The Tooth Tattoo (3 page)

It was like being told Orson Welles hadn’t run through the sewers.

‘I give up,’ Diamond said. ‘Where do we go to see something authentic in this city?’

‘Some of the exhibits are authentic. The salt and pepper pots unquestionably belonged to Beethoven.’

‘Big deal,’ Diamond murmured to Paloma.

‘You asked where it is,’ the old man said. ‘You’ll find it west of Freyung. This is an old part of the city. You go up a cobbled lane called Schreyvogelgasse to the Mölker Bastei and the Pasqualati House is there. I’ll show you.’

‘Is it worth it?’ Diamond asked Paloma, but she had already passed their map across.

‘Here.’ A bony finger pinned down the map. ‘At the western margin of the Innere Stadt.’

‘Some way off, then,’ Diamond said. ‘Maybe we should choose another composer’s house.’

‘This is Schreyvogelgasse. As you pass along, you may wish to glance at number eight. The doorway is famous. It’s where Harry Lime first appears in that film,
The Third Man
.’

Diamond’s eyes widened.

‘It looks as if we’ll be going there after all,’ Paloma said.

In the taxi, Diamond said, ‘I’m beginning to understand. They post little old men all over the city to bring innocent tourists down to earth with a bump.’

‘He was trying to be helpful.’

‘So was the guy on the Ferris wheel. There are some things I’d rather not be helped with.’

‘That’s rich – from a professional detective.’

‘A secret romantic.’

Her eyebrows popped up.

In the cobbled street she told him to stand in the doorway of number eight for a photo.

‘I can’t. It’s so cheesy.’

‘But you want to.’

He didn’t need any more persuading. He took up the pose, even giving his straw hat a rakish tilt.

The Beethoven house pleased Paloma. There was a good atmosphere and enough genuine relics to make the old man’s criticisms unimportant. ‘To think
Fidelio
was created here,’ she said.

‘Next door.’

‘It doesn’t seem to matter any more. Are you impressed? I’m sure I can feel his presence.’

‘It’s not my strongest suit, classical music,’ he admitted.

‘What is, apart from the Harry Lime Theme?’

‘Queen’s greatest hits, I suppose.’

‘I can see I’ll have to work on you.’

‘You can try. It’s still your day. How shall we spend our last couple of hours here?’

‘Let’s take a look at the Danube. Is it really blue? We haven’t seen it by daylight.’

The nearest bridge wasn’t far from their hotel. They packed, cleared their room, left the cases in a storeroom and strolled down Schwedenplatz.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Diamond said, studying the map. ‘It isn’t actually the Danube.’

‘Get away.’

‘It’s the Danube canal. The river is way off to the north-east.’

‘Second best as usual, then.’

Blue the water was, under a clear sky. They walked to the centre of the bridge and watched the shipping gliding underneath. A breeze ruffled Paloma’s hair.

‘This has been a treat,’ she said, linking her arm with his.

‘All of it?’

‘Every minute, now I look back. We got you out of the CID room for a whole weekend. Go on, admit it, you needed the break.’

‘It’s done me good,’ he said.

‘And all because of that scratch-card. Next time we shouldn’t rely on a piece of luck. I’ll try persuading you to look at a travel brochure.’

‘Don’t push it.’

With more time in hand they bought ice creams and took a walk along the embankment.

‘Look, someone’s dropped some flowers,’ Paloma said as they approached a point where some steps led down to a mooring. A bunch of pinkish-white flowers wrapped in paper was lying on the pavement. When they got closer, they saw
more flowers pressed into the lattice mouldings in the wall. Most were dead carnations. ‘It must have fallen out.’ She stooped to lodge the fresh flowers back into a space in the stonework. They were star-shaped with long, yellow-tipped stamens. ‘The scent is powerful. Must be some type of lily. The place has been made into a little shrine. Do you think someone drowned here?’

‘Hard to say,’ he said, wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Where are the little old men of Vienna when we need one?’

‘There’s a card with one of these dead bunches, some kind of message. But it isn’t in German. I think it’s Japanese.’

T
emptation arrives in many forms. For Mel, it was cued by the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, the ringtone on his phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr. Farran, the viola player?’ A male voice, educated, middle-aged and as imperious as Sir Thomas Beecham’s in rehearsal.

