‘The body wasn’t found until after you’d all left. So you were in Vienna yourself?’
‘It’s one of my favourite cities.’
‘Mine, too,’ Diamond said as if he was a world traveller. ‘Was this visit prior to the Budapest engagement when your violist went missing?’
The manager’s face creased in alarm. ‘By God, it was. All part of our 2008 European tour. How extraordinary. It’s got to be a ghastly coincidence.’
Diamond didn’t need to comment on that. A voice from across the room announced, ‘The concert will begin shortly. Kindly proceed into the picture galley and take your seats.’
‘Are you going in?’ Christmas said.
Diamond nodded. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Better not delay.’ He was off.
Diamond’s gaze returned to the opposite side of the room, where Paloma and her partner were in conversation with some other people. ‘They’re in no hurry,’ he said to Ingeborg. ‘Why don’t they bloody move?’
‘Cool it, guv.’
The anteroom was emptying fast. His plan to hold back would misfire if he and Ingeborg were left there, conspicuous.
‘We’d better go in,’ Ingeborg said.
Still he hesitated.
And then Paloma turned her head and saw them. Her brown eyes held Diamond’s briefly and widened in shock. Of all the people she might have expected to see at a chamber music recital, he would not have been high on the list. Clearly embarrassed, she swung away, grasped her partner’s forearm and almost tugged him towards the door.
‘Did you see that?’ Diamond said to Ingeborg. ‘She was holding his arm. Do you think they’re an item?’
‘Guv, I’ve no idea.’
He was hurting. ‘The body language says everything, doesn’t it? They’re more than just friends.’
‘Don’t let it get to you. It may be quite innocent.’
‘What’s she doing here anyway?’
‘I expect she’s saying exactly the same about you. We’d better go in.’
They took the end seats in the last row but one. Paloma and her escort were closer to the front, in the middle of the second row. Capability Brown’s gallery was seventy-two feet by twenty-four and the seating had been arranged lengthwise, but in a shallow arc facing a white marble fireplace. Chairs and music stands for the performers were positioned in front.
Diamond’s police career had put him in some unlikely places. This, by his standards, was among the most alien. Classical art was not his thing any more than music was. The pictures were hung in the style of the early nineteenth century, when the objective was to use as much wall space as possible. Large gilt-framed paintings from the Methuen family’s collection were suspended one above the other in twos and threes. To his eye the pictures looked sombre and repellent. He had no confidence that the music would be any more congenial.
A ripple of applause started and grew in volume. The quartet made their entrance. Ivan Bogdanov led them in, violin and bow in hand, a squat, bald figure in a white jacket and white bow tie that was their uniform. Even Cat Kinsella had a jacket over a white top and wore dark trousers like the others. Her waist size was probably more than twice Ivan’s. But she walked well and had no difficulty carrying her cello. Anthony Metcalf was the tallest, handsome, expressionless, indifferent to the audience. Finally came Mel Farran and he was definitely interested in the sea of faces, taking nervous glances as he moved towards the music stands. A strip of white bandage covered the outer edge of his left hand.
‘Pick your killer,’ Diamond said to Ingeborg and the woman in front of them stopped clapping and turned to see who had spoken.
The musicians took their places and spent a moment adjusting the lights on their music stands.
‘What are they going to play?’
‘It’s on the sheet,’ Ingeborg said out of the side of her mouth.
‘What sheet?’
‘On the chair when we came in.’
‘Ah.’ He’d been too interested in Paloma to notice. He shifted his weight to the left, delved under his thigh and retrieved it.
Beethoven, Opus 59, No. 3 in C major.
The quartet must have tuned their instruments off stage. Ivan gave a nod, put bow to string and they were straight into it.
19
‘Is that it?’ Diamond asked. The clapping had finished and everyone was moving.
‘Only the interval,’ Ingeborg said.
‘God help us.’
‘Be thankful for small mercies.’
