another few minutes then let the telephone fall back onto its cradle. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Wilson had muttered, ringing off.
Lorimer whirled round in his chair until he faced the window. He’d deliberately cleared a space in his overcrowded diary to accommodate an interview with Christopher Hunter and now the violinist had had the cheek to postpone his appointment until tomorrow! Lorimer fumed. OK, he would be here for a few hours in the morning.
His plane didn’t take off until three o’clock from Glasgow Airport. But Hunter was taking a bit of a liberty!
Suddenly Lorimer’s mind went back to the Christmas concert. He’d stood in the wings, listening to the festive music. What was the one he’d found particularly moving? Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake Waltz’, that was it, he remembered. The string section’s parts had been especially poignant. How hard had it been for these professionals to make sad, sweet music so soon after the tragic deaths of their colleagues?
But was Christopher Hunter even aware that one of these colleagues had been his birth mother? He’d a mind to send a squad car round to pick the guy up and have it out with him now.
Lorimer’s shrugged. Och, he could wait. It would give him a wee while to nip round the shops at lunchtime today. Maggie deserved more for Christmas than a few hastily bought gifts from the duty free.
Lorimer grabbed the coat off its stand, putting his thoughts into action before he could change his mind.
The afternoon sped past in a whirl of activity, folk in and out of his office wanting signatures for this and recommendations about that. Annie Irvine had even ventured to ask for a donation to their Christmas night out. Lorimer would be well on his way to Florida, leaving his fellow officers to enjoy themselves, but he’d pulled a few notes out of his wallet anyway. Their acting Superintendent would be no loss to the Christmas revelry but his financial contribution would be appreciated, he reckoned.
It was after six when Lorimer finally dialled his mother-in-law’s number.
‘Yes, he’s fine. Settled in no bother at all,’ she answered in reply to Lorimer’s anxious questions about Flynn.
‘Did he like my present?’
‘The mobile phone? Aye. And he said to tell you he thought
Lorimer laughed. ‘Aye, that sounds like Flynn. Listen, could you ring him up, maybe? You’ve got his number. Ask him if he can take you to the airport tomorrow? Get a taxi and I’ll pay you back.’
‘Och, I can manage fine on my own,’ Mrs Finlay protested.
‘I’d rather Flynn went with you. Besides he wanted to see us off.’
‘I don’t have to ask what’s stopping you from picking me up, do I, William?’ she asked, her voice heavy with disapproval. ‘Just don’t miss that plane, whatever you do. I’m not going to be the one to explain to my daughter why her husband didn’t make it in time for Christmas.’
Lorimer put the phone down. He’d make a quick visit to the canteen for some of Sadie Dunlop’s home cooking then come back here to deal with the rest of the paperwork that had mounted up on his desk during the day. only then could he make it home to finish his packing. His glance fell on the red carrier bags leaning against his coat stand. He’d gone a bit over the top in Princes Square. Still, he thought, Maggie would love all that expensive lingerie. And how would she look?
A grin came over his face. Wicked, he told himself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Edith Millar bit her lip nervously. Should she have come here? It had been a moment of impulse, catching sight of her pale face in the hall mirror as she had been about to leave for the Mission, almost as if another person had suggested quite a different destination. Now all sorts of doubts assailed her as she stood uncertainly on the doorstep. A gust of wind rattled the few dry leaves left on the pavement and Edith glanced across at the railings that fenced off the swirling currents of the river Kelvin. She’d walked from Huntly Gardens across Byres Road and past the old BBC headquarters. Many a time she and George had played in studios there in the old days. But that was all in the past, she reminded herself. What she was doing here tonight was to make amends for that past, to try to salvage something for the future.
Glancing up at the light shining from the bay windows above, Edith saw that only one of them was without a twinkling Christmas tree, and she instinctively knew exactly whose window that was.
‘Come on up,’ he said, then pressed the buzzer to release the locked door. Maurice Drummond moved across to the window and looked down into the street.
There was no sign of Edith so she must be on her way upstairs. Sure enough the doorbell rang out its shrill note just as Maurice was heading down the narrow hallway.
‘Edith, how nice, come in,’ Maurice bent to kiss the cold cheeks of the woman who had been his piano teacher. She smiled up at him, drawing off her black gloves.
‘Hallo, Maurice,’ she said. ‘Have the police been here yet?’
‘You’d better come in,’ he murmured, ‘through here, into the lounge.’
Edith Millar’s eyes widened as she caught sight of the Chopin Etudes displayed on the open piano. ‘You still play, then?’
‘What made you think I’d ever stopped?’
‘Oh, Maurice,’ she sighed. ‘what did we do to you?’
Maurice Drummond frowned. ‘Nothing that I know of, Edith. And what makes you think the police have been here?’
‘But they have, haven’t they?’ She twisted the gloves in her hand. ‘I told them about Karen and you. About the baby,’ she added.
‘Edith,’ Maurice Drummond took her by the elbow and steered her gently into one of his armchairs. ‘I know you did. They told me.’
Edith looked up at him, a small frown creasing her forehead. ‘And you’re not angry with me?’
Maurice Drummond shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘They were bound to find out sooner or later, weren’t they?’
‘What about Karen? Do you still hate her?’
‘Oh, Edith, I never hated Karen. In fact,’ the Chorus Master said lightly, ‘I probably never stopped caring for her.’ He sat down and took the woman’s cold hands in his own. ‘There’s something else, though, Edith.’ He paused then took a deep breath, ‘Karen and I had another child together.’
‘What?’ Edith sat bolt upright, her hands pulling away form him. ‘Maurice, how could you do that!’
‘The usual way,’ Maurice laughed shortly. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the immediate look of disapproval in her face, ‘That affair didn’t last long either. Karen was too damn fond of her marital status to take any risks with me.’
‘You mean her daughter is …’
‘My daughter too. Yes, I know. I’ve known for years. She even called her Christina, can you believe that?’
‘But the boy, Christopher. You must have known who he was, what he was doing?’ she persisted.
‘Edith, what’s this all about? Just how much do you know about Christopher Hunter? You haven’t just come to ask me about my illicit love affairs, have you?’
‘No, Maurice,’ the woman said, her voice quiet yet controlled. ‘I’ve come to ask you about George’s affairs.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she added, ‘You see, I think I understand now why he was killed. And it’s all to do with Christopher.’
From the front room of Edith Millar’s home the phone rang out yet again into the darkness, its shrill insistence disturbing the silence. But no hand came to still the noise that jarred the dull air between the walls of the room. Eventually it stopped, the reverberation only a faint memory stirring the shapes of heavy furniture and the grand piano sitting sombrely in the bay window of Huntly Gardens.
