from beyond the grave. The whole night he’d tossed and turned, snatches of the Christmas programme coming and going in his fitful sleep.
Suddenly Carl heard the rumblings of an early morning dustcart from the next street. In a matter of minutes it would be outside his close, blocking the car across the road from view. The germ of an idea growing in his head, Carl grabbed his coat, stuffed some money into his wallet and headed for the front door.
The two detectives drew their gaze away from the flat as the dustcart rolled up to the close mouth, blocking the view from across the street. One of them stretched, clasping his fingers together and flexing them in front of him. The other yawned and blinked. It had been a long night but their relief would be here pretty soon. Then they could get some decent kip in their own beds.
The refuse collector nodded at the tall blond man as he hurried past but did not receive as much as an acknowledging glance.
‘Aye, an’ a Happy Christmas to you too, mate,’ he grumbled, pulling the wheelie bin towards the waiting vehicle.
‘He’s done a runner,’ Lorimer said, watching the pained expressions on the faces of his team. ‘Despite what Doctor Brightman’s profile tells us, I want Bekaert arrested.’
‘Do you think he killed them?’ Jo Grant ventured.
Lorimer scowled at her. What he thought and what he had to do were often at odds and she knew it.
‘We have to act on the evidence, Detective Inspector,’ he said shortly, ‘And right now the evidence suggests that Bekaert’s taken to his heels for some reason.’
‘But not because of the DNA testing being done today, surely?’ she reasoned. ‘He had a sample taken ages ago and it hasn’t shown any significant match.’
Lorimer sighed deeply. ‘Look, just find him and bring him in, OK? He’s going to be charged eventually with receiving stolen instruments and being involved in this European drug ring. But tread carefully. When he’s found I’d like to know where he’s been and whom he’s been with. That’s if you find him at all,’ he added darkly. Right now he’d give a lot to know the whereabouts of the missing viola player and even more to know the results from the lab.
‘Look at this,’ Rosie lifted up two papers with bar coding shapes for Solly to see.
‘What is it?’
Rosie screwed her eyes up and held the papers out at arm’s length. ‘Evidence,’ she said in a tired voice.
‘Evidence of what?’ Solly asked, his head to one side, wondering at the lack of excitement in her
