The Tooth Tattoo

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘No one is threatening her. I haven’t spoken to her for days.’

  ‘Yes, but any threat to her boys, as she calls them, makes her anxious. The quartet is her lifeline.’

  ‘Would she fight to defend it?’

  ‘Like a tigress.’

  ‘I’ll watch out, then,’ Diamond said as he took another mouthful. ‘This is good. The chef gets five stars from this critic.’ He looked straight into Douglas’s brown eyes. ‘And what’s in it for you, apart from your twenty percent?’

  For a moment, Douglas was lost for words. He wasn’t used to such bluntness. ‘The quartet are my friends, for one thing, and immensely talented for another. They need a manager, and I do my humble best for them.’

  ‘Isn’t there ever a time when you wish you were one of them?’

  ‘Not in a million years. I don’t have a musical bone in my body. Between you, me and the blessed Valerie, it’s an ordeal sitting through their concerts, but I have to show the flag.’

  ‘Yet you know the music business.’

  ‘From top to bottom. That’s my job.’

  ‘Your talent.’

  Douglas smiled. ‘Kind of you to say so, but I don’t think one should confuse the gift of the gab with the gift of the gods. What they have is genius.’

  More than a hint of envy lay behind those words, in spite of what had been said, Diamond decided. ‘Are they your biggest earners?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really say, in fairness to my other clients, but it’s blindingly obvious. Yes, they keep the wolf from my door, bless them.’

  ‘If they stopped performing for any reason, you’d feel the draught?’

  ‘And I’d know the door was open and the wolf was coming in. It happened, of course, when Harry went AWOL. Quite a crisis, that was.’

  ‘What’s your theory about what happened?’

  Douglas leaned so far across the table that he had to stop his tie from straying onto his raspberry tart. ‘This is strictly between you and me. Not even the sainted Valerie should be a party to it. He played a heck of a lot of poker, rather badly. You know what they say? If you’re invited to join a game, look around the table and if you don’t see a sucker, get up and go, because it’s you.’

  ‘He lost badly?’

  ‘Catastrophically badly and the sort of people he played with let the debts run up to a ridiculous level and then called them in. Several times he asked me for payment in advance for concerts that weren’t even in rehearsal yet. I did my best to help him out, poor fellow, because I could tell he was terrified.’

  ‘Under threat?’

  ‘No question.’

  ‘Do you think his creditors killed him?’

  ‘Sadly, I do.’

  ‘How would that have helped them?’

  ‘Pour encourager les autres. You don’t mess with the mafia.’

  ‘Is that who they were?’

  ‘He called them the mob. “The mob have called time on me,” were almost the last words he used to me. When I told the Budapest police, they seemed to take it as a reason to drop the case.’

  ‘When exactly did he speak these words?’

  ‘On the phone shortly after they arrived in Budapest.’

  ‘Did the others know he was in hock to the mafia?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. The group dynamic is complex. They appear to respect each other’s privacy, but they spend so much time together on tour that they must have an idea of everyone’s comings and goings. I’m in a privileged position because I hold the purse-strings. Occasionally they need bailing out. I’ll get a call asking if I can transfer some funds urgently.’

  ‘Which of them have called you?’

  ‘All, from time to time.’

  ‘What does Cat spend her money on?’

  ‘You name it. She’s a shopaholic. You should see the luggage she brings back.’

  ‘And Anthony?’

  Douglas gave the benign smile of a father figure. ‘The poor boy is hopeless with money. He’ll give it away. He visits call-girls and the smart ones get the measure of him and demand gifts of jewellery and exorbitant fees. It’s happened in several cities. Cat tries to keep tabs on him, but it’s not possible all the time and she can’t follow him into all the sordid addresses he visits. I wouldn’t ask her to.’

  ‘Which brings us back to Ivan,’ Diamond said. ‘He strikes me as the sort of guy who looks after number one. I can’t imagine him going to you for help.’

  ‘You’re right in a way,’ Douglas said. ‘There’s never an emergency. When he requires an advance it’s as an investment.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you? He’s a chess player.’

  ‘That much I know. Does he play for high stakes?’

  ‘I doubt it. No, he deals in chessmen. When the quartet are on their travels, Ivan always has a few beautiful handcrafted chess sets with him. He sells them to the people he plays with – at a handsome profit. If you’re fanatical about the game, these gorgeous carved figures are irresistible, I’m told.’

  ‘I see. So the investment you mentioned is to stock up with chess sets?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who is his supplier?’

  ‘Someone from Russia or the Ukraine he knows from years back. Must be Russia, come to think of it, because he wants his cash in roubles. It’s the black economy, I’m sure. None of this nonsense over VAT, or whatever tax they operate there. I turn a blind eye.’

  ‘And it’s big money, is it?’

  ‘Pretty impressive. And of course he’s paid in the local currency.’

  ‘There’s a chess club here in Bath, but I doubt if the members are in that league financially.’

  ‘He has contacts all over the world and some of them are very rich men. They tend not to be the sort who join the local chess club. But you’d have to ask Ivan if he’s done any business locally.’

  ‘I don’t want him to get the idea I’m in league with the taxman.’

