The Tooth Tattoo (24 page)

It was about as clear to Diamond as the second law of thermodynamics. ‘Thank you for explaining. Did one of the audience raise this with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘A woman?’

‘A man.’

Another hope dashed.

‘Can you think of a comment a woman made after one of those early concerts?’

Anthony frowned, as if deciding whether the question came within his span of attention. ‘One told me our performance
of the Schubert was superior to the recording she has of the original Staccati. Since then I’ve listened to the piece myself, and she was right.’

‘Do you remember who she was, this woman who spoke to you?’

‘The wife of the man who owned the house.’

In his long career, Diamond couldn’t remember an interview as tough as this. Each door slammed shut before he could get inside. ‘Wasn’t there another woman who approached you, a younger woman, Japanese?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You would if she had something of interest to say about the music.’

Anthony shrugged as if to say, ‘You tell me.’

Now it was Diamond’s turn to be logical. ‘I can’t tell you because I wasn’t there. Have you played with the quartet in Japan?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Japanese like classical music, don’t they? I expect some of them are very knowledgeable.’

‘Yes.’

‘You see, I’m wondering if a certain young woman who heard you play in Tokyo, or wherever it was, loved your playing, came to England this summer and got herself into one of the soirées the quartet gave. She could have introduced herself after the concert and told you she was a fan.’

‘Plenty do,’ Anthony said.

‘Plenty of Japanese women?’

‘All sorts. I don’t pay attention to fans.’

‘But you would pay attention if she made an intelligent comment about the music?’

‘I told you that already.’

Diamond decided the only way forward was an appeal to Anthony’s better nature. ‘Help me, Anthony. Try and remember. Whatever she said may not have seemed worth listening to at the time, but it could be important. She was Japanese
and her name was Mari Hitomi and you’ve seen her picture before.’ He took the photo from his pocket.

There wasn’t a glimmer of recognition.

‘If she didn’t have anything to say about the concert, she may have asked a question about your violin, how old it is, how valuable, who made it, whether you have other violins.’

A shrug and a shake of the head.

‘She could have asked you to autograph her programme.’

‘I wouldn’t remember that.’ Anthony looked at his watch. ‘I must get back. The others will be ready to start again.’

‘She had a musical note tattooed on one of her upper teeth.’

‘A quaver,’ Anthony said at once, ‘on the lateral incisor, right hand side. Right to me, left for her.’ He didn’t add, ‘Why didn’t you ask?’ but Diamond felt as if he had. Even so, it was the breakthrough he’d been working for.

‘Did she say anything to you?’

‘She must have, for me to notice the tooth.’

‘Do you remember what was said?’

‘It couldn’t have been important.’

‘Take another look at the photo. Is this the woman?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t see her teeth.’

‘But is the face familiar?’

‘I told you I don’t remember faces.’

He got no further with Anthony.

Before allowing the quartet to resume their rehearsal, he addressed them as a group. ‘You’ve all been shown a photo of a Japanese woman called Mari Hitomi who was found dead in the River Avon a few days ago. We happen to know she was a fan of the Staccati Quartet visiting Bath about the time you began your residency here. Earlier, each of you claimed you hadn’t seen her before, but I have since learned from Anthony that he was approached by a woman of her description after one of the concerts you gave. He spotted the tattoo of a music note on one of her front teeth and this leads me to believe this was Miss Hitomi. Obviously this is significant. We’ll need to ask more questions of each of you
and I’m advising you as individuals to contact me if you have any more information about her.’

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then Ivan said, ‘Are you telling us we’re under suspicion?’

‘I was careful with my words,’ Diamond said. ‘I’m seeking information.’

Cat said, ‘You want to be careful about what Anthony tells you. He’s a sweetie, but his memory isn’t the sharpest when it comes to anything other than music.’

‘Thanks, but we’ll treat everything we learn from any of you with the same respect.’

‘I didn’t say he isn’t honest. He’s the most honest guy you could hope to meet.’

‘I’ll second that,’ Ivan said. ‘We trust him totally.’

A
fter Diamond had said his piece and left, Ivan stated in a few trenchant words that he wanted to get straight back to work on the Beethoven without any more being said about the Japanese woman. Nobody objected. A surge of energy in the second part of the rehearsal reflected the tension among the quartet. They played Opus 59, No. 3 from the beginning. This time when they reached the fugue they attacked it with a pulsating tempo that almost did justice to Beethoven’s impossible metronome mark. The intensity of the task galvanised them all, yet the bowing was crisp and always under control. It was as if they were resolving their own anger through the playing – anger at Diamond, the police and the suspicion hanging over them.

