Then, ‘No. No. You must not think these things. I did not see Karen after the rehearsal was finished. As far as I know she went to the ladies’ dressing room and …’
‘Did you actually see her go into the ladies’ dressing room, then?’ Lorimer interrupted.
‘No. No. I did not see her at all. What I mean is she must have gone there. Where else would she go?’ Carl Bekaert shook his clasped hands frantically.
‘I have to tell you, Mr Bekaert, that you appear to have been the last member of the Orchestra to leave the building that night.’ Lorimer spoke gently as if breaking the worst possible news to the musician. ‘We have close circuit camera evidence to back this up.’
Carl looked around him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘You think I put an end to her?’ he whispered.
Solly raised his eyebrows. That euphemistic phrase again. Was the man displaying one half of a split personality, one that denied the brutal act of murder, one that feared the violence of its alter ego or simply the consequences of its action? Or was this the behaviour of a man innocent of the ultimate crime? Watching him, Solly pondered these options, wondering how far Lorimer was prepared to take this.
‘Did you kill Karen Quentin-Jones?’
‘No,’ the Dane shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Never. I would never do such a thing!’
‘Even although she might have told the police something you wanted to hide?’
‘No,’ the man’s protest came out high and strangled. ‘I tell you everything. About George. About my viola. Now you know I take the cocaine!’
He was less in control of himself now, Solly realised. Lorimer was in complete command of the situation.
‘So you won’t object to a police surgeon examining you?’
‘Why? Why examine me? What do you want to do?’
Lorimer spread his hands in an open gesture. ‘Simply to take some samples. Then we may be able to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
Solomon frowned. Lorimer sounded so plausible, but as far as he knew Rosie had no real DNA samples to work on. What was Lorimer up to?
The policeman’s words seemed to have an effect on the musician however, for he slumped back in his chair with a sigh.
‘Sure. Go ahead. Then can I go home?’
Lorimer smiled briefly. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Why didn’t you charge him?’
‘With what? Doing a line in the gents’ toilets? We have no evidence even of that! There’s absolutely nothing we can do until we have something concrete. Being the last man out doesn’t even help. The security man was still there. The murderer had fixed the CCTV cameras once. Who’s to say he couldn’t have done it again?’
‘You think whoever killed George Millar also killed the woman?’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer sounded surprised at the psychologist’s question then frowned. ‘Why? Don’t you?’
Solly was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip. ‘There are reasons for supposing it might be. The locus is the same. The murder weapon on each occasion was part of a musical instrument. There were many people about so it looks as if he is a risk taker. Not too many of those, I shouldn’t imagine.’
Lorimer grinned. Solly had his engine up and running. Any minute now, though, he’d throw a spanner into the works.
‘But?’ Lorimer prompted.
Solly looked up at him. ‘You see it too?’
‘Nope. I could feel it coming though.’
‘Ah. The But. Yes there is a But, I’m afraid. Someone tried to hide the woman’s body. There was no effort to do the same for George Millar.’
‘And no opportunity, either. Come on, Solly. Don’t you think the first murder was carefully planned? Think of the duster over the CCTV camera. It would have been easy for a tall man like him to place it there with the bow. And wouldn’t he have known that the Leader would be on his own in Morar?’
‘Ah, that’s just it. I do believe the first murder was planned out. It’s the second one I’m having difficulty with.’
‘You think he just happened to have a harp string in his pocket? Give us a break.’
‘No. But he might have lifted it from that library box on impulse.’
Lorimer frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I think,’ Solly began measuring his words carefully, ‘that the second killing was a matter of opportunity. Not planned, not thought out at all. She was in the right place at the right time. And hiding the body was a stroke of sheer luck. The trap door on stage provided that.’
‘It also suggests someone who knew their way about the place, doesn’t it? And even you can’t seriously suggest that this is the work of a different killer.’
‘No,’ Solly admitted, ‘but it’s something I think we ought to consider.’
Lorimer shook his head. He didn’t want to consider anything of the sort. As far as he was concerned there was one person to profile and one person alone. OK the modus operandi was different but in his view that wasn’t as crucial as the fact that two musicians had met their ends in the same place, Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. And if Carl Bekaert’s DNA matched any trace on Karen’s body, he’d have him charged with murder.
Chapter Fourteen
Brendan Phillips watched as the Conductor took the Orchestra through their paces. Poliakovski was rehearsing the programme as if nothing had happened. Were they all such cold-blooded types? Brendan wondered. He’d always felt a stirring in his soul from listening to Russian musicians. And, watching the Conductor, Brendan realised that Poliakovski exuded such passion. Funny how some people changed the minute they walked off a platform. Like Karen, a voice came unbidden into his mind. Brendan shuddered. Concentrate upon the music, he told himself, watching the Conductor once more.
The rehearsal was well under way and the musicians caught in the Russian’s spell. Poliakovski did not hold a baton but guided the players only with his hands.
Brendan stared at him, fascinated as the Conductor’s fingers rose and fell rhythmically like a puppeteer commanding the movements of his dolls from invisible strings. They’d been lucky to have the Russian’s help at such short notice. Their own resident conductor had been in a car crash and would be out of action for weeks. Poliakovski had agreed to come over to Scotland for the remainder of the year, thus solving Brendan’s problem. There were other problems still to be resolved, however.
Simon and Carl were both being questioned by Strathclyde CID and the Third Fiddle was obviously nervous about taking the Leader’s position.
‘I don’t know, Brendan,’ the man had told him in all seriousness. ‘It’s a risky business stepping into the shoes of two dead people.’ The police presence on each of the exits had done little to reassure his musicians. If anything it served merely as a stark reminder of their murdered colleagues. Brendan had urged the Chief Executive to cancel all the remaining concerts for the year, but his boss’s argument about keeping a sense of normality for the players as well as the public had won the day. The Orchestra Manager had hoped the shambles beneath the stage might go some way to cancelling all their commitments, but the backstage crew had assured Brendan that this lower area was OK now. He’d had a hard time explaining the Executive’s decision to Derek Quentin-Jones, though. The man had been beside himself with rage when he’d learnt that the Christmas concert would go ahead as scheduled. Listening to his tirade on the telephone, Brendan could only sympathise.
There was a sense of unease throughout the whole Orchestra. It would go away in time, he supposed, but he might not wait around that long. Already the Orchestra Manager was casting his mind to other jobs away from the Glasgow music world. Brendan Phillips wanted a fresh start in a place where he was not constantly reminded of that blood-stained body on the tiles of his dressing room or the coiled harp string that had been stretched around a woman’s throat.