  ‘Do you play chess yourself?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘A bit. I know the moves.’

  ‘Offer him a game. Give him a chance to show you how good he is. He never ducks a challenge. He’s a chess junkie.’

  ‘And do you think he’ll talk as we play? I’d like to ask him about the Russian connection.’

  ‘Be sure to get your question in early, then. He doesn’t take long over a game.’

  The afternoon session at the Michael Tippett Centre should have felt flat, coming, as it did, the day after the concert at Corsham Court. But Ivan suggested they were ready to play the Grosse Fuge in its entirety and, strange to relate, the challenge energised them all. The Everest of quartet music was written originally as the finale of String Quartet Opus 130 in B flat major, but Beethoven’s publisher persuaded him later to substitute a less demanding movement, and the Fuge was republished as a stand-alone work. Unlike anything else Beethoven created for strings, incomprehensible to many of his contemporaries, this overwhelming piece leaps forward musically into dissonance. Stravinsky famously called it “an absolutely contemporary piece of music that will be contemporary forever.” Strident, tempestuous, uneven, it makes huge demands on each player. Only in the fifth and final part does the composer relent a little and show harmony emerging from the skewed rhythms and variations.

  They finished exhilarated, their spirits lifted.

  ‘I’ve got the shakes,’ Mel said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Cat said. ‘This must be an electric chair I’m sitting on. Hey, no one ever got a better sound out of the Amati than you did just then. Listen. I swear it’s purring.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And you guys on the end weren’t rubbish, either. What do you say, Anthony? Was that the best yet?’

  ‘I was playing, not listening,’ Anthony said.

  ‘Not waving, but drowning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ignore me, sweetheart. Just something that popped into my head as you spoke. I know exactly what you
mean. I wish we’d recorded that. Personally, I think the composer himself would have clapped. D’you think God has fitted Beethoven with a hearing aid? I hope so. Ivan, have you taken a vow of silence? We’re all waiting for your verdict.’

  ‘You’re right. We should record it,’ Ivan said.

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘It’s a step on from the recording we made with Harry. A significant step.’

  ‘Count me in.’

  ‘If only for ourselves we should do it,’ Ivan said. ‘I can book the studio and the technical people. Let’s go for it tomorrow.’

  ‘All agreed?’ Cat said.

  The others nodded.

  ‘Better call those taxis, then. I’m getting an early night. I suddenly feel bushed.’

  The unexpected sound of a cough came from above them. They all looked up. The rehearsal studio had a gallery. Nobody was in sight, but they heard a door closing.

  ‘Someone was up there,’ Cat said. ‘Damn cheek, listening in.’

  ‘Students, I expect,’ Mel said. ‘You can’t blame them. After all, it is a music department.’

  Ivan was out of his chair and across the floor to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Cat said.

  He didn’t answer. They heard him running along the corridor towards the stairs.

  ‘He’s getting more paranoid by the day,’ Cat said.

  Mel stowed the Amati in its case and said with what he hoped was a voice devoid of urgency, ‘I’ll just take a look out the front.’

  ‘You’re no better than he is,’ Cat said. ‘All right. Leave it to Big Momma to fix the transport.’

  The entrance hall was crowded with students when Mel got there. After threading his way through to the plate-glass front he checked the open area where cars drew up. Nothing was parked there. But a black hatchback was speeding away along the drive and might just have been the Renault Megane. Difficult to be certain from that distance.

  He returned to the others. Ivan was back with them, fussing with his music sheets, clearly frustrated. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked Mel.

  ‘Out front.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Only a load of students. How about you?’

  ‘Negative.’

  Cat folded her arms and emitted a sharp, displeased breath. ‘What’s happening here? You guys are as jumpy as toads in a thunderstorm. Isn’t it time you let me in on the secret?’

  Ivan busied himself returning his violin to its case.

  The focus shifted to Mel. As the new man, he’d received nothing but friendship from Cat. He felt he couldn’t ignore her. ‘I told you about my little accident,’ he said. ‘What I didn’t say is that I’m pretty certain the car that knocked me down outside my lodgings was here the same afternoon, waiting out front. When Ivan and I took some interest, he drove off fast. I just went to check in case he was back today.’

  ‘And he wasn’t?’

  ‘I saw a car disappearing into the distance. It could have been the same one.’

  Ivan looked up. ‘You didn’t say that when I asked.’

  ‘Because I don’t know for certain.’

  Any of the others could have seen that a struggle was going on in Ivan’s mind. His cavernous Slavic eyes held Mel’s for a moment and then moved to Anthony and finally fixed on Cat. ‘I’ve been keeping something to myself because I didn’t think it was helpful for any of you to know. I can’t explain it. I don’t like to think what it means. I recognised the man in the car the other day, the man who is stalking us. I’m absolutely certain it’s Harry.’

  24

  Just when he’d scaled the heights, Mel was in free fall. His place in the Staccati had seemed secure, the Grosse Fuge mastered, the South American tour confirmed. His magnificent new instrument was producing sound of such purity that his soul rejoiced each time he put bow to strings.

  And now this.

