‘We have to ask everyone who knew Mr Millar about him. It helps us to build up a picture of the victim.’ Jo saw the man shift in his seat. The word victim always had that effect on the innocent and guilty alike.
‘What can you tell us about Mr Millar?’ DS Wilson asked.
‘What do you want to know?’ Simon shrugged. There was silence for answer so he continued. ‘He was all right, was George. A bit of a scamp, really. Liked to spread his favours, if you know what I mean.’
‘Didn’t you mind?’ Jo asked, a conspiratorial smile playing about her lips.
‘No. Not really. Everyone knew he was an old rogue. Only Carl …’ He bit his lip and stopped.
‘Carl Bekaert?’
‘Aye. Carl, the Great Dane, we all called him. Superb viola player but he took himself too seriously. Had a huge pash for George. Wanted to have him all to himself.’
‘But Mr Millar was married. Lived with his wife,’ DS Wilson put in.
‘Och, that was different. George would never have moved in with any of us. We were his boys; that was all.’
‘So there was never a serious relationship between Mr Millar and any of the male members of the Orchestra?’ Jo asked.
Simon frowned. ‘Not like that. I mean there’s serious and serious, isn’t there? You’d move in with a person if you really were committed, wouldn’t you?’
‘Tell me about Mr Millar as a musician,’ Jo said, switching tack.
‘Ah, now you’re asking something,’ Simon leant back in his seat, stretching his long legs out under the table, then leant forward again. ‘He was the best, was George. And I’m not just saying this because he’s dead. Why he’d never played with some of the big European outfits, I’ll never know. He’d been Leader with The City of Glasgow for as long as I can remember. Even saw him perform when I was still at school.’
‘What was his attitude to the younger players like yourself?’
Simon grinned. ‘I expect you want to hear if he encouraged us, made some guys his proteges. But it was nothing like that. Sure he hung about with the younger ones, but only in a social sense, like down the pub after rehearsals. He had great stories, you know. We all loved hearing the gossip about people he’d known. I suppose that’s how we became friends,’ he added.
‘And how did that friendship deepen?’ Wilson asked so politely that Jo Grant had to suppress a grin.
‘He asked me to come to bed with him.’
‘Just like that?’ Jo raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, we were both a bit pissed. Anyway that’s how it all began.’ Simon smiled down at the table as if recalling some detail from the past and shook his head slightly. ‘We had some good times. Never thought anyone would have it in for him. Never.’
‘He was a popular man, then? Within the Orchestra?’
‘Not with everyone. Some of the straight women disapproved of him, you know. He could be a right bugger at times, would wind folk up something rotten. But we just laughed. But, yeah, he was liked well enough by most of them. Can’t say there was a single soul who’d shown any animosity towards him.’
‘How did Mr Millar behave on the day of his murder?’ Jo asked.
Simon frowned as if trying to recall. ‘Normal. He was quite normal. There was nothing at all that I noticed that was different from usual. Honestly,’ he added, deliberately fixing Jo with his green eyes. She recognised it as trick to dominate a dialogue, one she’d seen Lorimer use often enough. But did that mean she believed Corrigan? She stared back at him then lowered her eyes. Let him think he’d the upper hand. Maybe it would make him more careless with his talk. He might have some inkling of how to assert himself, but Jo had been on enough assertiveness training courses to wear out the proverbial T-shirt.
‘Did you notice anything unusual at all that afternoon, or evening?’
‘Nope. We had a fairly horrible rehearsal, which is par for the course and everything was just as it usually was until George didn’t come on stage,’ Simon bit his lip suddenly and Jo noticed the tightness in his voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ she soothed, ‘we really do have to ask questions like these.’
‘It’s OK. It’s just getting it to sink in, you know? I don’t think any of us have really realised that he’s not coming back. It’s like Karen’s just filling in while he’s sick, or something.’
‘I understand. Well, thanks for coming in. If there’s anything else we want to ask you or indeed if there’s anything you remember that you might think useful, any little thing at all,’ Jo smiled, ‘please call us.’ She stood up and offered the musician her hand. Held in hers for a moment, Simon Corrigan’s hand felt like a wet fish, bony and sweaty. The musician drew it away suddenly. Mr Cool’s cover had been blown and he knew it.
Jo watched him from the upper window, crossing the street and heading off into town, the wind tousling that fine red-gold hair. His shoulders were hunched against the cold but suddenly he straightened up as if he’d caught sight of somebody coming towards him. Jo moved into the corner of the window, straining to see the figure approaching. She noted the laconic walk and the handsome face before the two men met together on the pavement. Their sudden embrace made the Detective Inspector step back instinctively but she continued to watch as the two men clasped one another tightly then broke apart.
When he looked back towards the building he had so recently left, Jo Grant could see that Simon Corrigan’s face expressed quite a different mood, now. And, had she been asked, she would have described it as triumphant.
Chapter Six
He was dreaming about Christmas. The tree lights had just been switched on and he could see his Dad’s face reflected in the glow from all the different coloured lanterns. He wasn’t allowed to touch any of the bulbs but the tree ornaments were a different matter. They were the same ones every year; the wee sailing boat that had long since lost any of its paint, the crimson and gold glass baubles, the box of tiny wooden toys that had come from somewhere in eastern Europe and of course the Fairy with a gauzy kind of skirt that Mum replaced year by year. There was something reassuring about all the familiar objects. Lorimer bent down to pick up the streams of tinsel from the paper bag where they were always kept and then straightened up to meet Mum’s eye.
Only it wasn’t his mum looking back at him, but Maggie. And he wasn’t a wee boy any more; he was aware of being grown up now and Mum and Dad were both gone.
Waking to a feeling of panic, Lorimer lay seeing the people in his dream fade away as he reminded himself of the here and now. Maggie. She was gone too, but not irrevocably, like Mum and Dad. Was that why he’d dreamt it? Was he trying to hold onto her before it was too late?
There was sweat running down his chest and he wiped it away with a corner of the duvet. He’d phone Maggie’s mum today. Discuss the trip to Sarasota for Christmas. It was far enough away for him to plan some leave.
Surely this debacle in the Concert Hall would be done and dusted by then?
The socks in his bottom drawer were the old ones that had worn away in the heels. He’d meant to chuck them out long ago but had never quite got around to it. Now, pulling the washed out pair onto his feet, he was almost grateful for his own lack of domestic organisation. He’d have to do a wash today or else he’d be out of shirts as well. Tonight, he promised himself. He’d do it tonight. What with his earlier resolve to book the Florida trip, Lorimer felt rather pleased with himself. The dream of Dad and the Christmas tree lights flickered and went out as he whistled his way into the bathroom.
Under the hot spray of the shower his whistle was muted to a loud hum. It was only when he had begun to stamp his feet in time to the rhythm that Lorimer realised he was humming the ‘Anvil Chorus’.