‘I think we’re in shape,’ Cat said after they lifted bows from strings and sat back.

‘It was a better rendition, without question,’ Ivan said in a rare expression of satisfaction. ‘And this new viola of Mel’s has a richness in tone that I, for one, welcome.’

‘You should,’ Cat said. ‘We all should. That’s a Cremona fiddle if ever I heard one. ‘Fess up, Mel. Where did you nick it from?’

Mel had a powerful urge to put the precious instrument out of sight in its case. He had a lingering disquiet about the way it had come into his possession. ‘It’s an Amati, from 1625.’

‘Then it must be the work of the last and greatest of the family, Nicolò Amati,’ Ivan said. ‘About that time there was a famine and plague that killed every other violin maker in the city. May I?’ He held out both hands.

The request to handle the antique viola was understandable. For Mel, the act of passing it across was a wrench. A mother with her newborn child couldn’t have felt more protective. Of course it would be safe in the hands of another musician, he told himself. If you can’t trust the members of your own quartet, you shouldn’t be one of them.

He steeled himself and placed the Amati in Ivan’s hands.

Ivan turned it over and stroked the maple surface, tracing the grain with his fingertips. ‘Exquisite. A thing of wood, hair and gut that can touch the soul and lift the spirit.’ One-handed, he raised it by the neck. ‘Nice weight.’ He tucked it under his chin. ‘Good length.’

‘Watch out, boys,’ Cat said. ‘Our first violin is about to change into a violist.’

Mel decided he had better explain how he came to possess such a treasure. ‘I was approached by a collector who wants it played.’

‘Nothing unusual in that,’ Ivan said. ‘It would be difficult to name a soloist who didn’t at some stage play with an instrument loaned to him.’

‘Or her,’ Cat said.

‘He made me promise not to reveal his name.’

‘The super-rich have their reasons, which is why they stay super-rich. Don’t be so anxious, Mel,’ Cat added. ‘You look like the stick insect who found himself in the middle of a rave-up.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Mel said. ‘Some years back, when I was starting out as a professional musician, taking any work that came my way, I was mugged outside the Royal Festival Hall and had my viola snatched. They were clever. A girl looking like a student, pretty, East Asian, asked me for my autograph. I had my fiddle in its case under my arm and while I was distracted by this girl some guy on a bike pulled the thing from me and rode off with it. I gave chase all the way down to the river and I thought at first he’d slung it in, but there was a speedboat nearby and they may have collected it and got clean away. I never saw my viola again and I’ve never forgotten the feeling of loss.’

‘You’re afraid of someone stealing this?’

He nodded. ‘My old fiddle had sentimental value and I was deeply affected, but as a responsibility it doesn’t compare with this.’

‘A salutary tale,’ Cat said, ‘but you’re safe with us, kiddo.’

Ivan was still holding the Amati. ‘I can’t resist.’ He picked up his bow and played the C string from heel to point, pianissimo, long and slow.

‘You’ve kissed goodbye to it now,’ Cat told Mel. ‘Is anyone else going to get a try? Anthony is practically wetting himself.’

In the end, they all took a turn at handling the Amati, although no one else played on it. Mel was deeply relieved when Cat handed back the object of so much admiration, if not envy. He stowed it in its case. This should have been the cue to leave, but there was unfinished business.

‘So what are we to make of that policeman?’ Cat said before they left their seats.

‘Nothing,’ Ivan said at once. ‘We make nothing of him. He’s a distraction. He has his job to do and we have ours. The fact that the unfortunate young woman was an admirer of ours is a trivial coincidence. Life is full of chance events.’

‘I doubt if Detective Diamond sees it that way, O Wise One,’ Cat said. ‘He struck me as a man without much faith in chance events. We had enough hassle from the
Polizei
when Harry disappeared. I think we’d better brace ourselves for more. Did he rough you up, sweetie?’ she said to Anthony.

‘No.’

‘Offered you plastic surgery and a safe house in Outer Mongolia?’

‘No.’

‘Then how did he wear you down?

‘Kept asking questions.’