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you have a moment?’

‘Depends. Are you selling something?’

‘Certainly not. This is a serious call.’

A rap over the knuckles. Mel should have cut the call immediately and saved himself from the wrecking ball that was swinging his way.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘That’s immaterial at this juncture. Call me Ivan, if you wish. I have a proposal massively to your advantage.’

‘You
are
trying to sell something.’

‘Pay attention, please. This is about your professional career.’

‘As a musician?’

‘Naturally.’

‘A gig?’

A pause. Ivan was plainly unhappy with the expression and considering whether to hang up. ‘More than that, much more – if you’re prepared to cooperate. But this is too important to discuss over the phone. Are you free tomorrow evening?’

‘Free for what?’

‘For a drink and a chance to discuss the opportunity. I’ll send a car at seven thirty.’

‘You know where I live?’

‘This isn’t spur of the moment, Mr. Farran. I’ve heard you play, or I wouldn’t be bothering.’

Let’s admit it – flattery is a sure-fire persuader. ‘Where are we having this drink?’

‘At my club. There’s a dress code, by the way. Lounge suit and tie. You do possess a suit?’

Irritated by the patronising tone, sceptical, yet intrigued, Mel switched off and pocketed the phone. In truth, he was in no position to turn down the invitation. A life in classical music is precarious. His income from orchestral work and teaching was barely a living wage. Yet he was good at what he did. He’d been gifted with perfect pitch and a mother hooked on Mozart. Handed a miniature violin at an age when other kids were learning to tie their shoelaces, he’d mastered the basics within days. He was taught by an elderly Polish maestro and within a year on his advice switched to a miniature viola. Really. They do exist. Violists, the maestro told him, were always in demand, whereas there was a glut of violinists. The old man had been right – to a degree. Mel had never gone for long without ensemble work. He’d survived. However, there wasn’t much prospect of advancement. Solo opportunities with the viola were rare. If he’d excelled at the violin – as everyone suggested he could have done – the repertoire is huge and he could have toughed it out with the army of East Asian players who came along at that time. No use complaining now. He could play both instruments to a good level, but it was the viola he was known for. He’d trained at the Royal College and filled in with some of the great orchestras of Europe. Violists are an endangered species. If he’d known just how endangered, he wouldn’t have listened to Ivan. But he was an innocent. At twenty-nine, he needed an opportunity and this promised to be it.

Single, hetero, not bad looking, he was originally from Beaconsfield and currently living in a poky first-floor flat in
Acton, West London. Fingis Street had never seen the like of the gleaming black limo that drew up outside at seven thirty. Good thing he didn’t keep it waiting or the local youths would have unscrewed the Mercedes logo in seconds and scraped a coin along the bodywork to see if it was real.

He was wearing an almost new pinstripe suit from Oxfam. You can bet the original owner had died, but you can’t get fussed about stuff like that when you’re skint and need to look respectable. All of his work clothes, evening suits, dress shirts and bow ties, black and white, also came from charity shops. Bargains, every one.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked the driver.

‘Clubland, sir. St James’s.’

‘Which club?’

‘I was told it’s confidential.’

‘Well, I’m being driven there, so I’m going to find out.’

‘And I have my orders, sir.’

Mel didn’t press him. If Ivan wanted to make a cloak-and-dagger occasion out of the meeting, let it be, he told himself to calm his nerves. He hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a huge let-down.

For all the man-about-town bluster, Mel couldn’t say he was familiar with the St James’s area of London. He’d never set foot in a gentlemen’s club, and when they drew up outside a set of white steps to a shiny black door with brass fittings, he forgot to look for the name.

The doorman had his instructions and waved Mel through when he said who he was. Carpeted entrance hall, grand staircase and oil paintings in gold frames. Mel couldn’t say who painted them, except it wasn’t Andy Warhol or Francis Bacon. A short, bald man appeared from behind a potted fern and extended his hand. The grip was firm, as if they were old chums.

‘So glad you came. There’s an anteroom we can have to ourselves. Have you eaten?’

‘Yes,’ Mel lied, not wanting to be treated to a meal before he knew what this was about.