  For all the amazement everyone had voiced, Ivan had insisted he was not mistaken. He wasn’t given to exaggeration. Precision was innate to his character, a Slavonic insistence on stating the facts with accuracy. No question: he had seen Harry Cornell sitting in that car.

  So if Harry was alive and secretly watching the quartet, what was his game? It seemed obvious to Mel. The man had decided he wouldn’t muscle in right away and demand his place back. He’d chosen to play it cautiously and get a sense of what was going on. His musicianship wasn’t at issue. He was a brilliant violist who had served the Staccati well, toured with them, played concerts, made recordings. They’d always spoken of him warmly. They’d surely welcome him back.

  After Ivan’s shock announcement, they had all made a point of saying it was the best news possible that Harry was alive. What else could anyone say? As to taking him back, they had the tact to stay silent while Mel was there. But there’s only one violist in a string quartet.

  Shocked and depressed, Mel sat in his room brooding on what would happen next. Without difficulty he could see himself back to the grind of playing for weddings and anniversaries, filling in when orchestras needed a stand-in for one of their regulars.

  Worse still, he’d be stuck with his old William Hill. Mr. Hamada would want the Amati back as soon as word reached him. What a wrench that would be. Mel had fallen in love with his new viola. It was a deeply emotional attachment. With that superbly crafted fiddle he experienced fulfilment, a richness of experience he hadn’t dreamed was within his capacity. He’d felt ready to join the company of the masters.

  Depression simmered for a while and turned to anger. Where had Harry bloody Cornell been for the past four years? He’d let his fellow musicians down, allowed them to think he was dead. They’d gone through a grim period when the quartet was in decline and virtually defunct. Now they were on the brink of success again, he expected his place back, all forgiven.

  Selfish git.

  Mel turned his left hand and looked at the graze-mark, still obvious. A great way to get back into favour, driving your car straight at your replacement on the team. And now he began to see the hit-and-run in a different light. Harry had followed him home, checking where he lived and waited for him to appear again. When the opportunity came he’d revved the car and sent him flying. Immediately after, Mel had been of a mind to dismiss the knockdown as partly his own fault. Now he was telling himself it was more sinister.

  Harry had deliberately tried to injure him.

  Or kill him.

  His first assumptions had been mistaken. Harry wasn’t playing the waiting game. He’d had long enough to get to know the quartet and their moods. They were a contrary bunch of people. Considering how shabbily he’d treated them, they may have decided he didn’t deserve a second chance. And if so, his remedy was to make certain they needed him by removing his replacement.

  It was a grotesque idea, but Mel had a sore arm to prove it.

  What was to stop Harry from trying again?

  Mel got up and stared out of the window. The street lights were on, but it was difficult to tell one parked car from another. Fear crept over him.

  Behind him he heard the door handle being turned.

  He swung round.

  ‘Only me,’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘You’ve got a visitor downstairs and he looks awfully like the stalker, but he’s an absolute charmer and he seems to know you, so I said I’d see if you’re in.’

  Typical, Diamond thought.

  Ivan’s lodgings were at one of the best addresses in Bath, Great Pulteney Street, palatial, quiet and only five minutes from the city centre. If anyone in the quartet was going to get the best digs, it would be their wily spokesman.

  Diamond wanted this to seem like a social call. He’d even thought about letting Ivan know in advance, but decided against that. Control freaks always change arrangements to suit themselves. He decided a surprise visit at about eight in the evening was best.

  The man wearing eye-shadow who answered said he was sorry but Mr. Bogdanov had made it crystal clear that he wa
sn’t at home to visitors tonight.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Diamond said. ‘I’m family.’

  Well, he was – to his sister Jean in Liverpool.

  Quite a few flights of stairs to the top flat. What a good thing it was, Diamond thought, that Ivan had only a violin to lug up there. A double-bass would have put him at risk of a coronary.

  It was dark on the top landing. Diamond couldn’t find a bell. He knocked with his knuckles, heard a movement from inside, and was ignored.

  ‘Ivan?’

  No response.

  ‘This is only Peter Diamond.’ He knocked harder. ‘From the Bath police … Are you all right in there?’

  He gave it a few seconds before upping the ante. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  He was getting impatient.

  ‘I don’t want to kick it in unless I have to.’

  He heard a safety-chain being slotted in. The door opened a couple of inches. ‘Didn’t they tell you downstairs? I’m not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Well, it’s happened, so you might as well see me.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a few minutes of your time. I’m not here officially. May I come in?’

  ‘About what?’

  Some flattery was wanted here. ‘I’m looking for some expert advice.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Who else? No one is better placed to help me.’

  After some hesitation: ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Ivan released the chain and admitted him. In a silk dressinggown, pyjamas and leather slippers, he could have been a character out of a Noël Coward play. It seemed right for a flat in Great Pulteney Street.

  ‘Were you practising?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘No, but I’m busy.’

  They were in a large sitting-room with an Afghan carpet, three-piece suite, music-stand and TV set. A violin in its case lay on one of the armchairs. Some foreign newspapers were scattered over another.

  ‘Is this what you’re busy at?’ Diamond had spotted a chessboard on a nest of tables, the pieces spread, as if in mid-game.