Poliakovski smiled. ‘You should have been a poet, my friend. Such depth of perception.’
‘It’s what a psychologist requires also,’ Solly told him gravely.
‘Yes. I see all these things. I hear every shade within the music. But what of that?’
Solly paused before answering. ‘Was there any particular player who seemed to be off form? Did any of the musicians make uncharacteristic errors?’
Poliakovski pushed back his chair and crossed one leg over the other, staring at the psychologist.
‘You think I can identify a person with a guilty conscience, is that it?’
‘Perhaps.’
The Russian looked down at his hands, examining the fingertips carefully. His silence, Solly knew, suggested that he was remembering something that he now saw as significant. But would he reveal this to the stranger sitting opposite?
Poliakovski closed his eyes and leant back with a sigh. At last he spoke, slowly, as if he were trying to see the City of Glasgow Orchestra in his mind’s eye.
‘The violinist. She plays like the angels. Now, alas, she is with them for all eternity. The brass section, they are full of spirits. These horns! Ah, such jokers!’ The Russian shook his head as if recalling some incident. Then his expression grew sombre. ‘Yes, Doctor, I do recall mistakes. So. A trombonist slides too early? A viola is off the beat. What else? I think the harpist shows the nerves. Yes, she trembles when I look her way.’
Solly hid a smile. It was not difficult to imagine a nervous player buckling under the Russian’s sweeping gaze. The harpist had been in a flap before the performance too, he remembered from Lorimer’s notes. But was the DCI looking at this the right way? The psychologist considered his question to Poliakovski. Perhaps he had seen a few musicians off form but would poor playing necessarily have been the response of a killer? Would there not have been some elation in their demeanour, an extra verve to their playing?
Solomon knew he would soon be voicing this point of view to the DCI even although it cast him in the role of Devil’s advocate. Again. Still, he’d made a promise to Lorimer so he pushed on with the policeman’s idea.
‘And the Chorus?’
‘Ach, they do what they must do. They look at Maestro and they sing their notes. No mistakes, Doctor. The tenors, well, they could be more forte, you know. It is not unusual for a weakness in that section. But the sopranos, ah, they have the passion!’
‘What sort of weakness, exactly?’ Solly asked, wondering about the tenors and if any of them had been friendly with the late George Millar.
‘Numbers. Always numbers. It is so hard to recruit sufficient for the balance of sound. They are not the professional Chorus, you know?’
Solly shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know. You mean you use an amateur choir in the Concert Hall?’
‘But of course. There are so few groups of singers who are professionals. Your own Scottish Opera is one, of course. Amateur, you use this word. It means only that the singers themselves are paid nothing. In all other ways they act as professionals, I assure you. And that is why we have these particular rehearsals at night, you see. The singers, they are mostly at work during the daytime.’
‘You mean the rehearsals for the Christmas Classics concert? I did wonder about that.’
‘You think it too early for the Christmas songs, eh?’ Poliakovski laughed. ‘Ah, but I am told to take the opportunities to rehearse with the Chorus. When the Concert Hall is free, you understand. That man, Mr Drummond, he is most insistent that the Orchestra is made available to his singers.’
Solly shrugged. He obviously had a lot to learn about the classical music world from the other side of the podium.
His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter bringing their supper and for the next hour Poliakovski refused to give himself up to anything other than the delights of the table. The Conductor was an excellent dinner companion, regaling Solly with anecdotes from his travels, many of which centred upon the gourmet high spots of Europe. He had seen all the major capitals of the world, apparently, and talked animatedly of his times in the Far East.
‘The Japanese are like us Russians. They take their music seriously. It is a question of nurture, Doctor,’ he said, raising a glass to his lips. As Solly inclined his head Poliakovski elaborated. ‘They take a child with genius and they protect him as they would an opening flower. I do not see so much of this here,’ he added, wiping his mouth with the white linen napkin. The psychologist saw something flare in the Russian’s eyes. That was good, he thought, to be passionate about the educational side of music. He could understand more than ever why Poliakovski commanded such respect.
‘Did George Millar share your views?’ he asked.
‘The Leader? How would I know? I scarcely spoke two words to the man.’ Poliakovski’s fingers closed on a piece of tablet and Solly watched as he popped it into his mouth and smiled. ‘Ah, these sweetmeats. They know how to make them, yes?’ The Conductor leant back, his voice deliberately raised to attract a waiter passing them by.
‘I’ll fetch some more, sir?’
‘Ah, good fellow,’ Poliakovski beamed as the waiter set off again. ‘You bring me to a splendid restaurant, Doctor. I thank you,’ Poliakovski lifted his glass in salute and drained the last of his Beaume de Venise.
Solly nodded, wondering just what the City of Glasgow Orchestra’s accountant would make of the Russian’s bed-and-board expenses.
Solomon glanced towards the main restaurant area as the doorman collected their coats. A melody from the Thirties wafted across the laughing heads seated around the darkened bar, reminding him of the bygone era that was encapsulated in this Art Deco jewel. For a moment he listened and watched, thinking how little humankind really changed from one age to the next. There would always be intrigues, romance and desire. It simply came in different packaging these days.
Solly grinned as he and Poliakovski stepped out into the night. There, as if to confirm his thoughts, a huddle of Goths stood around Royal Exchange Square swinging pumpkin lanterns. He laughed softly, causing his companion to follow his gaze. The Conductor raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated shrug.
‘They dress up to Trick or Treat?’
‘You know about Hallowe’en, then?’
‘Of course. Remember how well travelled I am, my friend. I see this often. Especially in the United States.’
‘Do they have Goths there too, then?’
Poliakovski frowned. ‘Goths?’
‘They’re not dressed up for Hallowe’en tonight. That’s how they always look,’ Solly laughed softly, stopping to regard the group more closely.
It was true. The boys and girls were clad in their usual blacks and reds, some of the girls with banded stockings, hair dyed black or shades of purple, variously spiked.
The studded dog collars were almost a ubiquitous element of their dress, another feature that caused Solly to smile. The psychology of group dress fascinated him. Here were youths who sought some individuality away from what they saw, no doubt, as the strictures of school uniform. Yet they had created such uniformity without realising it: that was what was so amazing, their lack of self-perception. Several of the girls carried a pumpkin lantern, jagged teeth and eyes hacked from the orange skin. old traditions died hard, though it had been smelly turnips singed by old bits of candle ends when he had been a boy. Their eyes shone with the same excitement, though. Some things never changed.
‘Children dressing up,’ he murmured to himself.
Poliakovski shot him a puzzled look then walked away from the scene, leaving Solomon no option but to follow his dinner companion through the stone archways. It was only a short walk from Cafe Rogano to Lang’s Hotel where Poliakovski was staying and so the two men set off along Buchanan Street. Glasgow Royal Concert Hall loomed large on the horizon, its video screen advertising events in neon pink and blue.