The woman’s head came up and Lorimer saw the first flicker of annoyance disturb that serene expression. He’d rattled her cage at last.
‘Chief Inspector, I want to do anything I can to help your investigation. I do not know who killed my husband. Nor do I have the faintest idea who would wish to do something so evil.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening, Mrs Millar?’
The question took her completely by surprise, Lorimer saw. Her face changed colour as she immediately realised the implication of his words. He could be easy on her, tell her gently that he had to ask such questions, but something made him hold back from the softly, softly approach. This lady had an inner strength of some sort. Well, let her make use of it now. He regarded her as she swallowed the last of her coffee, noting how carefully she set down the mug on the table as if to conceal her trembling fingers. She saw his gaze and hastily drew her hands away out of sight.
‘I was here. I spent the evening on my own. I don’t think anyone can verify that,’ she gave a shaky little laugh, ‘unless somebody upstairs heard me playing the piano.’
‘We can look into that,’ he told her sombrely. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your husband, something about his habits, his personality. It helps to have a picture of the victim when we’re conducting a murder inquiry.’ Mrs Millar gave a small, involuntary sigh and raised her eyebrows again.
‘George was a homosexual, but I suppose you know that by now. He came out a few years ago so it was no secret. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was, in fact I think he enjoyed being different.’ She paused. ‘You ask about his personality. He was an outgoing man, the sort of person who liked attention. He enjoyed an audience off stage as well as on. But he was totally wrapped up in himself and in his music.’ She paused. ‘George wasn’t a cruel man, Chief Inspector, I want you to understand that, but he simply didn’t think about other people’s feelings.’
‘Even yours?’
‘Especially mine,’ she gave a mirthless laugh.
‘So why did you …?’
‘Stay with him?’ she finished the sentence for him. ‘Hard to say really, though goodness knows I’ve asked myself the same question often enough. I suppose it’s because he never wanted to leave. He had plenty of lovers but he didn’t bring them back here. There would be nights when he didn’t come home. And I got used to it after a time. When we were together we got on rather amicably. Does that surprise you?’ she asked, seeing the policewoman’s bemused expression.
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.
‘George was never bad to me, though he’d been pretty hopeless in bed. Understandable once we knew why. But we got on. We were fond enough of each other not to mind.’
‘You don’t seem terribly upset by the violent death of someone you were fond of,’ Lorimer remarked at last.
There was silence as Mrs Millar regarded him. She seemed to be searching for a reply then her eyes dropped from his gaze as she said, ‘Perhaps it hasn’t really sunk in yet.’
Lorimer drained the last of his coffee. She could have been equally blunt in her response but had chosen to be polite instead.
‘Thanks,’ he said, handing her the empty mug. ‘I’d be grateful if you did have a word with these neighbours of yours upstairs. Just so they can verify that you were in last night.’ Lorimer spoke the words more kindly than he had intended, trying to assuage the guilt he felt at his previous accusation. It wasn’t, after all, a crime to behave inappropriately at the sudden death of your husband. Still, it would keep him wondering about George Millar’s widow for some time to come.
As she closed the door Lorimer lingered on the top step, listening for any hint of anguish from within, even a groan of relief that he’d gone. But there was nothing like that.
Once again he found himself wishing for the familiar sight of the bearded psychologist, his perceptive eyes twinkling behind those horn-rimmed glasses. What would Solomon Brightman make of this woman and her strange reactions? he mused.
By the time they’d reached the street again the melody from the grand piano could be heard once more and Lorimer could have sworn that the newly bereaved Mrs Millar had taken up exactly where she’d left off.
Chapter Five
Simon Corrigan found he was shivering despite the warmth of the room. He’d even had to draw his leg away from the radiator by the table where he’d sat waiting for something to begin. At first it had been a matter of routine, like giving his name and address to the officers the night George had been killed. But now, in this small room in a Police headquarters, Simon sensed that he was in some danger.
Part of him wanted to believe that Scottish police were nice, trustworthy men and women; the ‘polis’ of his youth who would tell you how to get home if you were lost or got into trouble for kicking your football into an old lady’s garden. But then the polis of his youth had been country constables who’d helped them with their cycling proficiency tests in the playground at Primary School, not the hard-faced lot in the city of Glasgow that you saw on TV shows. He’d heard all sorts of stories about how guys got a kicking down in the cells and no apology afterwards. They knew how to hurt without making a mark for a police doctor to see, he’d heard. Simon shivered again and looked at his watch. How long would they make him wait?
Suddenly he felt angry. He was being detained against his will, wasn’t he? The scrape of his chair against the floor alerted the young officer who stood impassively, back to the door.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked as Simon stood up. His polite, deferential tone made the musician hesitate. ‘How long will he be? The Inspector, I mean.’
‘Oh, not long, sir. I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long. It’s always like this, I’m afraid,’ the constable smiled thinly as if he were taking Simon into his confidence somehow. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘No. Thanks,’ Simon replied, sitting down again, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. He was wrong. They were simply busy, that was all. His imagination was running away with him. As if they’d be wasting precious time deliberately making him wait; that was the stuff of TV dramas, not real life.
He looked up as the door opened and a blonde woman entered the room followed by the Detective Sergeant he’d spoken to at the Concert Hall.
‘Inspector Grant, DS Wilson,’ said the blonde, waving a hand in her colleague’s direction as they sat opposite Simon.
‘Have you had a cup of tea?’ she asked, ignoring the beige plastic cup sitting between them.
‘Yes,’ Simon replied, holding his hands together to stop them from shaking.
‘Thanks for agreeing to come in today, Mr Corrigan. As you can appreciate this is a mammoth task we have here, with so many people who were friends or colleagues of Mr Millar,’ DI Grant began. She smiled at him as if he would understand that a policeman’s lot was not a happy one. Simon felt himself relax. It was going to be OK.
‘We’re really grateful that you could spare us the time. It must be awfully hard to carry on after this,’ the DI continued.
Simon mumbled a reply and felt his cheeks redden. So, they knew about George and him. He’d suspected as much. That cow, Karen, must have told them. He’d seen her swan off with the tall detective.
‘If I could just take down a few details. Sorry about all this. Red tape, but we need it all the same,’ Jo Grant was all apologies as Simon reeled off his name, date of birth, and current address.
Jo Grant glanced at the man opposite. He was a good-looking lad, with his red-gold hair falling forward over his brow. Green eyes, she’d noticed. Cats’ eyes with that measured look as if he were studying her just as she was trying to study him. But wary, too, though he was visibly relaxing now that the preliminary stuff was out of the way. He’d become almost chatty, telling them about his early career and what he hoped to do in the future. Enthusiastic, too, she had liked that. But it was time to slip in the odd reference to a murdered man, to remind them all just why Simon Corrigan, French horn player with the City of Glasgow Orchestra, was sitting opposite two police officers.