The Tooth Tattoo (20 page)

Mel hadn’t supposed this was about music, even though he was holding his viola in its case. After some hesitation he clasped the hand that was offered. Hamada had a strong grip. He was a short man, made shorter because he was in his socks. Mel guessed he was around thirty-five.

‘He has a musical matter to discuss with you,’ Olga went on, ‘but join us first in a drink.’

The bottle was waiting on ice in a silver cooler. The strong grip made short work of the cork. A flute of champagne was placed in Mel’s right hand.

‘You don’t have to hold on to your viola. You’re with friends here,’ Olga said.

‘I won’t be staying long.’

Hamada said something to Olga and she said, ‘He’s asking if he might see your instrument.’

‘No chance.’

‘He is very knowledgeable about them.’

‘Then it won’t interest him. It’s nothing special.’

‘But it plays well, obviously.’

‘I’m comfortable with it.’

‘Please allow him to see it. He’s not fooling. He’s a true connoisseur.’

‘I don’t care what he is. I was brought here under false pretences.’

‘Believe me, Mel,’ she said. ‘It’s very much in your interest to cooperate. This could be your lucky day.’

‘That’s what the taxi driver said before you got in. If this is luck, it’s not what I expected.’

She smiled. ‘You expected to be here alone with me? That was a little game and I’m sorry. Mr. Hamada is my employer. He has a wife and children. He came to Bath and reserved the suite specially to meet you.’

‘I can’t think why.’

‘Please indulge him. I’ll hold your glass.’ She must have noted the subtle softening of his protest.

Mel sighed. ‘He won’t think anything of this.’ He unfastened his case, removed the viola and handed it to Hamada, who gripped it by the neck and ran his hand lightly across the soundboard. Then he held it horizontally and examined the rib and the purfling along the edges. He studied the dark wood of the underside before speaking again to Olga.

‘He says it’s of English manufacture, early twentieth century.’

‘He’s right about that.’

Mel then heard Hamada say, ‘William Hill.’

‘Spot on,’ Mel said in surprise. ‘You do know your stuff.’

Saying you possessed a Hill viola could be embarrassing even among musicians if they weren’t specialists in stringed instruments. The name didn’t have the cachet of the great Italian instrument makers. Yet William E. Hill of Bond Street produced violins and violas of exceptional quality for fifty years as well as restoring a number of Stradivari instruments.

Nodding his approval, Hamada handed the viola back and spoke more words in Japanese.

‘He’s asking if you would be so good as to play something,’ Olga said.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Please don’t refuse. Just a few bars, to give him the measure of the instrument.’

With reluctance, Mel took the bow from his case, tuned the strings, and played the opening bars of Bach’s Chaconne from the Suite in D minor, but a fifth lower, in G minor. Just a snatch of the entire piece was sufficient to demonstrate the timbre of his viola.

Hamada nodded in approval and spoke again. Mel was getting the impression that this little man had a better understanding of English than he was letting on. The translation process kept him at a distance.

‘He compliments you on the sound of the instrument and the choice of piece,’ Olga said. ‘He says he doesn’t associate Bach with the viola.’

‘It was written for solo violin,’ Mel said, ‘and transposed by Lionel Tertis, the English master.’

Hamada nodded at the name and spoke some more.

‘He says Tertis, more than anyone in the world, raised the status of the viola. He played on an eighteenth century instrument of exceptional quality.’ She turned to Hamada to confirm the name.

‘Montagnana.’

A distinguished, but lesser known maker. Mel couldn’t any longer deny that the man was knowledgeable. ‘I wish I’d heard Tertis play. He lived to a great age, but he was before my time.’

Olga was translating for them both with apparent ease. She’d lured Mel here, but he still found her attractive. His playing of the Bach had been aimed more at her than her employer.

‘Mr. Hamada says when Tertis because of infirmity could no longer play to the standard he set for himself, he presented his precious viola to his pupil, Bernard Shore.’

‘I didn’t know that. How generous.’

