It was like a rock, solid and safe against the city’s swirling currents; people were out in party mood tonight, groups of revellers laughing after the office night out, their faces shining in the myriad lights spangling the trees that lined the street.
Solly thought about Derek Quentin-Jones and Edith Millar. How much more difficult it was to cope with grief in such a carnival atmosphere. And who else within the orchestra might still be grieving? That was something he might just try to find out.
Chapter Fifteen
Flynn sat up in bed slowly, the neck brace moving his head forward. He’d been asleep since lunchtime and the muscles across his shoulders still ached. Even to see out of the window Flynn had to negotiate his whole upper body sideways. He looked out at a grey November sky heavy with the threat of more snow. No change there, then. There was a television in one corner of his room angled just so that the patient could watch comfortably without straining to see. They’d been thoughtful about setting things like that up here, Flynn realised. Patients in the spinal injuries unit couldn’t complain about the quality of service. No indeed. Flynn had been cheered to find the hospital telly had Sky TV and he could flick all the channels using the remote that nice wee nurse had left on his locker.
Between the nurses all fussing over him and the meals that appeared at regular intervals, he was almost glad he’d run in front of that van. The driver had even been in to see him. He’d been dead apologetic and all that but Flynn had told him it was no sweat. He’d been entirely to blame. The guy had looked pretty relieved and they’d ended up chatting about the football. He’d left Flynn a newspaper and a bag of jam doughnuts. When he’d gone, Flynn had picked up the paper, greedy for any news that might have been written by Jimmy Greer.
The headlines had made him sink back into his pillows. Another violinist murdered? What the hell was going on in there? Flynn tried to straighten up then winced as the pain shot through his head. Even yawning was fraught with difficulty. Since his accident he’d slept fitfully, the nights one long dreary darkness only relieved by the night staff coming in to check his temperature and blood pressure.
Still, it was nearly Visiting Time again. Flynn hadn’t been surprised to see Raincoat coming in that first evening. He’d called in twice since then, bringing sweets and magazines. The police officer’s concern made Flynn wonder just how badly injured he was. What were they telling Raincoat that they hadn’t told their patient? Or was it just Detective Sergeant Wilson’s conscience bothering him?
The door to Flynn’s single room was ajar and he could hear several pairs of footsteps coming along the corridor with a chatter of voices that he’d learnt to associate with Visiting Time. Half of him wanted to see a visitor sliding through the door and half wanted peace to watch the telly. He flicked a switch and Bart Simpson appeared resplendent in yellow and blue cartoon colours. Flynn settled back into the pillows, the neck brace propping his head upright.
He was giggling at some self-deprecating remark of Homer’s when Lorimer walked into the room.
Flynn’s eyes flicked across at his visitor then focused on the TV screen once more.
‘Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.’
‘Naw, you’re no’,’ Flynn shifted his gaze towards the tall man who had drawn a plastic chair over to his bedside. He met Lorimer’s look, recognising the blue eyes that were regarding him with interest.
‘How’re you feeling?’
Lacking the ability to shrug a cool, indifferent shoulder, Flynn said, ‘A’right. S’pose.’
‘They looking after you OK?’
‘Aye,’ Flynn grinned suddenly. ‘Cannae complain. Nice bed, food when I want it. A’ the comforts of hame, right?’
‘I was wanting to ask you about that, Flynn. About home. Where exactly is it you come from? Originally, I mean.’
The smile died on the boy’s face. ‘Ach. Did I no’ tell yer other man? A Barnardo’s boy, that’s whit I wis. There’s nae originally aboot it.’
‘Left on somebody’s doorstep?’ Lorimer suggested with the ghost of a smile.
‘Aye, somethin’ like that. Look, gonnae jist leave it, eh? Ah havenae got a hame. Never had. There’s naebody waiting tae see me when I get oot o’ here.’
‘OK. Point taken. Anyway, I saw your surgeon on my way in. He says he’s very pleased with you. Says he expects you to make a full recovery. He told me the temporary paralysis was caused by shock to the spine. Maybe they’ll shift you into a different ward if they get short of beds.’
‘Oh, aye,’ Flynn replied, his eyes on the Simpsons but his heart beating that wee bit faster. ‘Tell you when I’m for the heave, did he?’ the boy asked, the question almost sticking in his throat.
‘Oh, a couple of weeks, he thinks. The fractures are mending nicely.’ Lorimer hesitated. Despite the Surgeon’s positive report, Flynn still looked a mess, the bruises yellowing across his face. ‘Depends if you’ve anywhere to go.’
The voices of Homer and Bart filled the room but Lorimer’s words seemed louder than the TV programme. Flynn continued to look towards the screen, deliberately ignoring this bearer of bad tidings. Sure, it was nice to know he’d be fit and all, but fit for what? And in this weather?
The detective cleared his throat. ‘Do you have anywhere you could stay? A friend’s place, maybe? Somewhere you’d be properly looked after?’
Flynn thought about Allan Seaton for a brief moment then dismissed the idea. Seaton’s pad was always loupin’ with druggies and nutters. He’d never get a minute’s peace. Flynn suddenly realised how vulnerable he felt. This injury to his neck had damaged more than flesh and bone; he’d lost his nerve under that white van.
‘Naw. There’s nowhere,’ he muttered.
Lorimer had suspected as much from his discussions with the social work department connected to the hospital. He’d spent time thinking over how to say what he wanted to say to this boy, wondering how he would react.
‘There’s a spare room at my place,’ Lorimer told him.
Flynn’s eyes swivelled round, trying to engage with Lorimer’s. Their expression held more doubt than surprise.
‘Ye serious?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘There’s just me at home right now. My wife’s working abroad for a while. We’ve got a spare room doing nothing. You could stay for a few weeks if you liked. How about it?’
Flynn turned back towards the television screen, obviously considering the detective’s offer. When he grinned, Lorimer cocked his head to one side, curious to know what the boy’s answer would be.
‘Aye, why no. Hiv ye got Sky TV?’
‘You’ve done what?’ Alistair Wilson slammed down his half empty coffee cup on Lorimer’s desk.
‘I’ve asked him to stay at my place.’
‘And did you clear this with Maggie?’
As soon as the words were out, Wilson wished them back. It was none of his business what Maggie Lorimer thought, after all.
‘No,’ his boss replied shortly, ‘I didn’t. Anyway, it’s just until the boy has somewhere else to go. The officer at the Hamish Allan Centre says they might be able to sort out a furnished flat for him. I’m sure he’ll be fixed up by Christmas. It’s still over a month away.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘You could be setting yourself up for a whole load of trouble.’
‘I don’t think so. He’s still pretty weak. He needs a bit of time and anyway…’ Lorimer tailed off. How could he explain the unspoken feeling of trust that had sprung up between himself and this street kid? Flynn had told them about his relationship with George Millar. He’d made it clear that he’d only been the drug courier, nothing more. There would be no charges brought against the boy, though. Lorimer had assured him of that. He was simply helping the police with their enquiries. He wasn’t willing to name sources, yet, and Lorimer hadn’t expected him to grass up any of his mates.