Victor Poliakovski strolled into his dressing room. The rehearsal had been awful but he’d kept his temper as he made the players go over and over the same bits of score.
They had further rehearsals before the Christmas show and by then their confidence would have returned. The familiar old tunes would steady their nerves, no doubt. Still, he thought as he towelled his sweating face, there were quite a few who looked as though they’d not slept since the night George Millar had been found dead in his room. Poliakovski gave an involuntary glance towards the wall that separated Lomond from Morar. That policeman asking questions had given him lots to think about. For instance, who had alibis for the time when the First Violin was being killed? It didn’t bother the Russian too much that he himself had little in the way of an alibi. For he was Maestro, and nobody questioned his judgement, not even a tall policeman with fire in his eyes.
A knock on the door made Poliakovski turn.
‘Your tea, sir,’ one of the women in tartan uniform came across and laid a tray on the main table by the window. Her eyes did not meet those of the Conductor as she performed her task and hurried out. Poliakovski tossed the damp towel over the back of a chair and sat down to enjoy his pot of tea. It was not so bad then, having to stay on awhile in Glasgow if the people became familiar with his little ways. His tea, for instance, was something they brought up automatically when he came off stage. Victor heaved his huge frame onto the leather settee and began to pour out the strong brew. He spooned four sachets of sugar into the teacup and stirred, his mind going over the Orchestra’s listless performance and what he would do about it next time. Even the brass section, which could normally be relied upon to liven things, had failed to come up to scratch. The First Trumpet’s rendering of a horse’s neigh at the end of ‘Sleigh Ride’ had sounded more like a hyena with a bad cold.
Victor frowned a little. He could have been at home now with Valentina and their grandchildren instead of sitting in this overheated dressing room sipping black tea.
Christmas was coming, the snows had carpeted Moscow and there were things he’d need to do before the family took its customary holiday to the dacha. Lady Claire MacDonald and her husband had been kindness itself towards the Russian conductor, he mused, letting him bask in the warmth of their country house hotel. And such excellent cuisine! Victor swallowed a mouthful of tea as memories of Lady Claire’s table came back to him. It had been some compensation, truly, for his enforced stay here in Scotland. Brendan, the good fellow, had an open ticket for his return via London Heathrow. Surely by the time he’d conducted the Christmas show in a few weeks’ time there would be no need to detain him further?
Another knock interrupted the Conductor’s thoughts and another face appeared in the doorway. Poliakovski scowled at the intruder, then his face cleared as he saw the man’s dark beard and twinkling eyes. This was a compatriot, no?
‘Mr Poliakovski? May I come in?’
‘Sit down,’ Victor drawled, curious to know the identity behind the London accent. Not a Russian, then, but a Jew, by the look of him.
The stranger held out his hand, then, realising he was still wearing gloves, hastily removed them. He held his hand out once more, a shy smile playing about his lips.
‘Solomon Brightman. I’m helping Strathclyde Police with their investigations.’
‘Ah. Another policeman,’ Poliakovski made a dismissive face.
‘Oh, no. I am working on the investigation but my role is somewhat separate from that of the police. I’m a psychologist.’
Poliakovski’s bushy brows rose in renewed interest. ‘Psychologist,’ he rolled the word thoughtfully around his mouth as if he could taste it. ‘You do the profiling of the criminal mind, then? Eh?’
Solly nodded, his smile less shy now, his dark eyes already absorbing the Russian.
‘Are you free for the moment, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the Russian answered slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I thought perhaps you might be my guest for dinner this evening. I’d like to hear your views on the Orchestra and thought we could talk while we eat.’
Victor Poliakovski did not reply at once but sat fingering his own beard as if considering the psychologist’s invitation.
‘Very well. But please allow me to pay for dinner.’ He gave a sudden grin that transformed his sombre face into that of a caricature villain. ‘They hold me here on a contract that includes my bed and board,’ he added, seeing the psychologist’s doubtful expression.
An hour later the Conductor was sitting across from Solomon Brightman contemplating the menu in Cafe Rogano. He had remarked on the black and white portrait photographs of celebrities lining the walls and the pithy texts that accompanied them. From where he sat, Solly was aware of Nancy Astor’s beaky disapproval looking down upon the diners.
I married beneath me, all women do, her words declared.
Solomon glanced around at the other diners. One or two, like him, were intent on reading these famous quotations from another era.
A bottle of Gerwutzraminer rested in the ice bucket at the side of their table, its contents already well depleted by the Conductor. Solly sipped his wine carefully, taking in his companion’s mood as Poliakovski chose his dinner.
‘Back home my wife already prepares for Christmas with the baking of cakes and pastries,’ he said. ‘She does it every year at this time. This is what I am missing.’
‘You’re with the Orchestra as guest conductor until Christmas, then?’
‘That is so. My wife is so used to me being away for work and so we value the times when we can be together,’ he growled, taking another gulp of the dry wine. ‘You are married, Doctor Brightman?’
Despite his best intentions, Solly blushed and shook his head.
Lowering the menu, Poliakovski caught his expression and grinned wickedly, ‘Ah. But you have a lady friend, no doubt. Is she pretty, then?’
Solly tried a smile and nodded. Yes, Rosie Fergusson was pretty, all right. He had a sudden vision of his flat full of the smells of baking and domesticity, Rosie in an apron stirring something that they’d share for Christmas dinner. Is that what she’d like, he wondered, realising for the first time that the pathologist had not mentioned any plans at all for the festive season. Or would the lovely blonde rather dress up and be taken to one of the city’s many fine restaurants? Solly made himself a promise to ask. Suddenly it was rather important that he shared Christmas day with Rosie.
A waiter approached and took their order, Poliakovski asking about several of the dishes with the authority of a practised gourmet.
‘Now,’ began the Conductor once the waiter was out of earshot, ‘you want to know about the City of Glasgow Orchestra, yes?’
‘Can you cast you mind back to the performance on October 22nd?’
Poliakovski smiled wryly, ‘You think I could forget it, then?’
Solly shrugged. ‘Tell me what you remember about the Orchestra’s performance that evening.’
‘Hm. Damn sight better than today, I assure you, my friend,’ he remarked. ‘This is a good orchestra. I tell this already to your Chief Inspector Lorimer. They have style. Panache. And always ready for the good time afterwards,’ the Conductor grinned conspiratorially. ‘But today,’ he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair, ‘the nerves, the mistakes, the lack of life.’
‘On October 22nd,’ Solly reminded him gently.
‘They play well, you know, the programme is varied, it shows off their virtuosity.’
Solly stared into space for a moment. Lorimer had clued him up about this meeting with Poliakovski. Ask him what he saw from the podium, the Chief Inspector had urged. That was what Lorimer had meant to ask that first night, he’d told Solly, but somehow the question had been lost in the conversation.
‘You have a unique insight into their playing, do you not?’ Solly began. ‘You face the musicians as they play. You are totally aware of every nuance, every note that trembles in the air?’