Shadows of Sounds (18 page)

‘Karen Quentin-Jones’ was the headline in bold at the top of Lorimer’s latest report. He’d continually been putting out feelers about the woman who had spoken to him on the night of George Millar’s death.

She’d been born Karen Scott, the only daughter of a merchant banker and his wife. Both parents were deceased now so there were few to tell him about her earlier years. He read the words on the first page, details about her musical background and early education: private school, year away, RSAMD then marriage to Derek Quentin-Jones. They’d had one child, a girl, who was now a student at the University of Glasgow.

The Surgeon had tried to be helpful, but Lorimer guessed that he had been selective in what he told the police. It was all just too much a glowing account of a talented young musician. Karen had been more than that, Lorimer knew, even from his brief acquaintance with the woman. There was a hard core to her that he wanted to try and crack, if he could.

Some of the older members of the Orchestra had added snippets of information to the stuff Quentin-Jones had provided but it hadn’t amounted to very much, really. What had she known about George Millar? Was she really unaware that her violin had been stolen and sold to her husband? Perhaps.

Maybe she was vain enough to take such things as her due. She hadn’t liked the First Violin, though, had she? That had been patently clear from her attitude and Derek Quentin-Jones had corroborated that.

No. There would have to be more investigation into her background. Someone somewhere must know why she had lingered in the Concert Hall after that rehearsal.

Lorimer cast his mind back to his interviews with the technical staff. They had simply left the music stands where they had stood ready for the next day’s rehearsal. And there had been no close circuit televisions trained on the stage. Lorimer thumped the report onto his desk. She’d been dressed for the street, probably just about to leave, so who had called her back? He imagined her standing somewhere in that labyrinth of corridors, violin case in hand. And why did they go onto the stage? Lorimer’s glance fell onto the red folder. His report was based on several officers’ work, their original typewritten sheets all crammed together.

Had they missed something? Mitchison had got them all into the habit of submitting neat copy to the investigating officer. Had something been left out of the hotchpotch of margin notes and post-it notes that covered their working drafts?

‘Mrs Edith Millar,’ DC Cameron said. ‘She was questioned
about the victim and gave some background information. I did have the impression she could have said more. She’s quite a funny woman, that,’ he added, his lilting Lewis accent understating what his boss already knew.

Lorimer nodded. Edith Millar was an unusual person. Maybe it was time to pay another visit. If only he didn’t have all of Mitchison’s stuff to contend with. A sudden thought made him look at the Detective Constable narrowly.

‘Fancy taking Doctor Brightman back there? Just to see if you can glean a bit more?’

Solly tramped by the side of the young detective, his feet having to make larger strides to keep up. The city was still in the grip of an early winter, bare trees thrusting their branches into a sky that promised more snow. The very air seemed to tremble on the brink of something momentous; not even a breath of wind blew the last fallen leaves from the frozen lawns.

Solly was between lectures and had only agreed to the visit because Huntly gardens was a ten-minute walk from his department. ‘Lorimer trusts my intuition, it seems,’ DC Cameron had told him with a self-deprecating grin. well, it remained to be seen if this Hebridean officer had a glimmer of the second sight or if they were simply wasting their time going over old ground. Mrs Millar would be at home, Cameron told him. She’d be expecting them. Solly looked around him intently as they turned from the street, noting the polished brass bell pull and the freshly scrubbed steps. Somebody had had the energy to make an effort, he mused. Was it George Millar’s widow?

Solly’s first impression of Edith Millar was of a sensitive
face framed with fine grey hair and eyes that looked directly into those of her visitors.

‘Come in,’ she told them and Solly found himself ushered into a dark wood panelled hallway then into a bright sitting room where a grand piano dominated the large bay window.

‘I’m Doctor Brightman,’ Solly told her, taking her hand in his. She was cold, he noticed, despite the warmth of this room. Perhaps she’d been outside?

‘Please sit down,’ she said, her hand sweeping towards a flowered chintz armchair across from a matching settee. ‘Some tea? Coffee?’

‘No thank you. we don’t want to keep you too long,’ Solly answered, his mind half on the class that would expect him in less than an hour.

Perching on the edge of the settee, Solly began. ‘We would like to ask you a bit more about the violinist, Karen Quentin-Jones.’

Edith Millar stared at him. ‘Yes?’ she answered, just the faintest hint of curiosity in her reply.

‘How long had you known her?’

Edith Millar nodded as if the question had been long expected. ‘Quite some time, Doctor.’ Solly saw her bite her lower lip as she hesitated. ‘You see, she was one of my husband’s pupils.’

