The Tooth Tattoo (34 page)

‘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.’

J
ust 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 wasn’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.

‘It’s a match that was played many years ago between two grand masters you won’t have heard of,’ Ivan said.

‘Try me.’

After a beat a different note entered his voice. ‘Do you play?’

‘To a modest level. Care for a game?’

‘I thought you were here for advice.’

‘We could talk as we play.’

‘All right.’ Ivan didn’t need any more persuading. He crossed to a sideboard, picked up a box and another board.
Then he reached under the unfinished game and drew out a second table. He opened the board. ‘You can be white.’

‘I’d rather draw for it.’

‘Very well.’ Ivan picked out two pawns, enclosed them in his hands behind his back and allowed Diamond to make the choice.

White.

Red and white rather than the more usual black and white, the pieces were housed in a velvet-lined box.

‘These look special,’ Diamond said as they started setting up.

‘Ivory.’

‘The red as well?’

‘Stained.’

‘It’s a magnificent set.’

‘This is the Staunton design everyone has. I could show you better.’

‘You trade in them, don’t you?’

Ivan shrugged. ‘Only as a sideline.’

‘But they’re not antique.’

‘No,’ Ivan said. ‘Are you going to start?’

Diamond pushed his king’s bishop’s pawn forward two squares.

‘Bold.’ In the offhand manner born of long experience Ivan advanced his king’s pawn two squares.

Diamond made an early pause in the play. ‘You’re safe with me as someone who enjoys the game, but isn’t ivory banned these days?’

‘It’s not elephant. It’s the ethical alternative, mammoth ivory, from northern Siberia.’

Hey ho, Diamond thought, this sounds familiar. ‘Perfectly legal, then.’

‘It’s down to global warming. More and more skeletons are being uncovered each year as the tundra melts.’

‘So you still have contact with the old country?’ Diamond nudged his king’s bishop’s pawn one square forward.

‘You must be bluffing,’ Ivan said.

‘Not at all.’

‘Then I’ve got you checkmate in two.’ He slid his queen on the diagonal as far as it would go. There was no escape. Diamond’s king was trapped. Ivan gave him a glare worthy of the customs hall at Heathrow. ‘Fool’s mate, supposedly, but I believe you’re making a fool of me.’

‘It’s not in my interest to do that.’ Diamond said. ‘Well done. I’d offer you another game, but it wouldn’t last much longer. How much do you charge for these?’

‘The going rate for a Staunton set is ten thousand dollars, something over six thousand pounds sterling.’

‘And you said you have other designs?’

‘Knights on horseback and so on. They cost rather more. But I don’t think you came here to buy.’

‘How does it work? Are the sets carved in Russia?’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘This is where I need your advice. There may be a connection with the case I’m investigating. An ivory netsuke was found on the victim in Vienna and proved to be mammoth ivory.’

Ivan showed no reaction.

Diamond asked, ‘Do you know anything about the trade in Japanese ornaments?’

‘I don’t deal in them, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Ivan said.

‘I know you don’t,’ Diamond said, ‘and even if you did, I wouldn’t expect you to tell me. I’m still keen to know where these beautiful chess sets are made.’

‘In Archangel, by a master carver. It’s a business arrangement. I buy from him. I travel with the quartet to some of the great cities of the world and I play a lot of chess. From time to time I am asked about the sets and I will sell at a reasonable profit.’

‘Guilt-free ivory.’

Ivan nodded.

Diamond took a photo from his pocket. ‘This is the netsuke that was found. It’s definitely carved from mammoth ivory. As a connoisseur of these things – ’

‘Not of netsuke. I don’t trade in netsuke,’ Ivan interrupted him.

‘That isn’t what I meant. You appreciate Japanese culture.’

He flushed deeply. ‘No more than the next man.’

‘I was told you like to visit the geisha houses when in Japan.’

‘Who told you that?’ Ivan said in a clipped, angry tone.

‘I forget,’ Diamond said. ‘Must have been one of the quartet. It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

‘What if I do?’

‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ Diamond went on. ‘Traditional Japanese dancing and music and the famous tea ceremony. All highly respectable, isn’t it? Highly expensive, too.’

‘The way I choose to spend my time and money is no concern of yours,’ Ivan said. ‘I have a long-standing interest in the geisha. As a musician, I have studied the shamisen, the three-stringed instrument they play with the plectrum.’

‘So the music is the pull, and not the young ladies?’

If looks could kill, Diamond would have been ashes ready for scattering. ‘Geisha is an aesthetic experience. This isn’t some catchpenny tourist attraction. I go to the genuine okiya in the geisha district in Kyoto.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, Ivan. I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s your advice I came for. The geishas wear traditional dress, I’m told, and this would surely include at least one netsuke on the sash.’

‘I’m not an expert on the costume.’

‘But it’s part of that aesthetic experience you mentioned.’

‘Correct.’

‘I was going to ask what you think of this particular example.’

‘I wouldn’t have a view. Anyway, it’s only a photograph. You can’t tell.’

‘I’ve held it in my hands,’ Diamond said, ‘and it’s a marvellous piece of carving. Would you happen to know where objects like this are created?’

‘In Japan, I should think.’

‘Of Siberian mammoth ivory?’

‘I expect it gets shipped there.’

‘Might there be craftsmen working in Eastern Europe?’

He gave a shrug. ‘Conceivably.’

‘But you wouldn’t know any? The man in Archangel who makes the chess sets doesn’t have a second line in Oriental objects?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Has anyone ever discussed this with you before?’

Ivan swayed back as if Diamond had thrown a punch. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

‘One of the quartet?’ Diamond pressed him.

The conversation had hit the buffers.

‘I’m sure this is difficult for you,’ Diamond said. ‘They’re friends and fellow artists, but I’m investigating two suspicious deaths and I can’t allow your loyalty to obstruct me. They all know about your sideline selling the chess sets and one of them may have taken a particular interest in where they came from.’

‘Douglas Christmas knows more about my business than any of them,’ he said finally. ‘He assists with the finance.’

‘Providing you with the roubles. He told me.’

Ivan tensed. ‘That’s confidential. He had no right.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Diamond said. ‘Tax evasion isn’t my department. Leaving Douglas aside, which of the others has talked to you about the trade?’

‘I really think you should leave now.’

‘One of them saw an opportunity of branching out on his own. It’s Harry, isn’t it?’

Although Ivan didn’t speak a word, his face had turned deathly white.

‘I need to know, Ivan. You’re a frightened man. Anyone can see that. You could be in need of my protection. This isn’t chess, this is life and death.’