Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller)

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Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller) Page 21

by JJ Marsh


  A message from Anton flashed onto his phone.

  Any news about that cat? Please don’t give up on Blue. You promised.

  Rolf lifted his gaze to the clear night sky and sipped some tea. He wrote a reply.

  Blue hasn’t returned, sorry. I’m now staying with the maestro – 100% focus on the premiere. I’ll return daily to search for your beloved cat. Great news about the Fitz family!

  His phone glowed almost instantly with a return message.

  I’m happy you’re out of danger and thank you for continuing to look for that noisy bag of fur. I know I can count on you!

  His words provoked mixed feelings. The universal assumption that Leonor was dangerous made him uncomfortable. How much had they all been discussing him behind his back?

  Considering the first night at a new place was usually problematic in terms of decent rest, he drifted quickly into a dreamless sleep. Later, when he sat up in complete darkness, he remembered where he was, but had no idea of the time or what had startled him from his rest. He reached for his mobile. Shortly after one in the morning; he had slept only for ninety minutes. He took a sip of water and strained his ears for sounds from outside. There was nothing but a muted swoosh of city noise and the occasional rustling of a branch from the garden. Concentrated listening kept him wide awake. He flinched at a groan from the house, as day-warmed wood cooled by night. He had to breathe and calm down or he’d spend the rest of the night fidgeting and restless.

  Another sound came from beyond the patio, like a sequence of small steps through the grass, then freezing. He sat up in bed and turned his head so both ears picked up sound from outside the windows. He heard the steps again, very fast, ending in a gentle crack of a twig. A small animal, a fox maybe, wandering through the quiet night-time of the city. He relaxed onto his pillow and exhaled through his nose. Calm down, young man. Count some sheep and leave the creatures of the night to their business. His breathing slowed and his body sank deep into the mattress.

  A low whimper reached his ear, muffled through several walls. His unfamiliarity with the layout of the house made it impossible to judge which room it came from, but unlike the animal in the garden, this sound came from indoors. It faded in and out, barely crossing the audible threshold. Definitely human and probably female, the irregular moans could have been crying, pleasure or noises made by someone trying to escape a dream. Waves of whispering sound ebbed and flowed, as if a cello was playing a melody he’d forgotten, lulling him into a profound and untroubled sleep.

  Thick curtains blocked out the light of the dawn and birdsong preceded his alarm. A glance at his mobile showed him it was 06.55, five minutes before it was due to wake him with the sound of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’. He switched it off and luxuriated under the duvet for five more minutes.

  His nerves began to set in at breakfast. Jun made coffee and light conversation while they ate slices of bread, cheese and jam at the breakfast bar. The maestro did not appear. At quarter past eight, he stood in the doorway, unsmiling and tense, and said, “Shall we go?”

  They followed him out to his Volvo in silence and packed their gear into the boot. Jun hopped into the passenger seat and Rolf sat in the back. There was no conversation on the twenty-minute journey whatsoever. As they rounded the corner towards the Konzerthalle, the maestro indicated and pulled up by a bus stop. Jun jumped out, withdrew her baggage from the boot and said goodbye.

  Confused, Rolf looked over his shoulder at the receding figure and turned to meet the maestro’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  The maestro said one word. “Discretion.” He indicated and drove into the underground garage to his private parking space. “I leave you here, Herr Jaro, and I will see you in the rehearsal room. Have a good day.”

  Rolf watched the black-clad figure stride away and retrieved his own items from the vehicle. The atmosphere was uncomfortable. Tripping upstairs to his dressing room, Rolf questioned if it was a good idea to stay in his boss’s house on the run up to a crucial performance. He recalled the haunting voice during the night. Maybe it had been Jun crying. There wasn’t much he could do about it now. A shiver went through his upper body, as if to clear him of useless thoughts. He coughed into his fist, put the brittle ambience down to nerves and focused on his preparations for the rehearsal.