He stood up to get the feeling back into his legs. The seats weren’t the most comfortable. At the same time he looked across to where Paloma had been.
She’d gone.
He’d spent much of the concert debating with himself whether to go over and speak to her. She had definitely spotted him. It seemed churlish to go through the evening without saying anything. Yet weeks had passed with no contact and the last words she’d spoken had been about as final as you can get between people in a relationship. He wasn’t good at peacemaking.
And yet …
If she’d come here alone, he told himself, he would have seized his chance. She might well have given him the frost, but at least the pain would be private to the two of them. The new companion – or whatever he was to her – made any approach a minefield. Diamond knew for sure that if the dog’s dinner pitched in with backchat or sarcasm he’d give him more than a mouthful, and what use was that? Paloma would side with her new man and a bad situation would get massively worse.
‘I’ll be back presently,’ Ingeborg said.
‘Oh, sure.’
Needing to get his head straight as well as pumping some blood into his legs, he stepped over to the nearest wall and stood in front of the pictures. They held as much interest for him as outdated copies of Country Life in a dentist’s waiting room. Reynolds, Romney and Rubens weren’t his choice of painters. The Diamond theory of art required scenes and figures that looked real, as these did, but not so laboured over that they lost all vitality. He preferred the style of Hockney, fresh, bold and cheerful.
‘Didn’t expect to find you here.’
He swung round and there she was. Give Paloma her due: she wasn’t letting their recent history stop her from speaking to him.
No problem now with circulation. Heart thumping, he managed to say, ‘Likewise. How’s it going?’
‘Fine. And you?’
‘Soldiering on.’
Something was different about her, apart from the hair colour. He realised her eyes were level with his. Those crazy heels made her taller.
But the eyes weren’t angry, as he’d seen them last. Her mouth curved upwards. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, string quartets were never mentioned.’
‘That’s for sure. I’m no expert.’
‘But it’s nice you’re giving it a try. The Staccati are about as good as it gets. Did Ingeborg persuade you to come?’
She’d spotted Ingeborg, then. What did she think – that he was dating one of his team? ‘No. I invited her in case I made a fool of myself clapping in the wrong places.’
‘Is she into classical music?’
‘Not really. As an ex-journo, she’s done most things.’ He’d skirted around the real reason for his presence here. Paloma seemed so encouraged that he was doing the cultural bit that he didn’t want to disillusion her and admit he was on police business.
‘Invitations to these soirées are hard to come by,’ she said.
‘I got ours through Georgina. She’s well connected.’
‘Through her choral singing? Of course. So did you enjoy the Beethoven?’
‘I’d have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t got pins and needles in my legs. The seats aren’t the most comfortable.’
‘I know what you mean. I wanted to stand up halfway through. I expect they hired them specially for the concert.’
‘Those look better.’ He was eyeing the long row of padded chairs ranged along th
e wall below the pictures.
‘They’re Chippendale,’ Paloma said, ‘and not for sitting on. Not these days, anyway. I’ll tell you something that will amuse you. See the fabric they’re covered with? What do you notice about it?’
‘Matches the walls?’
‘Right. It’s exactly the same stuff, crimson silk damask. At some point the original chair coverings got worn to shreds and needed replacing. Unfortunately the same fabric couldn’t be got for love nor money, so some bright spark came up with the idea of cutting out patches of the wall-covering from behind the pictures and using them on the chairs. If you took the pictures down, you’d see a lot of large square holes. It means they can’t change the arrangement, so they’re stuck with this crowded display that was okay two hundred years ago, but looks all wrong now.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I know the house well. It’s sometimes used for period dramas. Northanger Abbey. The Remains of the Day. They usually get my help.’
‘Should have realised. Seeing you here, I didn’t think of that. Is the business thriving?’
‘Doing okay. And yours? Still keeping the crime rate down?’
He smiled. ‘Mostly.’
‘How’s Raffles?’