‘In that case, cognac should go down well. Agreed?’

A beer would have been more to Mel’s liking, but he didn’t have the neck to ask for one. A club servant was sent for the cognac.

Bound copies of
Punch
lined the anteroom. Laughs all round.

‘I still don’t know your surname,’ Mel said when they were seated in leather armchairs either side of a marble fireplace big enough to park a car in.

‘Better you don’t unless and until we come to an agreement,’ his host said. ‘You will have guessed I, too, am a musician. Violin. You’ve heard me play.’

‘Have I?’

‘Possibly in the concert hall and certainly on disc.’

What do you say to that? If the guy was a soloist, Mel didn’t recognise him. He could think of dozens he’d heard in the last eight years.

‘In a well-known string quartet,’ he added.

‘Ah. Am I supposed to guess which?’

‘No.’

Be mysterious, Mel thought. See if I care. The cognac arrived in a cut-glass decanter and was poured into balloon glasses. Ivan waited for the flunkey to leave the room.

‘There could be a vacancy in the quartet,’ Ivan said.

‘Could be?’

‘Is.’

‘For a violist? And you have me in mind?’

‘In mind is a good way of putting it.’

Mel waited, but nothing else followed. ‘Is this an offer?’

‘Not yet. The others will have a say.’

‘Are they coming here to join us?’

‘No.’

‘Who are they?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

All this stonewalling was hard to take. Ivan had issued the invitation. He should have been selling the deal. Instead he was swirling the brandy in the glass as if he was reading tea-leaves.

At last, he said, ‘It’s not straightforward.’

‘That’s getting obvious,’ Mel said.

‘The others don’t know I’ve approached you. I believe I can persuade them. We play as a unit, but we’re all individuals, which is our strength. A quartet of yes-men would never make fine music. Playing in a quartet is all about dialogue, distinct voices that respond to each other, but not passively. There’s question and answer in musical terms, sharp debate, argument even. It isn’t all resolution and harmony.’

Mel felt like saying he wasn’t a total beginner. He’d played in quartets. ‘You said they don’t know about me. What if they don’t approve?’

‘I would expect to persuade them – if I’m persuaded myself.’

‘You said on the phone you’ve heard me play.’

‘But can you commit?’

‘Commit what – murder?’ A cheap remark. Something had to be said to lighten the mood.

Ivan didn’t smile. ‘Commit to a trial period of, say, a year? It would mean total loyalty to the quartet, rehearsals, business meetings, performances, recordings and touring.’

‘I’d need to know more.’

‘In particular?’

‘Who am I replacing?’

‘That I can’t say.’

‘Has he retired – or have you given him the elbow?’

‘Neither.’

‘Died?’

Silence.

‘He’s still playing? You’re plotting to dump him and he doesn’t know?’

A shake of the head. ‘We’re professionals, Mr. Farran. We have our disagreements, but we’re not like that.’

‘Speaking of the professional part, how much would I expect to earn? I need to live.’

‘Enough for that, and more. We divide all the income equally and that includes our manager. As a new member, you’d take home precisely the same as the rest of us. Not as
much as a bank executive earns, but better than you’re used to getting.’

‘How much approximately?’

‘Just under six figures in a good year.’

Yoiks. This was the first thing Mel had heard that he liked. ‘At some point soon, you’ll have to come clean about who you are, the name of the quartet. If you’re earning that money, you must be famous.’

‘The fame is immaterial. You’re single, yes?’

‘I am.’

‘So touring shouldn’t be a problem?’

‘I guess not.’

‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets. There’s no sharing of rooms, no forced mingling. All we would insist on is that you are there for rehearsals and concerts. If we take on a residency, as we may, that can involve some teaching. Are you comfortable with that?’

‘I’ve done some. I’d still want to meet the others before deciding.’

‘Naturally – and they will insist on meeting you.’

‘So will it be arranged?’

Ivan hesitated. ‘Possibly. In the fullness of time.’

The ‘fullness of time’ was presumably how long it would take to dump the current violist, Mel mused, wondering what the unfortunate musician had done wrong. Difficult to feel comfortable about this set-up, but he was willing to stretch a point for a hundred grand a year.