more. Being assistant warden in a Glasgow hostel would have given him insight into the lives of loads of folk, he reckoned. Joseph Alexander Flynn was just another client being dropped off at his wee flat.
‘Want me to come in with you?’ The man smiled suddenly. ‘Show you how the oven works an’ all that?’
‘Naw, I’ll manage fine. I’m no’ goin’ tae be cookin’ a Christmas turkey, ah’m I?’
‘Well, there’s always Christmas dinner down at the Hamish Allan if you want to come?’
Flynn shook his head. He had other plans for Christmas day. With a lift of his chin he looked at the warden. ‘Ah’ve already got an invitation, thanks anyway.’
The man shrugged. He clearly didn’t believe him. Who would offer hospitality to someone like Flynn?
‘OK, I’m off. But you can come down and see us any time. You know that. Right?’
‘Aye. Right.’
Flynn waited until the man had turned down the first flight of stairs then he inserted the key into the lock (his lock!) and pushed open the wooden door.
His hand immediately felt for a light switch as he entered the gloomy hall. Flynn dropped his two bags on the carpet and carefully closed the door behind him. The hall was a small rectangle with doors opening off on either side. He pushed open the first one on his immediate right revealing a small bathroom. A cursory glance showed him a strip of bare laminated floor with a bath on one side and a washbasin and loo at the far end. He pulled the light cord making the porcelain gleam suddenly under the naked bulb. Well, at least it was clean. He had a sudden vision of Lorimer’s untidy bathroom with its rows of gels and jars that his Missus had left behind. Och, it wouldn’t take him too long to clutter up his own wee place.
Leaving both lights on, Flynn raced through to the other rooms. He barely took in the tiny kitchen with its basic appliances and formica topped table in the rush to find his bedroom.
‘Jeez!’ Flynn skidded to a halt as he opened the door. Once the front parlour of what had been known as a room-and-kitchen, the bedroom seemed bigger than any of the rooms back at Lorimer’s own place. Flynn’s eyes travelled up to the high ceiling with its remnant of plaster cornicing then to the huge bay window opposite the door. In a few strides he was across the room and gazing into the street (his street!).
Govanhill wasn’t a bit of Glasgow he’d known too well up until now, he realised, watching the people in the street below scurrying past, their arms full of bulging carrier bags. Three days until Christmas Eve, Flynn thought, a shiver of long-forgotten boyish excitement making his arms all gooseflesh. Or was it the cold? He’d need to find out how to turn on the heating, he realised, his eyes falling on the gas fire. Maybe he should’ve let the guy show him how things worked. Well, he’d have Mrs Lorimer’s old bossy-boots mum here by lunchtime. She’d be only too happy to show him what to do.
Flynn turned back to inspect the room with its single bed, old wardrobe and squashy chair. The bed had been made up already and Flynn ran his hand lightly over the brand new bedding. He smiled at the cartoon characters leaping across the duvet. This wasn’t standard-issue-stuff — for-the-homeless, he thought, recognising Lorimer’s hand in the choice of bedding. Well, he might be on his own but he’d have Bart Simpson for company at night. Throwing himself onto the bed, Flynn suddenly laughed out loud, the sound echoing around the bare walls of the room.
He was home!
Lorimer heaved a huge sigh as he closed the file. There was something very irksome about leaving this case unfinished with all its strands still hanging loose. They’d done an enormous amount of work compiling facts and figures since that October night in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And what had they to show for it: a cocaine dealer with links to a vast European market and an expensive violin that could lead to the uncovering of an organised crime ring? Allan Seaton had offered names in the hope that he would have a reduced sentence when his case came to court. So far only Carl Bekaert and George Millar had figured as his customers within the orchestra itself. There was no doubt in Lorimer’s mind that the violinist’s drug habit had been funded by the money he’d made from reselling the stolen instruments. Seaton and Bekaert had both mentioned George’s sideline in their latest statements.