‘The same, running the house the way he likes.’
The small talk would run out soon. Diamond hadn’t found out for certain if she was in a new relationship.
‘People seem to be returning to their seats,’ Paloma said.
‘Where exactly are you?’ he asked as if he hadn’t been watching her all evening.
‘Over there. Third row back. You haven’t met Mike, have you? The tall guy in the light grey suit. He’ll be wondering where I am. Better get back to him. Enjoy the rest of the music.’
She was away. A civilized exchange had been ruined for him by the way she spoke about the dog’s dinner: Mike – not Michael, but the shorter, more familiar name, suggesting a closeness that hit Diamond like a low punch. The very fact that she’d left the guy alone for the whole of the interval indicated that they’d passed the stage of dating. He’ll be wondering where I am. She could have been talking about her husband.
Diamond slunk back to his seat.
Ingeborg was already looking at the programme. ‘The cellist is doing a solo next.’
‘Ah.’
‘ “Salut d’Amour”.’
Cat Kinsella’s arrival was warmly applauded. The confident way this woman with the girth of a sumo wrestler carried in her cello and positioned it between her knees spoke volumes for her temperament. She began playing with a clear, strong note.
Elgar’s bittersweet music was never going to lift Diamond out of his low mood, but he was here for a reason and by degrees he forced himself to give all his attention to Cat. What was it that made her prefer playing in the quartet to giving solo performances like this? By all accounts she was in the first rank as a cellist, capable of any of the great concertos in the repertoire. She could be a virtuoso, a top name in her own right.
There are people who think of themselves as team players. Mostly they relish the support of those around them. He wasn’t sure if this was true of the Staccati. They were more like talented individuals who tolerated each other. Of the four he’d met, Cat had the most regard for the others. She spoke well of them all, even the nitpicking Ivan. With her sharp wit, she was good at defusing tensions between the men. As the solitary female, did she see her role as a peacekeeper or something more? Were they a foster family for a woman without children of her own? Or was she living the dream that she had three lovers? Who could say what her sexual fantasies might be – or what actually happened.
Out here alone, the focal point of the entire room, interpreting Elgar with skill and sensitivity that even Diamond could appreciate, she still left him puzzling how it could be that she was happier when performing with the men around her.
The piece came to a plaintive end. She stood and dipped her head as the audience responded. Seated again, and as if to demonstrate that there was another side to Cat Kinsella, she launched into the ‘Ritual Fire Dance’. The audience had its passions well stirred and quite forgot that it was middle class in middle England in midwinter.
‘How about that?’ Ingeborg said over the cheering at the end.
‘Best I’ve heard tonight.’
‘Me too.’
Difficult to follow a turn as gripping as that. Next on was Mel Farran, the new member. He looked even more ill at ease than when he’d made his original entrance with the others. He knocked one of the music stands with his foot and almost tipped it over. Some of the bandage on his hand had come unstuck and he had to press it back into place. Mel clearly wasn’t comfortable in this situation. Before he played the first note he seemed to be scanning the rows as if he expected a gunman out there. Diamond watched, intrigued. All right, chum. The worst you’ll see is a couple of detectives you’ve already met, and they ought to give you confidence. If you’ve done nothing wrong, that is.
Mel played two pieces by Fritz Kreisler. Once under way, he became calmer and so did the audience. Difficult for Diamond to tell whether he was playing well. More out of relief than anything else the audience gave him a generous reception, after which he was joined by Ivan Bogdanov for an arrangement for viola and violin of Handel’s Harpsichord Suite No. 7 in G minor. The two blended well.
While the piece was being played, Diamond’s concentration wasn’t total, or even partial. He’d heard almost as much of this stuff as a man could take in one evening – a man whose musical education hadn’t up to now stretched beyond Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé singing ‘Barcelona’. His attention wandered to the huge painting over the mantelpiece, a particularly gruesome hunting scene. People mostly on horseback were slaughtering wolves and foxes with clubs and spears. Dead and dying animals testified to the success of the day’s sport. A strange backdrop for a musical soirée. How ironic if one of the quartet turned out to be a killer.