‘You didn’t tell us that before!’ Cameron began to protest but the woman’s raised eyebrows stopped him in his tracks.

‘Nobody asked me,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been an issue. Till now,’ she added, looking towards Solly once more.

Detective Constable Cameron looked outraged and on the point of protesting but a gesture from Solly stopped
him.

‘So, did Karen Quentin-Jones come here for her lessons?’

Edith Millar shook her head. ‘We lived in Great George Street in those days. And the young girl who came for her lessons then was known as Karen Scott.’

‘Did you know her well at that time?’ Solly asked.

Edith Millar smiled at him. ‘I’m not sure if I did. I thought I knew her fairly well at one time, but then …’ Her voice trailed off. The woman sat up and cocked her head to one side suddenly. ‘How much do you want to know about Karen’s teenage years?’

‘Everything you can tell us,’ Solly replied. ‘The more we know the better we are able to understand the victim. And perhaps that will assist us in finding her killer.’

And George’s, he expected her to reply, but curiously the words remained unspoken.

‘Very well,’ Edith Millar folded her hands on her lap and looked down at them as if bracing herself for something hard. ‘Karen came to George for lessons for about three years. She was a superb pupil, the best he ever had, but she had an attitude, you know. Karen was an only child and rather indulged. I haven’t been blessed with children, Doctor Brightman, but I know enough about them to tell a spoilt child from one that is loving and giving. Karen, I’m afraid, fell into the former category. She was never a giver. Except,’ she broke off and glanced at Solomon. ‘She did give herself to a boy. But it didn’t last.’

‘What happened?’

Edith Millar sighed heavily. ‘Oh, dear. I never thought I’d have to tell this story to anybody.’

‘Go on, please,’ Solly nodded his head encouragingly.

‘Karen left to go to Bristol. She was away for a year during which time she had a baby. It was adopted and she came home again. I don’t think anybody else knew outside the family.’

‘And the boy? The father of her child?’

Edith smiled serenely. ‘A lovely boy. He was far too good for her. Quiet and studious, but with real charm.’ She lifted her eyes to meet Solly’s. ‘He was one of my piano pupils, a gifted lad with a place in the Royal Scottish Academy for Music and Drama all ready and waiting. But he didn’t go. Karen’s betrayal finished him.’

‘Her betrayal? what exactly do you mean?’

‘Oh, he wanted to marry her, have the baby. He was that type of boy, Doctor. A giver. And besides, he was totally besotted. Not like Karen. She ended it all and left. The bitter irony was that she came back to Glasgow and waltzed straight into the Academy. Then of course she met Derek. And that was that.’

‘And the father? Is he still in the Glasgow area?’ Cameron asked.

‘Oh, yes, Detective Constable, very much so.’

Solly smiled at her. He’d expected that answer. There was more than a teacher’s warmth in her description of her piano pupil. This was someone who might still be close.

‘A name would be helpful,’ he nodded.

Solly watched as the woman’s dark eyes filled with tears.

‘Maurice Drummond,’ she whispered, then, covering her eyes with her hands, Edith Millar began to sob.

Lorimer whistled as DC Cameron related Edith Millar’s story.

‘OK. Let’s see what Drummond’s got to say about all that. Not mentioning his relationship with the murder victim is worth a bit more probing, don’t you think?’ Lorimer had already reached for his jacket when he remembered his new status. An acting Superintendent couldn’t just waltz out of the building on a whim to interview somebody. He let the jacket slide onto the back of the chair.

‘D’you want Drummond brought in?’ Cameron asked, swiftly interpreting his boss’s action. Lorimer chewed his lip. Did he? Maybe a quick visit after office hours might be better.

‘No. Leave it with me. I want time to think about this first.’

Cameron’s face closed. He’d hoped for an immediate command to interview the Chorus Master himself, but evidently it was not to be. Catching sight of his officer’s
expression, Lorimer reminded himself of just how far this young policeman had progressed since being transferred to CID.

‘Well done, by the way. We’d not have got this far if you hadn’t thought of Edith Millar’s reticence.’

After Cameron had left, Lorimer sat, chin propped into his fingertips, pondering his next move. Would it profit the case to rake up Karen’s past? Perhaps.

One question that certainly required an answer was what sort of relationship had existed between Maurice Drummond and Karen Quentin-Jones in their grown-up lives? Had that earlier animosity rankled between them? Casting his mind back, Lorimer could not recall anything adverse that Drummond had said about the dead woman. On the contrary, he’d been fulsome in his praise of her playing the night of George Millar’s murder. Had their affair resumed, then? And what, if anything, did the Surgeon know about his wife’s teenage pregnancy?

