‘Hello. It’s me. Have you a minute to spare or are you rushing off to that hotbed of gossip you call the Senior Citizens’ Club?’
‘Och, it’s yourself, William. What are you doing phoning me in the middle of the day? Are there not enough criminals for you to be chasing in Strathclyde these days?’ Mrs Finlay sounded as if she was scolding him but he knew her well enough to tell when she was teasing.
‘It’s about Christmas,’ he began. ‘D’you want me to book a flight for us to go out and stay with Maggie?’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Finlay sounded lost for words, something that didn’t happen too often in her son-in-law’s experience.
‘I’m due leave. I thought we could go out for a fortnight. Ten days, even, if you thought the heat might be too much.’
‘I don’t mind the heat,’ she answered abruptly. ‘It’s just …’
‘I’ll pay for us both, of course,’ Lorimer cut in. ‘Just call it your Christmas present from me,’ he added.
‘That’s very generous of you, Bill. Are you sure?’ His mother-in-law’s voice had softened and Lorimer knew he’d done the right thing.
‘Sure. Leave it with me. I’ll see the travel agency later on today and fix it all up.’
After he’d rung off, Lorimer felt a frisson of excitement that was tinged with apprehension. He’d be going to see Maggie on her new home ground. Would she make him welcome? Or would her temporary teaching post in Florida be fulfilling enough for her without him? Those were questions he’d just have to leave unanswered until he saw her again.
Chapter Seven
Flynn hesitated before pushing the heavy doors open. The CCTV cameras would be recording his entry, but, hey, they’d record the entry of everybody who came in here, whether it was to go to the booking office or buy stuff down in the wee shop. You could even go for a pee if you felt like it, his mischief-making inner voice told him. Even as the idea coaxed a grin onto his face, Flynn’s other voice told him not to be so stupid. They could turf him out as soon as look at him.
The interior of Glasgow Royal Concert Hall looked quite different during the daytime. Flynn passed by the booking desk. He was aware of the woman behind the desk regarding him with interest so he took his time at the nearby stand, leafing through the stacks of flyers for forthcoming events. There were none yet for Celtic Connections, which was one of the few programmes that might have taken his fancy. All the Christmas stuff was there, though, he noticed. There were loads of carol concerts during December, many of them featuring the City of Glasgow Orchestra. They’d been playing the night old George had copped it, he thought to himself. Wouldn’t be a very merry Christmas for that lot, he reflected.
He sensed rather than saw the eyes of the woman behind the desk boring into his back so he grabbed a few of the Mozart by Candlelight flyers and stuffed them into his inside pocket. She’d try to make eye contact with him, Flynn knew, so he deliberately turned away and sauntered round the corner towards the coffee bar where he’d been questioned by the Busy.
It was nearly eleven o’clock and the coffee bar already had several folk sitting at tables sipping their cappuccinos. Flynn looked at the legend above the bar and rattled the coins in his pocket.
‘Pot o’ tea for one, please,’ he told the boy behind the counter. ‘And can ye let me have a pot o’ hot water as well?’
The boy nodded and turned towards the urn. He’d not given Flynn the once over like that wifie at the booking office. What was it she’d seen? He’d often been told that he looked like the big dreepy one in Only Fools and Horses. It was true that he had the same long face and woebegone expression. That had been cultivated to catch the sympathy of the punters, of course, but it seemed these days to be Flynn’s permanent expression.
‘Make a face an’ when the wind blows it’ll stick like that’ his foster mammy used to tell him. Well the winds of change had blown through his life all right. Maybe his face had stuck like that now, as if there was a deep well of anguish that rose unbidden to be reflected in his eyes. Another glance at the waiter told him it was OK. He was just another punter coming in out of the cold for a cuppa.
Flynn paid for his tea and took it over to the window where the rows of seats were padded and comfortable looking. He’d stay in here for as long as he could without risking curiosity. He looked around at the other people sitting in the coffee area. Some were talking in muted voices as if they didn’t want to disturb any rehearsal that might be going on in the auditorium. One guy was engrossed in the morning papers, his empty cup still on the table in front of him. That was a ploy Flynn had used before, especially in bookshops where they let you in to read stuff while you had your cafe latte or whatever.
He’d raked in a bin to find the papers the morning after the murder. It was all about the Russian guy, really, as if being foreign made him prime suspect. The papers were so uncool about foreigners, thought Flynn. You’d think half of them had never heard of the Race Relations Act the way they’d rumbled on about Poliakovski. It was the same with the footie. Our fans were the greatest. Tartan Army rules OK. The English were scumbags of the worst order, if you believed the sports pages. Flynn had seen running battles in this city between Scots fans of different loyalties, wee boys going mad because there was nothing else for them to get excited about. Then someone would bring out a blade and change the course of someone else’s life, or stop it forever.
George Millar, now, he was nothing like the big Russian from his photo in the Gazette. The Busy hadn’t mentioned any names that night. He’d wanted to know who Flynn had seen coming and going out of the main doors into Buchanan Street. Flynn could’ve told him other things, though; things that the papers might pay him for. That was partly why he’d come in here again, to think about it.
Flynn drank the sweet tea slowly, looking around him until his gaze fell on the pile of newspapers by the bar. He hadn’t clocked them when he’d ordered his pot of tea, but now that he saw them Flynn realised they were there as a courtesy for the customers. Maybe there’d be an update on the murder? Maybe someone else would’ve spilt the beans on old George before he’d had the brass neck to do it himself? He sauntered across to the bar trying to appear nonchalant, no simple task for Flynn, used as he was to the hostile stare of passers-by. Unease lay about his shoulders like a cloak. Nobody said a word, however, as he lifted that day’s Gazette from the counter and took it back to his place by the window. Even as he shifted his glance from left to right there were no accusing eyes staring in his direction.
There was nothing about the murder on the front page and Flynn rustled the pages as he scanned the columns up and down. Yes! There it was, a headline on page four and a wee photo of George with his missus. It was a better one than they’d used before although it was a lot older. George had more hair in this one. Flynn concentrated on the article. It was both a disappointment and a relief. They’d raked up loads of stuff about George’s musical life, like where he’d travelled with the City of Glasgow and the other orchestras he’d played with. There were even bits about recordings he’d made with his wife in some chamber orchestra or other ages ago. But there was no mention of George and his boyfriends. Flynn found himself grinning, and in that moment he knew he’d not be going along to see DS Wilson. Oh, no, he had better fish to fry.
The hot water jug remained full as Flynn left his seat and headed for the exit. He wasn’t cold at all now and a brisk walk up to the Gazette’s offices would keep him warm, for sure.
‘Jimmy Greer,’ Flynn said to the woman behind the desk.
‘Wait a minute will you, till I see if he’s at his desk,’ the voice that answered his enquiry was as broad Glasgow as his own but as she spoke into the headset her manner was quite different. Flynn had heard it every day of his life on the streets, a voice for the likes of him and a voice for those and such as those.