All four returned to play the last piece on the programme, Andante Festivo, by Sibelius. At this stage of the evening the term ‘strung out’ summed up Diamond’s condition in more senses than one. But the piece was mercifully over in about five minutes. Then to his despair the audience demanded an encore. They wouldn’t stop clapping.
Ivan led the musicians off.
‘Thank God,’ Diamond said to Ingeborg.
She said, ‘Hang about, guv. They’re coming back.’
Diamond’s buttocks flexed. Amazing any life was left in them.
Ivan stepped forward to speak. ‘We would like to offer you a piece neglected by many ensembles: the Sibelius String Quartet in D minor, Opus 56.’
Huge applause.
The buttocks went into spasm. Another entire quartet.
As if he was a mind-reader, Ivan continued, ‘But it’s late and unfortunately we don’t have time for the entire composition, so with apologies to Sibelius we’ll pick it up at the start of the fifth and final movement. Thank you for being such a splendid audience.’
The quartet knew what they were doing. Whatever it was that made the Sibelius a neglected quartet, its climax was a sure-fire audience-pleaser, the Allegro, dynamic, demanding and impassioned. When the bows were lifted from the instruments a standing ovation followed. Diamond was among the first to rise. He needed no prompting.
‘I’ve become a fan,’ Ingeborg told him. ‘Wasn’t that awesome?’
‘Yes, but don’t overdo the clapping.’
‘Such talent. It’s almost impossible to believe one of them could be …’
‘I can believe it, no problem,’ he said.
20
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ivan asked.
‘My hand, you mean?’ Mel said. ‘It’s not serious.’
‘Your whole performance. You were pathetic. Timing, intonation. And don’t blame the new instrument. You were perfectly good in rehearsal.’
The quartet were using the gothic library in the West Wing
at Corsham Court as a base. Their manager Douglas had joined them. Tired and drained from the performance, they were supposed to be unwinding before travelling home. This wasn’t unwinding; it was winding up.
Cat came to Mel’s defence as if she was shaping a passage with her cello, a stabilising counterpoint. ‘Ivan, that’s way over the top. He wasn’t that bad. He was a damn sight better than most of the so-called violists we’ve played with, and I never heard you slag one of them off.’
‘Because we know he can do better.’ Ivan turned on Mel again. ‘Are you a drinker? If you are, we have a right to be told.’
With the musicians almost squaring up to each other, Douglas tried his old-school best to calm the situation. ‘Steady on, old man.’
Mel decided the others deserved an explanation. More than anyone, he knew his playing hadn’t been up to standard. ‘Ivan is right. I was rubbish. I had a fall today. Well, to be honest, I was knocked down by a car.’
Douglas said, ‘Stone the crows!’
‘And it wasn’t due to drink, not on my part, anyway.’
‘Where did this happen?’ Cat asked.
‘In the street outside my lodgings. My landlady spotted this stationary car with someone seated inside staring at the house. He’d been there a long time and she thought we had a stalker. She has a rather attractive daughter. I went over to speak to the guy. When he saw me coming he drove off fast. I don’t think he meant to hit me. He just wanted to be away, but the side of the car brushed against me and sent me flying.’
‘So he was a stalker?’ Cat said.
‘He wasn’t staying to talk about it, whoever he was.’
‘That’s how you did your hand?’
‘It was grazed and bled a bit. My arm is the problem. It’s stiff today and I bashed my head on the road as well.’
‘And still turned up tonight and gave a performance?’
Cat said. ‘Played your solo pieces and the duet as well as the Beethoven and the Sibelius? That’s heroic.’ To Ivan, she said, ‘I hope you’re about to apologise for the snide remarks you made.’
‘I do.’
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