by JJ Marsh
His face reminded Rolf of Blue the Burmese as he watched the starlings. He was about to pounce. “My fiancée and I are founding an orchestra. Yes, I said fiancée. I have asked Jun to marry me and to my eternal gratitude, she said yes.”
“That’s the best news!” Rolf found he was beaming. “You make a brilliant couple! Wait, founding an orchestra ... where?”
Wilk’s smile spread again. “In the city of Munich. Germany offers more competition, more variety and nowhere is overshadowed by one composer. That’s the reason I’m here, Rolf. I want to offer you a formal invitation to be my principal cellist. Be warned, if the City Orchestra took risks, this ensemble is going to be as avant-garde as it gets. Don’t answer me now. In your package is a document setting out our vision. Read it, consider your future and let me know when you get out.”
Toes clenched, fists grasped and forehead resting on his knuckles, Rolf breathed. It was too much to take in and he was afraid he would cry. Principal cellist in Jurgen Wilk’s orchestra? Even his most indulgent fantasies had not reached such heights. When he finally looked up, Wilk was still there, watching him with a calm benevolence.
Rolf couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “I can give you my answer now.”
“That is not necessary. You may feel very differently in six weeks. Read my document and think it over.” He placed a finger to his lips, bowed and stood up to leave.
Rolf watched him go, torn between running after the slight black figure and rushing to his room for the package. He signalled to the warder he was ready to leave.
The parcel was already on the table in his room. He unwrapped it carefully to find a selection of teas from Jun and a pair of grey silk pyjamas with a sweet card of encouragement. Trudi’s letter contained some pictures of her pulling faces while holding Blue to face the camera. She looked delighted, the cat less so. Godmother to a fur baby – can you believe it? He could. She looked happy and in love with her role. As far as Rolf could see, Trudi’s hands appeared fully recovered and her fierce smile shone more strongly than ever, probably fuelled by several glasses of Sekt. As always, she included several newspaper cuttings about the never-ending dramas at Salzburg City Orchestra. He put them aside to read when he felt strong enough and opened the envelope from the maestro.
Jurgen Wilk was offering him a year-long contract to help establish a new orchestra in Munich. Rolf laughed aloud at the name: ODA stood for Orchester der Aussenseiter, the Orchestra of Outsiders, or as Wilk expressed it, the Orchestra of the Underdogs. Most of his friends would be there: Trudi, Jun, Bertrand and the maestro himself. It would be like going home, returning to the fold. First cellist in an avant-garde ensemble, making a name for himself and showing the world he could overcome the taint of a prison sentence. He’d be crazy to turn it down.
There was a second letter in his pile with a Salzburg postmark. The address on the reverse was where Rolf had spent so many frustrating hours trying to explain what happened fifteen months ago. Memories of the police station should have depressed him, but instead he tore open the envelope with genuine eagerness. Inspector Weissmann had saved him from a murder charge and Rolf would never forget it. His belief in Rolf’s version of events had even led him to testify on behalf of the defendant. His painstaking efforts proved there was only one person responsible for the death of Anton Berger and that was Leonor von Rosenheim. The gun found in her suitcase at the home of Max Hofmeister, DNA evidence on Anton’s body and even the cat carrier removed all doubt.
Rolf owed him an enormous debt. During his year at Loeben, Weissmann had never actually visited, but had sent occasional letters with updates on the fallout from the case. His letters had grown chattier, dropping in news of the orchestra and rumours about the board. He never mentioned anything personal or anything about his work, but the two had exchanged half a dozen letters in the past twelve months.
This one might well be their last.
Lieber Herr Jaro
I hope this finds you well and in an optimistic frame of mind. Only this morning, I marked an appointment on my calendar and noted the upcoming date of your release. Something to celebrate, I feel.
You have mentioned no future plans in any of our correspondence and I understand why not. Should you consider returning to Salzburg, a pleasant way to spend an evening is by having a few drinks in one of Salzburg’s many beer gardens with an old friend. We could even take in some music, a string quartet perhaps.
That is, of course, if you plan on returning to the city. It would be quite understandable if a man of your talents preferred to start afresh somewhere new.
As for myself, I have been offered a promotion. A prestigious role as an inspector in Vienna, targeting organised crime. Naturally, I turned it down. Sometimes, you get tired of striving to be top dog. I know and love my place. Which like many old dogs, lies in the familiar.
If you do ever find yourself in Salzburg, you know my number.
I wish you every happiness in your future.
With warmest regards,
Henrik Weissmann
Outside, the sun dipped towards the horizon and a chill breeze replaced the glow of the afternoon. Rolf placed the letters, presents and photographs in his desk drawer to re-read before bed. He stood on his tiny balcony, watching leaves blow around the courtyard. Lifted, dropped, whisked and spun by gusts of wind, the autumnal ballet was hypnotic and beautiful in its way. Patterns formed and disappeared, leaving no trace. The choreographer moved on, abandoning the dancers as nothing more than dead foliage to be swept up tomorrow morning by whoever was on gardening detail.
Standing there as light leached from the sky, Rolf sensed something settle in his own mind. He could take the role of principal cellist in Munich, striding on stage with no hint of fear, performing ground-breaking compositions under the direction of Jurgen Wilk – at the same time, living every hour of his life while not onstage besieged by feelings of guilt and fraud. Unlike Weissmann, Rolf didn’t know or love his place. He was still trying to be something he was not.
A memory floated to the surface and Rolf let it come. He’d done enough therapy to know that facing the past was the only way to take away its power. But this was no terrifying flashback. He was playing his cello in a park. People were moving with the music, he was at one with the world and it made him happy. No pressure, no conductor, no competition, no mentor. Just him and his cello.
That was his place, and he loved it.
Dear Reader
I hope you enjoyed Rolf’s story. My other psychological drama, Odd Numbers, was shortlisted for the 2021 Selfies Prize.
If you liked Wolf Tones, you might find this wintry adventure equally thrilling.
CLICK TO DOWNLOAD ODD NUMBERS NOW
To Julie Lewis and her colleagues, for the work they do
Also by JJ Marsh
My Run and Hide thriller series (tap title to buy)
WHITE HERON
BLACK RIVER
My Beatrice Stubbs series, European crime dramas
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
RAW MATERIAL
TREAD SOFTLY
COLD PRESSED
HUMAN RITES
BAD APPLES
SNOW ANGEL
HONEY TRAP
BLACK WIDOW
WHITE NIGHT
THE WOMAN IN THE FRAME
ALL SOULS’ DAY
My standalone novels
AN EMPTY VESSEL
ODD NUMBERS
And a short-story collection
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Acknowledgments
This book would not be what it is without the editorial g
uidance of Florian Bielmann, the musical expertise of Ellen Durkin, the language refinements of Perry Iles and the cover design talents of Jane Dixon-Smith. Heartfelt thanks to you all.
Contents
Salzburg City Orchestra Program
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by JJ Marsh
Acknowledgments