  Once more they would be on stage. This time not shambling in dribs and drabs, but dressed, prepared, made up, polished and pressed. They would wait in the wings and stride onto the space like an orchestra for a performance. In the corridor outside the male dressing rooms, there was a mixture of high spirits and tension. As a member of the tutti, Rolf had a seat in the communal room, where he prepared himself in silence. Sebastian came to stand behind him, meeting Rolf’s eyes in the mirror. He raised his eyebrows and gave the thumbs-up. Rolf understood. Sebastian’s role as section leader was to check in with each cellist, calming stage fright and offering reassurance. As the new boy, Rolf should have been trembling with fear. He wasn’t. He gave Sebastian the thumbs-up in return, offering him a confident nod.

  When the stage manager called the half, he and his colleagues tuned up, wished each other luck or exchanged some archaic rituals and finally lined up beside the stage managers’ console, waiting for proceedings to begin.

  Eventually, concertmaster René strode onstage, bowed to the imaginary crowd and spread his arms to welcome the musicians. With efficiency and speed, both sides filled the stage and took their seats. Once they were still, René bowed and threw out his right arm to welcome the maestro. As was tradition, the orchestra themselves did not applaud their conductor, merely shuffling their feet to indicate approval.

  Rolf reminded himself to breathe. The tension and anticipation of this moment held him like an insect in amber. Trudi touched her score with her bow, attracting Rolf’s attention. From the corner of her eye, she gave him a reassuring grin. He grinned back but did not turn. From that moment on, his focus was fully on the man at the podium, his own score and his fellow musicians in his peripheral vision. Everything was different – the stage lights, the angle of his fellow players, the height of the maestro at his podium. But they had been well trained. From the opening bars of the first movement, Rolf knew they were ready.

  They played without interruption and completed the entire concert in under two hours. No one dared express approval or approbation until the maestro had spoken. He said nothing, dismissing them for coffee and telling them to change their clothes. There would be a second rehearsal that afternoon after he had delivered notes in the practice room after the break. Then he stalked off into the wings. René hurried them off the stage so the technical crew could make necessary adjustments. Members of the orchestra packed away their instruments, subdued and uncertain. Trudi reassured Jun and Jun reassured Rolf and Rolf reassured Bertrand. They had all played to the best of their ability and should be celebrating. Instead they were taking sips of caffeine they didn’t need and trying to second guess what the problem might be.

  The maestro, as always, delivered his criticisms in a praise sandwich. He began by complimenting them on their appearance and their commitment. Damned by faint praise already. His notes lasted until lunchtime and everyone came in for criticism, literally everyone. Wilk stated he was horrified and embarrassed by their amateurish techniques, their missing entrances and off timing, their inattention to his instruction when it came to volume. The entire thing was not fit for public consumption. They still had time to make something bearable between now and Friday but only if he had their full concentration. Whatever else was going on in their lives had to be parked and attended to on Sunday at the earliest. If this afternoon’s performance was at the same standard of this morning Jurgen Wilk would consider cancelling Friday night.

  A collective gasp seemed to suck all the air out of the room and everyone froze.

  “You perceive this as an empty threat?” The maestro’s voice remained cool and dispassionate. “Ladies and gentlemen of the orchestra, all our reputa
tions are on the line. However, any one of you can find a position in some lesser orchestra where you can at least earn a living. My role here is already precarious as several of our sponsors perceive me as being too radical and progressive for such a landmark orchestra. If there is any danger of Friday’s performance making it look as if I missed the target, I will cancel it. This much I promise you. Now I suggest you break for lunch, think very hard about your attitude to your career and return with a determination to deliver the best performance of your lives. Break now until half past one, change, tune up and we perform in costume again at two o’clock. Don’t let me down again, I beg you.”

