The dregs of Flynn’s second cup of tea were cold by the time Wilson had finished with him. He’d asked him the same questions more than once. Who’d passed by the steps that evening? Had he seen anyone emerge from the Buchanan Street entrance? It was obvious to Flynn that they were on the lookout for a villain. Someone who’d had a go at one of the performers, he guessed; maybe it had been a famous bloke. That was what all the fuss was about. If his guess were correct, then he’d be one of the first to see it shouted from the news stands in the morning.
Brendan Phillips was still downstairs. Lorimer hoped he was in a fit state to be questioned but he’d have to wait his turn. Somewhere in this labyrinth the Chief Executive of Glasgow Concert Orchestra was fending off the Press. It was part of Phillips’s job but his boss had relieved him of that under the circumstances.
Slowly the detective walked back towards Morar. The black duster had been removed from the CCTV camera in the corridor, he noticed.
‘Hello again,’ he put his head around the door tentatively. The SOCOs were hard at work gathering fibres from various parts of the room. George Millar’s remains had disappeared into a dark zipped body bag. Already the dressing room had assumed an air of quiet industry. It was as if violent death itself had been swept away by the officers’ zeal. Jim and Rosie turned at the sound of his voice.
‘Anything on that black cloth?’
‘Something sticky this way comes,’ Rosie quipped, holding up the duster in its plastic envelope. ‘We’ll know for certain once it’s back in the lab but it looks like the stuff you get from double-sided sticky tape.’
‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied briefly, marvelling as always at the pathologist’s capacity for levity in the face of brutality. It wasn’t that she was inured to it; it was merely her way of dealing with the daily business of death in all its horrid forms.
The faint sound of music coming through the wall from the next room reminded Lorimer that Victor Poliakovski was still in Lomond. It had been judged that the Conductor could stay there safely until he’d been interviewed. Then, and only then, would he be free to return to his hotel for the night.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lorimer said. ‘Call me in the morning, will you, Rosie?’
‘Sure will,’ she gave a small wave of her hand before turning back to discuss some technical detail with Jim.
Lorimer stood outside in the corridor. The door to Lomond was closed but he could make out the sound of a piano playing within. As he pushed open the door, he recognised the Rachmaninov concerto at once, its runs descending in a tinkling waterfall of sound. Lorimer expected the sound to falter into silence but it continued even when he walked from the dressing area into the reception room where he saw Victor Poliakovski seated behind the grand piano.
Lorimer quickly realised that the Russian wasn’t ignoring him, but he seemed so totally absorbed in his rendition of the concerto that he simply could not see anyone in the room despite the mirrored wall in front of him. Lorimer raised his eyebrows. Some witness this one was going to make!
As he listened, he tried to put himself into the position of the Conductor on the podium, his back to the audience, his eyes on the performers.
‘What is it you want?’ Poliakovski’s voice broke into Lorimer’s reverie. The music had stopped abruptly and the Russian was rising from his position behind the grand piano.
‘Chief Inspector Lorimer, sir,’ Lorimer was beside him in two strides, his hand outstretched. Poliakovski shook it, a brisk up and down then gestured for Lorimer to sit on one of the easy chairs that were placed around the sitting room. It was, Lorimer mused, a very civilised way to begin a discussion about murder.
‘I’m very sorry that you’ve been so inconvenienced tonight, sir, but under the circumstances…’ Lorimer shrugged and smiled to let the man know that he wasn’t sorry at all and that he was merely being polite. He was a policeman doing his job. Poliakovski was a man who had been stopped halfway through his own evening’s work. Being a famous conductor didn’t come into it, for Lorimer.
‘So. They tell me the First Violin is killed. Here, in the room that is next to mine. And you wish to know if I had a hand in it, eh?’
Lorimer sat up. Was he joking? The Russian’s bearded face was inclined towards him, the eyes beneath the bristling brows devoid of any sign of humour.
‘I’d certainly wish to know that. If you did,’ added Lorimer, his eyes meeting those of the Russian. For some seconds they stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Poliakovski looked away first then sank back into the armchair. It gave a leathery creak that failed to mask his theatrical sigh. Lorimer still searched the man’s face with his blue gaze.
‘No. Chief Inspector. I cannot give you such a simple solution to your search for a murderer. I did not even know of the matter until the interval.’
Lorimer listened intently to the man’s every word, delivered in near perfect English. There were overtones of an American accent and only a trace of the sort of voices he’d come to associate with John Le Carre’s characters. But then he wasn’t big on Eastern Europeans of any sort. What he heard told him that this was a clever and sophisticated man. It remained to be seen if he was also a suspect.
‘As you say, sir, your room is next to where Mr Millar met his death. I must ask you exactly what your movements were prior to the start of the concert.’
The big Russian shrugged again, ‘My movements,’ he said slowly as if savouring the words. ‘My movements were not very much. I was in this room sitting down or standing up. There was no moving outside or a visit to the man next door.’ He smiled but the smile was simply a perfunctory straightening of his lips.
‘You didn’t realise that your call was later than usual?’ Lorimer asked.
‘No. I take no notice of such things. I do not wear a watch. I do not watch the clock. When it is time to perform, I will be ready. That is all.’
‘During the time before Mr Phillips came to escort you to the stage, did you hear any noise coming from next door?’
‘No. I noticed no noise. Here I have switched on the television where I see the Orchestra. I play a few notes on the piano, perhaps? Really I do not remember what I do in that time,’ Poliakovski sounded rather irritated by the question.
No cries of anguish coming at you from the other side of that wall, then? Lorimer thought to himself. He listened intently. There were no noises at all from outside Lomond. It was perfectly feasible that the Conductor was speaking the truth, that he really had been unaware of a murder taking place so close to this room.
‘How well did you know Mr Millar?’ Lorimer shifted tack deliberately.
Poliakovski raised his eyebrows, ‘How well? Ah, but not at all, is really the answer to that. I did not know this man until today. I meet him and I listen to his music. That is all. In fact I could hardly describe him to you.’ The Russian sounded both sorry and thoughtful as he spoke, looking down at his hands and turning them as if examining his nails for any flaws. Lorimer noticed, though, that his command of English was slipping just a little. A sign of strain would be reasonable to expect under the circumstances. And yet he struck Lorimer as a man with some reserves of strength; he was a big man, not just in his enormous physique. He would withstand interrogation more than most, Lorimer reckoned.
‘You are not familiar with the members of the Orchestra, then?’
‘Ah, but you are wrong. For me this is the first time to play with them here in Glasgow but I have met one or two of the musicians on my travels. The American lady in Percussion; she was in Russia with another Orchestra some years ago.’
Lorimer smiled as Poliakovski rolled the R of Russia. He sounded much more like his memory of one of Le Carre’s Cold War spies now. But the Russian was continuing.
‘And a fellow countryman. I forget his name. He is second desk horn. We play together when he is much younger.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Millar alive?’
Poliakovski stared at Lorimer for a moment, thrown by the question’s change of direction. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. I remember he was with the Orchestra at the end of our rehearsal but I do not remember seeing him again.’ The Russian frowned as if he was trying hard to think.
‘And after the rehearsal what did you do?’
‘I came here. There was some food brought in to me. Brendan, the good fellow, he sees that I am happy to be on my own with no interruptions until the concert begins. It is my way,’ he explained to Lorimer.