This time Hamada didn’t wait for a translation of Mel’s response. He crossed the room to the wardrobe, opened the door and took a bulky object from the top shelf – an instrument case. He brought this to the middle of the room, placed it on the sofa and unzipped it. The case was modern, but the instrument inside was not. It was of viola length, at least the size of his own, but of lighter, thinly varnished wood, almost apricot in colour, obviously antique.

‘So is he a player?’ Mel asked Olga.

‘A collector. What do you think?’

‘It looks special.’

Hamada lifted out the viola and handed it to Mel.

The weight was lighter than his own fiddle.

Olga said, ‘He is inviting you to play the Bach piece again, using his instrument.’

Not unreasonable, Mel thought. If you own a fiddle, you want to hear it. Aside from that, he was curious to try it himself. He liked the feel. Now that it was in his hands he could tell it was a fraction longer than his own, but about the same weight. He ran his fingertips along the board. Using his own bow, he began the tuning process. Then he started playing another excerpt from the Chaconne.

The projecting power was a revelation, the depth and fullness of tone a joy. He knew at once that this was an experience to be savoured, so he continued moving through the daunting multiple stops of Bach’s composition for longer than he intended.

Hamada’s serious look had been supplanted by open-mouthed admiration. And when Mel finally lifted the bow away, Hamada clapped and said, ‘Bravo.’

His pulse racing from the experience, Mel did his best to appear calm. ‘Who is the maker?’

Olga asked the question, listened to the response, turned to Mel and didn’t give an answer. Instead she said, ‘If you would be so kind, he would love to hear you play some more. We both would.’

No hardship. Mel launched into Kreisler’s arrangement of
a Tartini fugue written for piano and viola, yet possible to perform as a solo. He gave them the complete piece.

‘Now may I know the history of this instrument?’ he asked after finishing.

For the second time, Olga put the question to Hamada.

Mel listened keenly to the answer and wondered if he could believe his ears, or had confused the sounds.

Olga translated for him and confirmed the name of the maker. ‘It’s an Amati, from 1625.’

‘Christ Almighty – I thought it was special.’

Four generations of the Amati family of Cremona were making stringed instruments from at least 1560. Nicolò Amati was said to have taught the craft to Antonio Stradivari and Andrea Guarneri. Amati violas were particularly prized because of their rarity compared with violins. Mel had heard of a 1613 Amati selling at auction for half a million pounds.

With reverence he replaced the instrument in its case. ‘That was an experience I wouldn’t have missed.’

Olga’s eyes shone with amusement. ‘Twenty minutes ago you were ready to walk out of here.’

‘I had no idea what was coming. Any musician worthy of the name would kill to play a fiddle of that quality.’

‘I hope not. We don’t want bloodshed.’

‘Mr. Hamada must be a very rich man as well as a connoisseur.’

‘He’s both.’

‘May I ask what his business is?’

‘Shipping, mainly, but he has other companies as well. Your glass is empty.’

‘My head is spinning and it isn’t the champagne.’

Hamada took this as the cue to refill Mel’s glass. He started speaking to Olga and it lasted some time.

She turned to Mel. ‘He admires your playing. He says a great instrument needs to be played by a top musician. He arranged for you to come here because he wanted to hear the Amati played by an expert. Now he is certain you must have it.’

‘
Have it
?’

‘On permanent loan.’

Mel felt the hairs straighten on his skin. ‘That’s incredible.’

He knew millionaire patrons occasionally presented precious instruments to musicians. This was how rising artists came to play some of the finest fiddles in existence. He’d never imagined such an opportunity would come his way.

‘How does Mr. Hamada know about me?’

‘He knew you joined the Staccati Quartet. They are respected throughout the world. They wouldn’t play with an inferior artist. The instrument is insured, of course, and so well known to connoisseurs that it could not be stolen and sold on for anything like its true value, but he will expect you to take great care of it.’

‘I’m still coming to terms with this,’ Mel said. ‘He’s suggesting I take it away today?’

‘This was always his intention. Stringed instruments are not meant to be kept in glass cases. If they are not played regularly they can deteriorate.’

‘Believe me, this will be played every day if it’s in my care,’ Mel said.

A smile as thin as a stray horsehair briefly settled on Hamada’s lips.