  No one suggested lunching together that day. People scattered in different directions to observe the maestro’s advice. Rolf decided to walk back to his apartment and eat a sandwich en route. If his calculations were correct, Leonor should be at the stables today and he could check the apartment downstairs for evidence of Blue’s return. The cat’s welfare meant so much to Anton. He dropped by a sandwich shop and bought something with chickpeas. He stopped at a phone box and called his apartment, relieved to hear there was no answer. Once outside the building, he rang the doorbell of the upstairs flat twice, three times. Only when convinced she was out did he let himself into the building.

  He entered Anton’s apartment and searched each room for any hint of Blue. There was none, but the wardrobe was now empty and several shelves of books had gone missing. Anton must have collected some things when no one was around. As Rolf left, it occurred to him to check the cellar. The laundry room looked innocent, although the box of cat biscuits had gone. There were some dark spots on the floor in front of the freezer. Rolf bent to examine them and saw they were only a few sprinkles of soil. Someone must have come down here with dirty shoes. He slowly walked towards the stairs, but then jerked around and opened the freezer. Bags of Sauerkraut, crushed ice and a few ready meals. What else did he expect? A single laugh escaped his throat, he rolled his eyes. The storeroom was unchanged as far as Rolf could see, and he ascended the steps once more. He hesitated in the hallway, wondering whether to pop into the first floor, but he didn’t dare be a second later than half past one returning to the Konzerthalle. He double-checked Anton’s door was locked and left.

  21

  “Whether he would have pulled Friday’s public dress rehearsal is open to discussion, but the threat did the trick. We’ve never played as crisply and on point as we did this afternoon. Are you still teetotal or do you want a beer?” Trudi laid her violin case on the table and went into her tiny kitchen.

  “Yes, please. I’m supposed to be, but one beer won’t hurt. I think he would have done it. He had a look in his eyes that showed he meant what he was saying. Remember that time he put René on a warning? Same thing. He was going to sack our first principal violinist and concertmaster, and to hell with the consequences from the board.”

  “René’s a sheep’s dick. He sees himself as the bad boy of classical music and takes every opportunity to get photographed ‘raising hell’. Or to be more specific, get photographed drinking too much, driving too fast and groping women who should know better. That kind of behaviour wasn’t even cool in the 80s. Here’s your Weissbier. I think we’ve earned it. Prost! Do you want a pizza delivered or should we get takeaway tapas? I know I invited you for dinner but I’m doing you a favour by not cooking, believe me.”

  Rolf took a long draught and relished the beguiling, hoppy taste. “I haven’t had tapas in ages, but I’m paying, OK? Just to say thank you for letting me relax here with you and give Jun and the maestro a break. Those two. It’s the real thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. You can just see it in the way they look at each other. But it won’t last.”

  “What?” Rolf was shocked. “Why ever not?”

  “Because when word gets out – and it most certainly will – that the conductor is sleeping with one of the principal violinists, one of them will lose their position. The board won’t stand for in-house shagging, at least when it’s common knowledge. My money’s on him. They want a safer bet than our experimental genius and they’re actively searching for reasons to kick him out. That’s why this weekend is so vital. If he gets gushing reviews from the critics, they’d be mad to replace him, so it will be Jun who gets fired. Her place is only secure if the feedback on his programming and conducting is lukewarm.”

  “Because then the maestro is out?” Rolf asked. “Poor bastards. They can’t win.”

  “No, they can’t. What about you? Have you left the psycho bitch for good? Or are you on a break and planning a passionate reunion after which you’ll never speak to me again because I called her a psycho bitch?”

  Despite himself, Rolf laughed. “I will always speak to you, no matter what happens. You’re one of my best friends, something Leonor hates.”

  Trudi watched him over her glass. “You having female friends?”

  “Me having any friends. No matter who I spend time with, she finds fault. Whereas she can hang out with whoever she likes. In her own words, she should be enough for me.”

  “But she wasn’t, was she?” Her blue eyes held his gaze. “Because you met Anton.”

  Rolf nodded and stared into his beer.