But was he any further along the road to finding the killers of the two musicians? Solomon Brightman’s opinions and Rosie Fergusson’s reports, for what they were worth, lay under the manilla folders piled in front of Lorimer. There had been eyebrows raised by the Assistant Chief Constable after the results of the DNA testing had proved so inconclusive but no criticism voiced. Yet, a little voice nagged in his ear. After the Christmas break would he have to return to face Superintendent Mark Mitchison and his sarcastic remarks? Or would a period of enforced sick leave have mellowed his superior? He doubted it.
Rosie had been such a wee star getting him these test results in double quick time, he thought guiltily. Just so he had the chance to wrap this case up before flying out to Maggie. And what had it achieved?
A young man named Christopher Hunter had suddenly appeared out of the woodwork as the illegitimate son of Karen Quentin-Jones and the Chorus Master. Lorimer clenched his teeth. It all seemed to come back to that damned violin. George Millar had received it from his source in Europe and sold it to Derek Quentin-Jones; Karen had played the instrument ‘like an angel’ as Poliakovski had recalled on the night of the Leader’s death and now, after its disappearance when she herself had been brutally murdered, it turned up again, only this time as the legacy to her estranged son. Lorimer glanced at his watch. Jo Grant would be at the hospital by now. would she find anything else out from the Consultant Surgeon or was he simply wasting more time and manpower? Hunter was due in any time now. Just what would his version of events be, he wondered?
‘This is quite outrageous, Inspector! After what I’ve experienced is it too much to expect some common decency from the police or does the season of goodwill pass you people by?’ The Surgeon thundered down the hospital corridor, Jo Grant matching his long-legged stride with her own. ‘In here,’ he snapped suddenly, coming to a stop outside his consulting room. Jo entered the room, aware of the man’s instinctive courtesy as he held open the door for her. How many women had entered that room, trembling, with the handsome consultant smiling reassurance at them, she wondered? They’d certainly not been subjected to that look on his face. Right now Derek Quentin-Jones was not a happy man.
‘I have already spoken to Chief Inspector Lorimer this morning!’ he exclaimed, then seeing that Jo Grant was not prepared to budge, added, ‘I can give you ten minutes. I’ve a waiting room of patients to see,’ he snapped, waving a hand in the direction of the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Jo sat down and began immediately. ‘You must have realised we’d want to ask you more about Christopher Hunter and Christina Quentin-Jones, sir,’ she said, watching the man’s face flinch as she spoke their names. ‘We would like to know how long it has been since you were aware of their paternity.’
The Surgeon looked at her stupidly then leant forward. ‘What are you really asking, Inspector? If I murdered my wife in a fit of jealous rage? Hardly possible given I was in the operating theatre at the time.’
Jo Grant’s face remained impassive. ‘When did you know about your wife’s affairs, sir?’ she repeated.
Quentin-Jones sank back into his seat and folded his hands, more to keep them in control, Jo guessed, seeing their reddened fingertips.
‘I knew my wife had not been faithful to me. I discovered this fact about nine, no, ten years ago,’ he began. ‘I’d had a minor medical problem that led me to discover my own infertility.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Karen had already given me details of her early pregnancy some years after we were married. Can’t remember why she did, but it didn’t seem to matter much until …’
‘Until you knew Tina couldn’t have been your own child?’ Jo finished for him.
The Surgeon nodded. ‘I put the matter behind us. We’ve been happy enough together since then.’ He paused then corrected himself slowly ‘we were happy enough together. There didn’t seem any reason not to trust my wife.’
Once you’d had her checked out by a private investigator, Jo told herself silently, wondering about the barely concealed anger in the man across the desk. Could he have simmered for years about her infidelity and suddenly snapped? Somehow she doubted it.
‘When were you aware that Mr Hunter was your wife’s son?’
‘When I received the will from her solicitor,’ he replied simply. ‘until that moment I had no inkling whatsoever that the young man was anything other than a musical colleague of my wife.’
‘Can you give me your honest opinion of Mr Hunter’s character?’ Jo asked suddenly.
Quentin-Jones smiled sadly. ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I thought he was a thoroughly nice young man.’ He looked shrewdly at Jo. ‘Am I to be proved wrong in my estimation, Inspector?’
‘He said what?’ Lorimer’s jaw dropped in amazement as Alistair Wilson’s words sank in. He listened for