‘Of course he reserves the right to reclaim it at any time,’ Olga said, and she was speaking without any obvious prompting from her employer. ‘But his view is that an instrument of such quality should be played, and by a leading player.’

‘What am I supposed to do – sign an agreement?’

She shook her head. ‘Mr. Hamada’s view is that even if you broke an agreement and failed to return the Amati, nothing you possess could compensate him. He is not interested in financial compensation. This must be a pact of honour. On your side, to value the instrument and play it to its capacity. On his side, to make it available to you free of charge, to treasure and maintain in good condition.’

‘That will be my privilege and pleasure.’

‘And one more thing must be observed,’ she said, still
without obvious reference to Hamada. ‘The loan is confidential. He doesn’t like it known that he collects instruments or makes them available to top musicians. That’s why this meeting was arranged in secrecy.’

Mel immediately foresaw a problem. ‘Look, the other members of my quartet are sure to notice when I turn up with a new instrument and they’ll see at once that it’s very special.’

‘You can admit that you have it on loan. I dare say you would find if you asked that theirs are not their own. But you are not to tell anyone that Mr. Hamada is the owner. He would take that as a breach of faith.’

‘Understood. May I take it to rehearsals – or is it just to be used in the concert hall?’

‘I’ll ask him.’ After more consultation she said, ‘He says play on this viola and no other. Put in as many hours as you can. It can take several weeks to adjust to a new instrument.’

‘I know that from experience.’

‘And in addition the rehearsal process must require you to use the same instrument so that the other players can blend with your sound. Does that make sense musically?’

‘Perfect sense. I wanted to get the ground rules clear, so to speak. How will I stay in touch with you? Is there a contact number? Do you have a card, or something?’

‘Mr. Hamada will know where the quartet performs and practises. From time to time you may see him in the audience. Should it ever become necessary, we’ll contact you.’

‘Is there any time limit on this arrangement?’

‘None – for as long as you and he stay alive.’

‘We look to be about the same age.’

‘Stay fit, then.’ She added with a long, level look. ‘I believe he will.’

Mel faced Hamada again and gave a bow that would not have disgraced a Japanese ambassador. It was the best he could think of to demonstrate his thanks.

The same taxi was waiting in front of the hotel with the door open when Mel emerged carrying the two violas. In his state of unimaginable euphoria he climbed in. He continued
to grip the handles, even when seated. He wouldn’t dare believe he possessed an Amati until he got the little darling home, took it from its case and played something.

The taxi started over the cobbles.

‘I haven’t told you where we’re going,’ he said to the driver.

‘It’s all right, mate. They know where you live.’

Just for a second it was if a cloud passed across the sun, but he didn’t let it trouble him.

‘T
he Staccati String Quartet.’

The team stared at their boss as if he’d forgotten to dress. Peter Diamond as a classical music buff was hard to swallow.

‘Come on. We already know the murdered woman, Mari Hitomi, was wild about music, and we’re not talking reggae and rap. This is the serious stuff that goes on in concert halls. Ever heard of the
Nuns’ Chorus
, DC Gilbert?’

‘Sorry, guv.’

‘This will be an education for some of you.’

John Leaman said, ‘The
Nuns’ Chorus
as a string quartet will be an education for us all.’

Diamond ignored the sarcasm. ‘One of Mari’s close friends called her a classical music groupie. I didn’t know such things existed, but apparently they do – young girls as devoted to nerdy guys in white tie and tails as most kids are to their pop idols. Mari had posters of this string quartet in her bedroom in Yokohama. And for the past two months the Staccati have been resident in Bath.’

‘Teaching and performing at the university,’ Ingeborg added.

‘I’m surprised you’re all looking so open-mouthed,’ Diamond said. ‘They’re world famous. This is the breakthrough, the reason the victim came here. Sergeant Smith will now give us her take on the quartet.’

Ingeborg unfurled a poster and pinned it to the board. ‘The Staccati have been performing all over the world for at least fifteen years and this could easily be one of the posters
Mari had in her room. To be accurate, only three of these people are currently in the quartet. They changed their viola player recently. We’ll get a picture of the new guy soon.’

‘Are we treating professional musicians as murder suspects?’ John Leaman asked.