Lorimer made a face to the reflection in the glass. What else would be better over there? Would he be bombarded with comparisons the whole time or would his wife have any longings at all for Scotland?
The Christmas concert at Glasgow Royal Concert Hall had made him proud of the City of Glasgow Orchestra and Chorus. Even Brendan Phillips had beamed his delight at the final encore. He’d watched and listened to the second half of the programme from the wings, standing by the Orchestra Manager as the Orchestra and singers had filled the hall with familiar music. Echoes of the traditional carols had flowed round the auditorium like shadows from the past, shadows of sounds. Even in the silence of this early hour, Lorimer could still hear their cadences in his head. George Millar would have played these tunes year in, year out, Karen by his side, he mused. As he stood there, Lorimer had the feeling that their music was still going on somewhere out of sight, behind a blanket of darkness.
Suddenly Lorimer drew the curtains across the window shutting out the stars. It was up to him to silence these faint echoes, if he only could.
Carl Bekaert twitched the window blind. They were still there, then, those policemen in their unmarked car, watching and waiting. The Dane’s lip trembled as he let the blind fall. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Hadn’t he suffered enough already? There was no George to comfort him any more and even that arrogant dealer, Seaton, had become unavailable to him.
Carl had not dared to seek out any sources of cocaine while he knew he was being so closely watched. His mouth pursed in a grim line as he realised the irony. He needed a line and he needed it badly. But all the usual sources were closed to him because of Karen’s death. She had been a thorn in his flesh while she’d lived and now it was as if she was taunting him from beyond the grave. The whole night he’d tossed and turned, snatches of the Christmas programme coming and going in his fitful sleep.
Suddenly Carl heard the rumblings of an early morning dustcart from the next street. In a matter of minutes it would be outside his close, blocking the car across the road from view. The germ of an idea growing in his head, Carl grabbed his coat, stuffed some money into his wallet and headed for the front door.
The two detectives drew their gaze away from the flat as the dustcart rolled up to the close mouth, blocking the view from across the street. One of them stretched, clasping his fingers together and flexing them in front of him. The other yawned and blinked. It had been a long night but their relief would be here pretty soon. Then they could get some decent kip in their own beds.
The refuse collector nodded at the tall blond man as he hurried past but did not receive as much as an acknowledging glance.
‘Aye, an’ a Happy Christmas to you too, mate,’ he grumbled, pulling the wheelie bin towards the waiting vehicle.
‘He’s done a runner,’ Lorimer said, watching the pained expressions on the faces of his team. ‘Despite what Doctor Brightman’s profile tells us, I want Bekaert arrested.’
‘Do you think he killed them?’ Jo Grant ventured.
Lorimer scowled at her. What he thought and what he had to do were often at odds and she knew it.
‘We have to act on the evidence, Detective Inspector,’ he said shortly, ‘And right now the evidence suggests that Bekaert’s taken to his heels for some reason.’
‘But not because of the DNA testing being done today, surely?’ she reasoned. ‘He had a sample taken ages ago and it hasn’t shown any significant match.’
Lorimer sighed deeply. ‘Look, just find him and bring him in, OK? He’s going to be charged eventually with receiving stolen instruments and being involved in this European drug ring. But tread carefully. When he’s found I’d like to know where he’s been and whom he’s been with. That’s if you find him at all,’ he added darkly. Right now he’d give a lot to know the whereabouts of the missing viola player and even more to know the results from the lab.
‘Look at this,’ Rosie lifted up two papers with bar coding shapes for Solly to see.
‘What is it?’
Rosie screwed her eyes up and held the papers out at arm’s length. ‘Evidence,’ she said in a tired voice.
‘Evidence of what?’ Solly asked, his head to one side, wondering at the lack of excitement in her manner.
‘Paternity, I should think,’ she replied. ‘Look at the birth dates.’
Solly pored over the details of names and dates of birth then he whistled softly.
‘Well, that’s one mystery solved,’ Rosie remarked tiredly.
‘Or another one just beginning,’ Solly said, his eyes gazing somewhere in the middle distance. It had been a dreary Monday, the darkness barely leaving skies that had lowered over the city in what passed for daylight at this bleak time of year.
The artificial lights in the lab had hurt his eyes and more than once the psychologist wanted to lay his head down and drift off to sleep but Rosie and her team had just kept going, aware of the need to produce results for the investigating officer.
As the clock ticked towards midnight Solly felt his eyes drooping until at last Rosie gave him a nudge.
‘Come on, better get these to our man. See what he makes of our find, if anything,’ she smiled wanly.
‘Can we come in?’
Lorimer stared in surprise at the two figures on his doorstep. He held the door open wide, not speaking but looking intently at Rosie’s face as if trying to read what she had to tell him. He hardly noticed Solly closing the door quietly and slipping past them into the lounge. Then Lorimer’s eyes took in the bulky envelopes in Rosie’s arms.
‘You’ve got someone, then?’
As Rosie smiled a wintry smile and shook her head, Lorimer’s mouth closed in a thin line of disappointment.
‘There is something we want to show you, though.’
Rosie Fergusson sat clutching a cup of coffee, her sheepskin jacket tucked around her shoulders. She had driven straight to Lorimer’s home from the lab, Solly in the passenger seat at her side clutching the envelopes that contained the test results.
‘Thanks for this,’ Rosie raised her cup, ‘we needed it.’
‘My pleasure. Least I can do after your efforts tonight. I just wish you’d brought me some good news,’ Lorimer sighed heavily.
‘No. Sorry. There’s no match for any DNA material taken from Karen’s violin. It was a pretty long shot anyway after all this time and the handling that instrument must have had.’ She sipped her coffee, catching Solly’s sympathetic glance.
‘So, why come here at this hour in the morning?’
‘Rosie made an interesting discovery tonight,’ Solly spoke quietly so that neither Flynn nor Maggie’s mother, sleeping upstairs, would be disturbed.
‘Maurice Drummond shares his DNA with another member of the Orchestra. Christopher Hunter.’
Lorimer whistled softly. ‘Another violinist. What does that tell us?’
For a few moments there was silence in the room as three people concentrated on the implications of Rosie’s discovery. Outside it was still pitch dark. No sounds came from the street, not even a sigh of wind at this dead hour of night.
‘Maurice Drummond must have known he was Hunter’s father,’ Lorimer said at last. ‘And Karen. She knew. I know she did,’ Lorimer punched his fist into his open palm. ‘I sensed the night of George’s death that she was holding something back, something important.’
‘But does this man, this Christopher Hunter, know the identity of his real parents?’ Solly mused. ‘Nobody else seems to have known. Edith Millar had no inkling of the fact that her husband was sitting only yards away in the Orchestra from Karen and Maurice Drummond’s son.’
‘C. Maurice Drummond,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘C for Christopher.’
Rosie looked up suddenly from the depths of her collar. ‘C also stands for Christina,’ she remarked.