  “He didn’t tell me, by the way,” Trudi added. “I guessed. I know him better than he thinks. I was a bit pissed off he didn’t trust me, but as he said it was your secret too. Anton and I have been buddies forever and he would usually spill. But this time he didn’t. He kept it quiet for your sake. We only talked about it on Sunday after everyone had gone, I hope you know that.”

  A long swig of beer gave Rolf the composure to answer. “I know. I’m confused about Anton. I thought I might be falling for the guy, but now I know that’s not true. If anything I was falling for the contrast. When I was with Anton, it felt balanced. There’s nothing weird or dysfunctional about us and best of all, there’s no semblance of power games. We can just be together. I think it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever experienced that feeling.”

  Trudi drained her beer. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to make me cry, you soppy git. I’m hungry. Let’s go get tapas!”

  “In a minute. Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “The sponsors. Well, the whole board, I suppose. Do they have ... other expectations of the musicians than playing in the orchestra? You know, personal demands, that sort of thing? It’s just with Jun and the maestro, plus Anton hinted that something had happened with Hofmeister.”

  Trudi narrowed her eyes. “Personal demands? Did someone make a pass at you?”

  “No, not exactly. I just wondered what was going on, that’s all.”

  “As far as I know, nothing’s going on. If consenting adults want to jump into bed together, why spoil their fun? Now I want chicken cilantro and patatas bravas. What about you?”

  Wednesday and Thursday passed in a flurry of various urgencies. After Tuesday tapas with Trudi, Rolf had no need to find an excuse to go out in the evenings. The orchestra worked from nine in the morning till around nine o’clock at night, breaking for lunch and dinner. Private lives were on hold until everything was perfect. All they did was play, wait for notes, rehearse, eat and sleep. Jun chose to return to her own apartment during these intense few days, so the maestro drove Rolf and himself back and forth between the Konzerthalle and his house.

  The pressure on everyone, from the lighting technicians to stage manager to tutti demanded 100% focus. Rolf was too exhausted to attempt facile small talk on the journey to and from work. Yet those twenty minutes were an opportunity for the maestro to update Rolf regarding developments. Dieter Fitz had recovered from his overdose and was at home under his parents’ care. As yet, the boy had said nothing about the instigator of the slur against Anton.

  As good as his word, Rolf returned to 112 Gerhardstrasse either during his lunch break or after work to look for any sign of the cat. On none of these occasions did he see Leonor.

 
On Thursday evening, he asked the maestro to take care of his cello while he walked two blocks to his former apartment. Two small boys were playing marbles on the pavement as he approached. He stopped and watched them, impressed by their intense concentration. He didn’t think kids liked that sort of thing anymore. The white-blond head and the curly black hair were bent over their chalked diagram like true professionals. The blond reminded him of Dieter and he had a sudden flash of inspiration. As a member of the orchestra, he was entitled to two free tickets. What if he were to offer those tickets to Susanna Baia and Dieter Fitz?

  The idea delighted him. He made mental plans as he took a wide circle around the marble players so as not to disturb their chalkboard and paced up the path to the front door. As always, he rang the upstairs bell just to be sure she was not in the building. On this occasion, someone answered the intercom.

  “Who is it?” The voice was male, older and antagonistic.

  Rolf adopted his version of an Austrian accent. “Hello, good evening. I wanted to talk to you about the presence of God in your life. Do you have a moment?”

  “Piss off!”

  Rolf stayed in the shadow of the hallway several minutes, prepared to run if he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. No one appeared and he took the risk of unlocking the front door. He waited again and took cautious steps towards Anton’s apartment. Inside, things were exactly as he left them. He changed the water in the cat’s bowl, threw the kibble into the dustbin and replaced it with fresh, checked the cat flap and stood staring out of the French windows, willing the animal to appear. Then he noticed the pergola. The table was filled with obvious signs of revelry. Empty champagne bottles, dirty glasses, half eaten plates of food, an overflowing ashtray and soggy napkins gave evidence of some kind of celebration. Perhaps more than one, as Rolf had left on Monday evening.

 

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