But was he any further along the road to finding the killers of the two musicians? Solomon Brightman’s opinions and Rosie Fergusson’s reports, for what they were worth, lay under the manilla folders piled in front of Lorimer. There had been eyebrows raised by the Assistant Chief Constable after the results of the DNA testing had proved so inconclusive but no criticism voiced. Yet, a little voice nagged in his ear. After the Christmas break would he have to return to face Superintendent Mark Mitchison and his sarcastic remarks? Or would a period of enforced sick leave have mellowed his superior? He doubted it.
Rosie had been such a wee star getting him these test results in double quick time, he thought guiltily. Just so he had the chance to wrap this case up before flying out to Maggie. And what had it achieved?
A young man named Christopher Hunter had suddenly appeared out of the woodwork as the illegitimate son of Karen Quentin-Jones and the Chorus Master. Lorimer clenched his teeth. It all seemed to come back to that damned violin. George Millar had received it from his source in Europe and sold it to Derek Quentin-Jones; Karen had played the instrument ‘like an angel’ as Poliakovski had recalled on the night of the Leader’s death and now, after its disappearance when she herself had been brutally murdered, it turned up again, only this time as the legacy to her estranged son. Lorimer glanced at his watch. Jo Grant would be at the hospital by now. would she find anything else out from the Consultant Surgeon or was he simply wasting more time and manpower? Hunter was due in any time now. Just what would his version of events be, he wondered?
‘This is quite outrageous, Inspector! After what I’ve experienced is it too much to expect some common decency from the police or does the season of goodwill pass you people by?’ The Surgeon thundered down the hospital corridor, Jo Grant matching his long-legged stride with her own. ‘In here,’ he snapped suddenly, coming to a stop outside his consulting room. Jo entered the room, aware of the man’s instinctive courtesy as he held open the door for her. How many women had entered that room, trembling, with the handsome consultant smiling reassurance at them, she wondered? They’d certainly not been subjected to that look on his face. Right now Derek Quentin-Jones was not a happy man.
‘I have already spoken to Chief Inspector Lorimer this morning!’ he exclaimed, then seeing that Jo Grant was not prepared to budge, added, ‘I can give you ten minutes. I’ve a waiting room of patients to see,’ he snapped, waving a hand in the direction of the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Jo sat down and began immediately. ‘You must have realised we’d want to ask you more about Christopher Hunter and Christina Quentin-Jones, sir,’ she said, watching the man’s face flinch as she spoke their names. ‘We would like to know how long it has been since you were aware of their paternity.’
The Surgeon looked at her stupidly then leant forward. ‘What are you really asking, Inspector? If I murdered my wife in a fit of jealous rage? Hardly possible given I was in the operating theatre at the time.’
Jo Grant’s face remained impassive. ‘When did you know about your wife’s affairs, sir?’ she repeated.
Quentin-Jones sank back into his seat and folded his hands, more to keep them in control, Jo guessed, seeing their reddened fingertips.
‘I knew my wife had not been faithful to me. I discovered this fact about nine, no, ten years ago,’ he began. ‘I’d had a minor medical problem that led me to discover my own infertility.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Karen had already given me details of her early pregnancy some years after we were married. Can’t remember why she did, but it didn’t seem to matter much until …’
‘Until you knew Tina couldn’t have been your own child?’ Jo finished for him.
The Surgeon nodded. ‘I put the matter behind us. We’ve been happy enough together since then.’ He paused then corrected himself slowly ‘we were happy enough together. There didn’t seem any reason not to trust my wife.’
Once you’d had her checked out by a private investigator, Jo told herself silently, wondering about the barely concealed anger in the man across the desk. Could he have simmered for years about her infidelity and suddenly snapped? Somehow she doubted it.
‘When were you aware that Mr Hunter was your wife’s son?’
‘When I received the will from her solicitor,’ he replied simply. ‘until that moment I had no inkling whatsoever that the young man was anything other than a musical colleague of my wife.’
‘Can you give me your honest opinion of Mr Hunter’s character?’ Jo asked suddenly.
Quentin-Jones smiled sadly. ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I thought he was a thoroughly nice young man.’ He looked shrewdly at Jo. ‘Am I to be proved wrong in my estimation, Inspector?’
‘He said what?’ Lorimer’s jaw dropped in amazement as Alistair Wilson’s words sank in. He listened for another few minutes then let the telephone fall back onto its cradle. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ Wilson had muttered, ringing off.
Lorimer whirled round in his chair until he faced the window. He’d deliberately cleared a space in his overcrowded diary to accommodate an interview with Christopher Hunter and now the violinist had had the cheek to postpone his appointment until tomorrow! Lorimer fumed. OK, he would be here for a few hours in the morning.
His plane didn’t take off until three o’clock from Glasgow Airport. But Hunter was taking a bit of a liberty!
Suddenly Lorimer’s mind went back to the Christmas concert. He’d stood in the wings, listening to the festive music. What was the one he’d found particularly moving? Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake Waltz’, that was it, he remembered. The string section’s parts had been especially poignant. How hard had it been for these professionals to make sad, sweet music so soon after the tragic deaths of their colleagues?
But was Christopher Hunter even aware that one of these colleagues had been his birth mother? He’d a mind to send a squad car round to pick the guy up and have it out with him now.
Lorimer’s shrugged. Och, he could wait. It would give him a wee while to nip round the shops at lunchtime today. Maggie deserved more for Christmas than a few hastily bought gifts from the duty free.
Lorimer grabbed the coat off its stand, putting his thoughts into action before he could change his mind.
The afternoon sped past in a whirl of activity, folk in and out of his office wanting signatures for this and recommendations about that. Annie Irvine had even ventured to ask for a donation to their Christmas night out. Lorimer would be well on his way to Florida, leaving his fellow officers to enjoy themselves, but he’d pulled a few notes out of his wallet anyway. Their acting Superintendent would be no loss to the Christmas revelry but his financial contribution would be appreciated, he reckoned.
It was after six when Lorimer finally dialled his mother-in-law’s number.
‘Yes, he’s fine. Settled in no bother at all,’ she answered in reply to Lorimer’s anxious questions about Flynn.
‘Did he like my present?’
‘The mobile phone? Aye. And he said to tell you he thought The Simpsons’ bedcover was,’ she paused, ‘wicked, I think he said. Would that be right?’
Lorimer laughed. ‘Aye, that sounds like Flynn. Listen, could you ring him up, maybe? You’ve got his number. Ask him if he can take you to the airport tomorrow? Get a taxi and I’ll pay you back.’
‘Och, I can manage fine on my own,’ Mrs Finlay protested.
‘I’d rather Flynn went with you. Besides he wanted to see us off.’
‘I don’t have to ask what’s stopping you from picking me up, do I, William?’ she asked, her voice heavy with disapproval. ‘Just don’t miss that plane, whatever you do. I’m not going to be the one to explain to my daughter why her husband didn’t make it in time for Christmas.’