they had to stay in the hoose wi’ thon air conditioning on. Florida? Ah telt him he should’ve gone tae Millport. Saved himself a fortune, an’ all.’
Lorimer grinned in spite of himself as he took the tray back to his office. Sadie might sound like a pain in the neck but she had a heart of gold. Maybe there was something to be said for the blunt approach. And maybe she wasn’t too far off the mark, either. Maggie had already told him about the humidity that had hit her like a wall as she’d stepped out of Sarasota airport. Would he ever experience it for himself? They hadn’t yet discussed whether Lorimer would take the flight out there or if Maggie would come home for Christmas. There was the problem, too, of Maggie’s old mum. She’d hinted about seeing her daughter in Florida. Lorimer would have to take her out with him, if he decided to go there. What would the Yanks make of her? Like Sadie, Maggie’s mum was a self- opinionated old so-and-so who expressed herself often in politically incorrect terms. Lorimer loved her.
He was chewing on the last of his Danish pastry when the phone rang.
‘Hi there, it’s your friendly neighbourhood pathologist. Just thought I’d let you know the latest on your violinist.’
‘OK. I’m listening.’
‘Not a lot to add. A single blow to the skull caused fracture and internal haemorrhaging between the skull and the dura. There were pieces of bone embedded in the brain. The weapon caught him just above his right ear and I’ve matched the bruising with the diameter of the hammer. No prints on the weapon, though, as we thought. Funny it only took one blow. That percussion instrument’s only the size of a household hammer. Not such a big weapon, is it?’ Rosie asked.
Lorimer heard the note of curiosity in her voice. If she was thinking what he was thinking then his first impressions were probably correct.
‘You’d normally expect a whole lot of blows, is that it?’
‘Well,’ she began, ‘he certainly hit the middle meningeal artery with that first strike, though there wasn’t such a lot of blood about. I don’t think the killer would have had much to clean off. What d’you think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Lorimer began slowly. ‘Either he got lucky with that one strike or he knew exactly how to administer the blow.’
‘A big man would have been able to bring more force to the weapon,’ Rosie suggested. ‘And, from the position of the wound, it seems like the victim had started to turn his head towards whoever came up behind him.’
Even as he replied, the image of Victor Poliakovski came into Lorimer’s mind.
‘I think that we have a very carefully prepared killing on our hands. I don’t think George Millar was struck in a moment of blind rage, do you? By the way, do you have any results on that black duster?’
‘No. Not yet. But I’ll fax them through to you as soon as, if not sooner. Will that do you?’
‘No, but it’ll have to, won’t it?’ Lorimer grumbled. ‘Was there anything else? Anything under his nails, any fibres worth talking about, or haven’t they been processed yet?’
‘Nothing on his fingernails. And nope, no results yet on the fibres, of which there are plenty. I’ll tell you what, though. We found some powdery substance on his fingertips.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘No. Not that sort of powder. You lot have narcotics on the brain. It was blue, not white,’ she replied in a withering tone of voice.
‘Interesting. See what your lab. boys and girls can make of that, eh.’
‘Will do. Speak to you later.’
Lorimer put the phone down. Rosie probably hadn’t slept much either but she sounded a whole lot brighter than he felt. Maybe it was fresh air that he needed. There was a pile of reports expected later today from last night’s massive exercise. Hundreds of statements had been taken from the members of the Orchestra and Chorus as well as from everybody in the audience. There had been officers drafted in from other divisions to undertake the operation and already their files were being processed on computer.
He’d spent hours talking to Brendan Phillips. The Orchestra Manager would have to supply him with details of the members of the City of Glasgow Orchestra; details that might help him to focus on a reason for George Millar’s death.
Lorimer had not visited the violinist’s home; that had been a task undertaken by other officers. But he should really make the effort to go out and see Mrs Millar now, he reasoned with himself. If only he didn’t feel so exhausted. He reached for the mug of coffee. It was cold but he drained it anyway, knowing he’d need the kick of caffeine.
WPC Irvine scrolled down the list of names on her computer screen. She shook her head in disbelief as the names rolled on and on. How the heck did they get that many people on the stage? It hadn’t seemed that big when she’d taken Dad to see Shania Twain for his birthday. Something caught her eye and she slowed down to take a closer look. Funny. The whole list of musicians had been in alphabetical order until that very last name. Maybe he had just newly joined them or something? That Mr Phillips would know. It had been his list that she’d scanned in. Maybe she should mention it?
‘Irvine, the Boss wants to see you,’ Alistair Wilson drummed his fingers lightly over the edge of her desk as he passed by.
WPC Irvine rolled her eyes. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ she sighed, wondering what other task Lorimer had in store for her.
Outside the station the rain was beginning to spot the windscreens of the cars in the car park. Lorimer unlocked the door of his ancient Lexus and swung himself into the driver’s seat. As always, the feel of leather beneath him gave him a sense of comfort.
He was more at home behind the wheel of his car than in his own armchair at home, Maggie had once told him. And it was probably true.
‘Sorry, sir,’ WPC Irvine flung herself breathlessly into the passenger seat. ‘It’s Huntly Gardens. Number 39.’
By the time they’d crossed the city centre, the wipers were flipping back and forth as rain fell steadily. Lorimer needed all his concentration as he negotiated Woodlands Road with cars parked on both sides and pedestrians battling to escape the deluge. The policewoman sat by his side, keeping silent. Chattering to the Boss when he was deep in thought was never a good idea. Up Glasgow Street and over the hill he drove, crossing Byres Road, turning at last into the faded gentility of Huntly Gardens where George Millar had lived.
Lorimer had to park right at the top of the hill. The road was virtually a single lane due to the double parking, Huntly Gardens being one of the few streets off Byres Road that lacked a residents-only zone. As they walked back down, Lorimer found himself looking into the bay windowed rooms of every flat at pavement level. It was a habit of his to gauge what sort of district a person inhabited from the houses of their neighbours. He stared at a variety of window dressings; that hanging wind chime might denote a student flat, those crisply laundered nets probably belonged to a resident out at work and who needed a bit of privacy. There was a grand piano in one bay window with a metronome on top. Music spilt out from behind the fly blown glass window. Lorimer stopped abruptly, checking the address.
‘This is it, sir.’
As he buzzed the call button opposite ‘Millar’ the music stopped. A crackling sound emanated from the system then a woman’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, WPC Irvine, Strathclyde Police. We’ve come to see Mrs Millar.’
There was a pause then the same voice said, ‘Wait a minute.’
Beyond the frosted glass panel Lorimer could see a figure hurrying towards him. The door swung open and Mrs Millar stood regarding them seriously.
She was, he supposed, around sixty, though her black jeans and embroidered top gave her a much younger appearance. Her bare feet, thrust into a pair of Birkenstocks, showed purple painted toenails. Lorimer absorbed all this in one glance as he cleared his throat.
‘DCI Lorimer. Mrs Millar?’
‘Yes,’ she answered him simply. ‘Would you like to come on through?’
Lorimer followed George Millar’s widow through the hall and into the ground floor flat. She showed them into the front room. Lorimer’s first impression was of a high ceiling and lots of ornate plasterwork then his eye fell on the grand piano that sat dominating the bay window. Had that been Mrs Millar playing as he’d passed by? Could