Lorimer looked at the clock. There were hours to go before he could leave, with meetings that he couldn’t duck out of. Blast Mitchison! For once the DCI heartily wished his senior colleague back in his own office, building his little empire. Then at least Lorimer could pursue this new information to his heart’s content. The telephone rang, intruding in his thoughts and signalling a resumption of his other, temporary duties.

Lorimer parked the car under the trees that lined the river Kelvin. Maurice Drummond had chosen a quiet area in which to live, yet it was only a short walk to the bustling activity of the West End.

‘Well, his light’s on anyway,’ he remarked to Solly,
looking up at the bay windowed lounge. ‘Seems our Chorus Master is at home.’

As the two men stood waiting for a reply to the security buzzer, a cyclist wobbled to a halt below them then heaved his bicycle up the short flight of steps to the doorway.

‘Going in?’ the young man asked them, inserting his key into the lock.

‘Aye,’ Lorimer replied shortly. This was answered by a curious once up-and-down look from the cyclist.

Apparently deciding that the tall man and his bearded companion posed no threat, he pushed open the door and wheeled his cycle into the cavernous hallway.

‘Thanks,’ Lorimer said as he headed for the main stair that led to Maurice Drummond’s flat.

Solly’s nod and smile appeared to disquiet the young man more than Lorimer’s brusque manner, for he stood staring after them as they turned the angle of the stone staircase until their footsteps had faded away.

‘Mr Drummond. Good evening,’ Lorimer smiled as the Chorus Master opened his door.

Caught unawares, a flicker of something akin to fear crossed Maurice Drummond’s face as he saw the two men standing on his doorstep. Interesting, thought Solly. Does he think we’re here to arrest him? He watched carefully as Lorimer made the necessary introductions, smiling politely and extending his hand to the man whose evening they were about to interrupt so rudely. Drummond regained his composure quite quickly, but there was still that wariness that told Solly something: here was a man with secrets to hide.

‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’ Drummond asked, waving them into the big sitting room with its
grand piano. ‘Please sit down,’ he added.

‘Thanks,’ Lorimer replied, unbuttoning his coat and laying it across the piano stool. Solly followed the Chorus Master’s eyes, sensing his inner dismay at Lorimer’s small action. This was not merely a passing visit, then.

‘We’ve recently received some new information regarding the murder of Karen Quentin-Jones,’ Lorimer began. ‘Information that directly concerns you, Mr Drummond.’

Maurice Drummond’s face was suddenly drawn as he sat down facing his two visitors, yet he continued to look straight at Lorimer, caught by the policeman’s gaze almost like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car. He sat still and silent, moistening his lips with the edge of his tongue. Lorimer waited for a moment before continuing, increasing the man’s discomfiture.

‘We have been told that you and Mrs Quentin-Jones had an affair some time ago. Is that correct, sir?’

Maurice Drummond blinked as if he had been struck. ‘Yes. It’s true,’ he whispered. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Edith Millar told us.’

An expression of relief instantly transformed the Chorus Master’s face and he sank back into his chair. ‘Oh. That. But you can’t seriously consider one youthful indiscretion has any consequences so many years down the line?’ he scoffed.

Solly smiled. How much human behaviour revealed of itself, he thought.

‘But perhaps that wasn’t your only indiscretion, Mr Drummond?’ he suggested quietly. He could sense Lorimer’s eyes turning his way, and knew without looking that the policeman was frowning at him. But it was
Maurice Drummond’s eyes he wanted to see and they were once more full of anxiety. Then, dropping his gaze, he shook his head.

‘No, it wasn’t’ he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion.

‘Tell us how it all began again, would you, sir?’ Solly asked politely.

Drummond’s mouth tightened as he sought to regain his composure.

‘I hadn’t seen Karen for years,’ he began. ‘Not since, well you know about her trip down south. Oh, she had our child, right enough. He was given up for adoption. But you’ll have had all the details from dear Edith,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyhow, I met Karen again by chance. She was married to that prat, Quentin-Jones, and had just begun to play with the City of Glasgow. I was accompanying a soloist who was doing a one-off concert with them. We got talking afterwards and, well, one thing led to another,’ he finished lamely.

‘So you resumed your relationship?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Yes. But it didn’t last all that long. A year at the most,

I’d say.’

‘Who broke it off?’

