‘Have you an appointment?’ she asked him. Flynn was ready for this. He’d prepared his patter on the way over from the Concert Hall.
‘It’s to do with George Millar. Tell him his son’s here.’ Flynn waited as she relayed the message. He’d thought about calling himself George’s nephew but that wasn’t close enough. Even if Jimmy Greer did a quick check, he’d not really be able to tell if Flynn was the real thing or not, would he?
‘You’ve to go on up. Take the lift to the second floor and Jimmy’ll meet you there,’ the receptionist told Flynn.
As the lift doors closed on him, Flynn felt his pulse begin to race. It was a bit of a thrill, this masquerading as old George’s son. He’d have to come clean eventually, but what was the worst they could do to him? Throw him out? They’d be too busy to involve the police, Flynn told himself.
All at once the doors opened and Flynn found himself facing a tall man with white hair and a moustache.
‘Jimmy Greer?’ Flynn stepped forward, cautiously.
‘Aye. And who are you, son?’ The journalist was looking at him intently and Flynn felt himself wilt under the man’s stare.
‘Can we talk? I’ve information about George Millar. Stuff your people don’t seem to have a hold of.’ Flynn’s words rushed out as he sensed his imminent departure.
The journalist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait here till I get my jacket.’ Flynn watched Greer disappear beyond a phalanx of grey partitions that separated the news desks. Eventually the man reappeared, fastening his padded jacket as he strode towards Flynn.
‘We’ll have a wee coffee while we chat, eh?’ Greer suggested. Flynn nodded, suddenly feeling unsure of himself as the man pressed the lift button and gave the boy a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
They walked in silence to the coffee bar in the pedestrian precinct, Flynn half a step behind Greer who loped along as if he was deliberately trying to put a distance between the boy and himself.
‘Two espressos, doll,’ Greer demanded, slapping down a pile of coins on the glass topped counter. The girl didn’t even look up as she relayed the order to another server.
The reporter took the two cups over to a table by the window and Flynn quickly slipped into the seat facing into the coffee bar. It wouldn’t do to be recognised, especially as they were so close to the Concert Hall.
‘Right, pal, what’s all this about?’ asked Greer, emptying three long packets of brown sugar into his espresso. ‘Better not be a waste of my time,’ he added. The phrase ‘or else’ hung unspoken between them. Flynn gave a weak smile.
‘Well, I’m not really George Millar’s son,’ he began.
‘Never thought it for a moment,’ Greer came back, his voice laden with sarcasm.
‘But I can tell you about his personal life better’n any son could,’ Flynn assured him.
‘Aye, go on then,’ Greer answered. He was trying to play it cool but Flynn could see a spark of interest in the man’s eyes.
‘He wasn’t just your regular straight bloke, like? Old George was one of the boys, know what I mean?’ Flynn tried to make his remark sound as salacious as he dared just to see which way the reporter would jump.
‘And how would a wee scruff like you know that, eh?’ Greer was leaning forward, his face so close that Flynn could smell the nicotine on his breath. He made himself sit still though he couldn’t help bunching his fists unseen below the table.
‘How d’you think?’ he leered.
‘You’re not telling me that a member of the City of Glasgow Orchestra got his kit off with the likes of you?’ Greer scoffed. ‘Now that I just don’t buy, pal.’
‘Naw, naw, no me. Ah’m no’ that way inclined anyway,’ Flynn hastened to assure him. ‘Ma pitch is up at the Concert Hall. Ah’ve done him a few wee favours, like. put him in touch with some good gear, know what I mean?’ Flynn lowered his voice as he spoke.
Jimmy Greer nodded, never taking his eyes off the boy for a minute.
‘There’s a story in this for you an’ all,’ Flynn hesitated. It wouldn’t do to give it all away too soon. It was worth a hell of a lot more than a lousy cup of espresso.
‘Aye. Maybe there is and maybe there isnae,’ Greer spoke softly, an expression of greed flitting across his face.
‘Well, what’s in it for me? Information’s no’ cheap, man,’ Flynn came back at him swiftly, sensing the other man’s interest.
‘Fifty if it’s any good,’ Greer said immediately.
Flynn hesitated. ‘Naw, I’m no sure. Ah think it’s worth a lot more’n that.’
Greer drained his coffee. ‘Waste of my time then, son,’ he said and made to stand up.
‘No,’ Flynn protested, his hand raised suddenly as if to prevent the journalist from leaving. ‘All right then, fifty,’ he said desperately, cursing Greer inwardly for having the whip hand.
Greer called out to the girl by the coffee machine, ‘Two more espressos, doll. Oh, and a jammy doughnut,’ he grinned at Flynn as he turned back. ‘For you,’ he added. ‘Just call it a wee sweetener.’ He paused. ‘So. Do you know anything about how George Millar was killed?’ Jimmy Greer whispered.
Flynn looked the man straight in the eye. ‘No I don’t. But I know some of the stuff he was involved in.’
‘OK, pal. Let’s have it.’
Flynn took a deep breath and began his story.
Chapter Eight
‘Keep out of his way if you know what’s good for you,’ Sadie advised the young policewoman.
WPC Irvine made a face. Lorimer’s moods had grown worse since his wife had left him to work in America. The rumour factory was working overtime and it was said that the DCI wasn’t sleeping too well. At least he hadn’t hit the sauce like some of her colleagues whose marriages had ended in acrimony. The station gossip was ambivalent about Maggie Lorimer, though. Wee Sadie insisted Maggie would be back home ‘to see to her man’ as she put it but other voices cast doubt on that scenario. As for Lorimer himself, well, you could hardly just go up and ask him, could you? Now this case had made more headline news, the kind of news that would make Lorimer blow a gasket. Sadie was right. It would be sensible of the young policewoman to keep her head below the parapet this morning.
As luck would have it, Lorimer had not seen the Gazette that morning. It was only when Superintendent Mitchison came storming into his room that he had any inkling of the matter.
‘… and not only is your victim a cocaine user, he’s been fingered here,’ Mitchison slapped the page with his hand, ‘as a receiver of stolen goods. Musical instruments, to be precise.’
Lorimer looked at the man across the desk. He’d noted how George Millar had suddenly become his victim as if the DCI had been personally responsible for the man’s demise. The Super was still glaring at him as Lorimer gathered his wits together.
‘He’s also a homosexual, or did that piece of information not come out in the Press?’
‘That’s not an offence. Drugs and reset are!’ Mitchison’s face grew paler with an anger that seemed to be hugely out of proportion to any imagined oversight on Lorimer’s part.
‘Perhaps if you let me read it?’ he suggested, holding out his hand.
‘Be quick about it, then, because I want you to nail that hack, Greer, before he has time to write another word!’ Mitchison threw the paper onto the files and documents that were already cluttering up Lorimer’s desk and stomped out of his office. Lorimer looked towards the door after the Superintendent had gone. It was ajar so he got up and closed it quietly but firmly and returned to his desk.
The paper’s headlines stared up at him. ‘Murder Victim’s Shady Dealings’ it read. Lorimer scanned the columns, his brain taking in the salient points of the article. George Millar, claimed the journalist, had been a cocaine user known to the drug dealers in Glasgow. Which ones? Lorimer asked himself, his mind running over a list of snouts that might be able to verify this. The article continued with the breathtaking accusation that the late Leader of The City of Glasgow Orchestra had been a source of ‘hot’ musical instruments that he had sold to other musicians.