Rosie’s latest report had shown the substance on George Millar’s fingers to be nothing more sinister than resin from his bow. Lorimer supposed things like that were kept in the man’s violin case. The black duster, on the other hand, showed traces of a stronger adhesive than mere double-sided sticky tape. It was an industrial strength adhesive not usually found in the normal outlets like newsagents or supermarkets. Bostik 6092 had only one supplier in Glasgow. It was a place up in the Balmore Industrial estate, according to Rosie. Lorimer grinned to himself. It was tiny details like these that could be followed up and become promising leads in a murder investigation. The murder weapon itself had been wiped clean. Lorimer imagined a figure bending over George Millar’s body then placing the percussion instrument where it might easily be seen.
The detective’s grin straightened into its customary frown, the twin creases deepening between his eyebrows. Had that been a deliberate ploy on the part of the killer? Had he been trying to draw attention to one of the percussionists? Poliakovski had mentioned working with Cassandra Austen, the American percussionist. She might have known the famous conductor’s habit of closeting himself in his dressing room, certainly. But why would she have left such an obvious clue as the murder weapon behind her? No. He could rule that one out on the grounds of simple common sense. But what if one of the men in that section had been having a clandestine affair with George Millar?
Lorimer harked back to Karen Quentin-Jones’ statement. She’d told him that George’s two current boyfriends had been a French horn player and a viola player. But, according to his wife, the lead violinist had been a promiscuous old boy. Lorimer drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. The two men had already been invited in for questioning. Perhaps their statements might shed some light on whether George had been playing around with anyone else in the Orchestra. Brendan Phillips had provided a CV for them both, Lorimer remembered, riffling through the papers in front of him. There it was, stapled to DI Grant’s report.
Simon Corrigan was a young man from Fife who’d come up through the ranks of local brass bands, going on to study at Glasgow’s prestigious Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. He’d been with the Orchestra since graduating, Lorimer read. Carl Bekaert wasn’t much older than Corrigan, although his CV showed he’d had experience of other orchestras before coming to Glasgow. Lorimer was puzzled. He’d still to meet them both, it was true, but he couldn’t help wondering what on earth these two young musicians had seen in an older man like George Millar.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and he looked up to see DI Josephine Grant. Lorimer gave a perfunctory nod. Jo had been one of Superintendent Mitchison’s officers and had transferred to their Division not long after the Superintendent’s appointment. It was a promotion they all thought had been Lorimer’s for the asking. But Jo Grant had been more than simply one of Mitchison’s old team, Lorimer reminded himself. He recalled the Superintendent’s blonde companion at his previous boss’s retiral dinner. She’d scrubbed up well, too, as he remembered. The long running friction between himself and Mitchison could extend to any of his acolytes if Lorimer let it happen, but so far Jo showed no signs of taking sides with either of her superiors. Nor did it seem as if there was any lingering relationship between the Super and Josephine Grant.
‘This has just come in on email from Dr Fergusson,’ Jo said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Thought you might want me to do something about it,’ she added as he read its contents. Rosie had underlined one of a list of George’s personal effects, things that had been taken away for forensic examination. It was the bow for his violin.
‘Strange, don’t you think, sir?’ Jo Grant was watching his face as Lorimer took in the fact that no fingerprints had been found on the bow.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his mind flicking back to the scene in Morar where George Millar had breathed his last.
‘Any ideas, Jo?’ he leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded her.
‘Well, obviously the killer had touched it and had to wipe it clean of prints,’ she replied, then made a face, ‘But why did they touch it in the first place? That’s what you’re asking isn’t it?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘Yes.’ His mind was racing with possibilities. ‘Listen, Jo, can you find out the exact length of that bow for me?’
‘The length? It’s about that long, isn’t it?’ she spread her hands, measuring a space in the air.
‘Maybe. Tell you what. See if you can do a little experiment for me. You won’t get that bow back from Rosie, so find one from Phillips and take it back up to the Concert Hall. You’re above average height, aren’t you?’
‘Five foot nine and a half in my bare feet,’ she answered, a mystified expression crossing her face. ‘Why?’
‘Let’s say for the sake of argument that our killer was your height. See if you could use the victim’s bow to fix that black duster onto the CCTV. Hm?’ Lorimer waited for her reply.
‘Do you think that’s how the killer immobilised the camera?’
‘Possibly. It had to be done with something long and thin that wouldn’t get covered in adhesive. A bow might just have done the trick.’
‘Wouldn’t there be any traces of the black duster on it?’ she asked. ‘I mean the horsehairs are so soft and fuzzy aren’t they? There might be something already there for forensics to see.’
She was sharp, thought Lorimer. They’d be looking for prints on the varnished wood, but there might well be traces on the mass of hairs strung tautly across the bow.
‘Get back to forensics, will you, Jo. It might even give us a vague idea of the killer’s height. Or at least eliminate all the wee guys,’ he said in a tone of mock despair that made the woman smile.
After she’d gone Lorimer sat back and thought about his DI. She’d come straight to him, no messing about. Did she see it as her duty to keep him informed of all the details? If Lorimer had got that email first, he’d have got on to forensics himself, thrashed ideas about with them or else worried away at the facts until they’d produced some kind of solution. Why hadn’t Jo done that? Was DI Grant trying to ingratiate herself with him? He knew she wasn’t lacking in initiative, he would say as much in her appraisal when the time came. Lorimer shook his head. He had to stop thinking of her as a spy in the camp. She’d come up the ranks on her own merit, even serving as an undercover officer for a spell. Her past association with Mitchison might be nothing at all. Perhaps she’d simply been a colleague he’d asked to accompany him to the dinner. Mitchison wasn’t married and never had been, to Lorimer’s knowledge. Perhaps he’d been wise enough to see the pitfalls of trying to establish a career and have a stable relationship into the bargain, he told himself, lapsing into a mood of cynicism. He was always immaculately turned out, thought Lorimer, ruefully examining the creases in his own shirtsleeves where he’d forgotten to iron. Maybe constant bachelorhood fostered the kind of discipline that he lacked himself.
Association of ideas took Lorimer back, inevitably, to Maggie. He’d have to get down to the Travel Agent’s soon, he told himself. Best phone the old girl, see what she had to say about it.
He dialled her number, a grin on his face as he imagined her response. Maggie’s mum was fairly predictable.
‘Hello?’ a voice answered. She never gave her name and number, something that Lorimer hadn’t had to tell her.