‘She did. I expect the novelty of cheating on her husband had worn off. She became the dutiful little wife again and settled down to family life.’ Drummond passed a hand across his brow, ‘Look, that was nearly twenty years ago. We didn’t remain lovers, in fact we didn’t even remain friends. But I had no reason to kill her, you have to believe me!’

‘Nobody has accused you of her murder, Mr Drummond,
but any new information that comes to light has to be taken into consideration. Surely you realise that?’ Lorimer said.

‘Did Mr Quentin-Jones ever know of your relationship with his wife?’ Solly asked.

Drummond frowned. ‘Not so far as I’m aware. I doubt very much if Karen ever admitted her infidelity. That wouldn’t have been her style at all.’

‘And the earlier affair? When you were younger?’ Lorimer continued.

‘No. I’m certain she never told a soul. It was something she seemed to be thoroughly ashamed of. Karen was a person who liked to be in control, Chief Inspector. That youthful lapse was not something she’d have liked to acknowledge to anyone.’

‘Even her husband?’

‘Especially her husband. The man thought the sun rose and set on his wife. There was no way Karen was going to spoil that illusion.’

‘But Edith Millar knew so presumably George Millar also knew about it?’

Maurice Drummond gave a shrug. ‘If he did know he never referred to it. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but George could be a nasty old queen when he wanted to. He’d have enjoyed tormenting Karen with a juicy titbit like that. So, no, I’m sure Edith never told him about us.’

Lorimer’s head was spinning with possibilities. Could Karen Quentin-Jones have murdered her lead violin to shut him up? Was this a case of blackmail rearing its ugly head? He could quite easily imagine the late Leader of the Orchestra adding that to his list of misdeeds. And what of Derek Quentin-Jones? Was the man really unaware
of Karen’s past? A doting husband had been known to strangle his cheating wife often enough.

‘Where were you on the night of Karen’s death, sir?’ Solly asked quietly. He knew the answer already but needed to see the man’s reaction.

‘I’ve already told your colleague,’ Drummond said testily, ‘I was at the Concert Hall with the Chorus for their rehearsal. We have to fit them in around the Orchestra’s schedule. I was out front the whole time then I went home.’

‘You weren’t backstage at all, then?’

‘No. I even had my coat and bag with me. I’d come straight from work, like most of my singers. You said that could be confirmed, didn’t you?’ he turned to Lorimer.

‘Yes, the CCTV footage seems to corroborate what you say. As it does for most of the Chorus and members of the Orchestra,’ Lorimer replied slowly.

‘Very well then.’ Drummond stared at each of them in turn. ‘I think that’s about enough, gentlemen. If poking around in my dim and distant past has any bearing at all on Karen’s murder, which I very much doubt, then I’ll be only too pleased to have been of assistance, but now I’d like you both to leave.’

Maurice Drummond had risen to his feet and was positively glaring at them both. Why this sudden volte-face? Solly was curious. The man’s irritation had no clear focus whatsoever. Lorimer had complied with the Chorus Master’s request, however, and was gathering up his coat.

‘We’ll keep you informed of any progress, sir,’ he remarked pleasantly as Drummond pulled open the door and held it wide. Solly thought about offering his hand in
a polite gesture but one glance at the man’s face changed his mind. His smile and nod were rewarded with a scowl as the door was shut firmly behind them.

‘Well,’ remarked Lorimer as they stepped into the night once more, ‘we certainly rattled his cage and no mistake.’

‘I think we did rather more than that,’ Solly replied.

‘Aye. You fairly picked up on his vibes, didn’t you? So he’d had another fling with the victim. Says it only lasted a year. Says they were never on great terms again. How are we to know he’s speaking the truth?’

‘Are you going to ask her husband?’ Solly looked at Lorimer questioningly.

‘Oh, God!’ Lorimer groaned, running his fingers through his hair. ‘That’s not a prospect I relish, believe me. Quentin-Jones is beside himself with grief. Am I supposed to add to that by telling him Maurice Drummond had his wife in the sack twenty years ago?’

They had stopped by the car and were standing under a street lamp. Weeks of sleepless nights had taken their toll on this man, too, thought Solly as he regarded the lines etched cruelly around Lorimer’s eyes. Not for the first time he realised that Lorimer was a man on a crusade. He’d not rest until he’d found out who had committed these murders, and if they never came to light, then that would only add to his inner turmoil. He’s lonely, too, Solomon thought, seeing the bleakness in the other man’s face. And the pity of it was that the one person who could ease Lorimer’s strain was Maggie.