‘Well, he’s a smart guy if he got an answer. I’ve known you six or seven years and most times I can’t get two words out of you.’

‘Will you listen to me?’ Ivan said. ‘We’re musicians and we have a performance tomorrow night. The last thing we need
is to get involved in speculation about a death in suspicious circumstances.’

‘Too late,’ Cat said. ‘The big detective means to rub our noses in it.’

‘He’ll go away if we ignore him.’

Then Anthony announced, ‘He said he’ll be at the concert tomorrow.’

There was a shocked silence. Ivan chewed at his thumbnail.

‘See what I mean?’ Cat said. ‘Don’t kid yourself he’s coming to listen to Beethoven. He’ll have a pair of handcuffs in his pocket.’

‘We’ve done nothing wrong,’ Mel said.

No one spoke.

‘Have we?’ Mel broke the silence, looking at each of the others.

‘You wish,’ Cat said finally with a peal of laughter. ‘Don’t all speak at once. Now let’s organise our taxis.’

Mel was to share with Ivan and both taxis were slow in coming. Cat climbed into the first with her cello, assisted by Anthony. Before it drove off, she called out of the window, ‘We’re hearing over the intercom that your cab went to the tip instead of the Tippett. He’s stuck in the garden waste queue. Could be another hour.’ Their taxi zoomed away.

‘That woman doesn’t amuse me,’ Ivan said. ‘Never has.’

‘Was she making it up?’

‘Of course she was. Three-quarters of what she tells you is made up. Ours won’t be far behind.’

Mel had spotted a stationary black saloon car parked at the edge of the approach road. Someone was in the driver’s seat. ‘Could that be it?’

‘Where?’

He pointed.

Ivan sniffed. ‘It looks to me like a private car. Probably waiting for some student.’

‘I might go and ask. Stupid if he’s waiting there and we’re standing here only thirty yards away.’

‘As you wish,’ Ivan said. ‘I’ve never known them to park there.’

With his cased viola gripped to his chest, Mel strode towards the parked vehicle. True, he couldn’t see any writing on the side or any sign that it was licensed. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

He hadn’t gone ten yards when the driver started up, made a screaming U-turn that must have left rubber on the tarmac, and drove off at speed, just missing a student on a bike.

Shaking his head, Mel returned to Ivan’s side. ‘What was that about?’

For once, Ivan had no answer.

‘Bloody dangerous,’ Mel said. ‘Someone could have got killed.’

‘Yes,’ Ivan said. He’d turned pale.

Their transport arrived soon after, a recognisable cab with a Bath Spa Taxis emblem on the roof.

Most of the journey was in silence. The reckless driving of the car seemed to have affected Ivan. Mel tried saying something about the venue for the soirée and got one-word answers. It was like being with Anthony. ‘See you at Corsham tomorrow, then,’ he said when the taxi stopped outside his lodgings. ‘Early as usual to get ready?’

‘Yes,’ Ivan said.

Inside the house, Mel closed the front door as quietly as he could, crept upstairs, let himself into his room and slid the precious Amati viola under the bed. Later, he would practise scales, still getting the measure of this marvellous new outlet for his talent. For now, playtime of a different sort was overdue. He stripped to the waist, washed at the hand-basin in the corner, refreshed the deodorant and the aftershave, put on a fresh shirt and checked his hair in the mirror. Then he reached to the back of his sock drawer for two miniatures of gin and a small can of tonic and left his room to cross the passage to Tippi’s bedroom. She liked her G&T and Mel liked the result. It took the edge off her sarcasm and made her even more randy.

He didn’t knock. They had an understanding. He opened the door and said, ‘Better late than never, huh?’

‘Late for what?’ said a voice he didn’t expect.

Tippi’s mother, with a crocodile smile, was sitting on the bed.

A better man might have thought of some clever excuse. Mel sighed and said, ‘Fair cop.’

This was no bad response, as it turned out, because it avoided an elaborate lie and had a sense of contrition. Mrs. Carlyle must have been expecting some tall story she could lay into. Instead she was thrown off course. Rather than attacking Mel, she started to account for her own behaviour, explaining what she was doing in her daughter’s room. ‘I came up here to put away some of her washing. She leaves it for days on the clothes-rack in the kitchen if I don’t, and she may not mind you seeing her frillies, but I’m old-fashioned enough to think it isn’t quite the thing.’