The Tooth Tattoo Read online

  ‘Are you enjoying this?’ she asked Diamond in the faint hope that he’d had enough.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  There was no opting out. This was not the best place to get lost if she tried returning to the stairs.

  ‘How’s your head now?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘About the same.’

  ‘I think I should warn you that at the end of the tour a man dressed as Harry Lime steps out and fires a gun at us.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  That evening at the Prater they rode the Riesenrad, the giant Ferris wheel that had featured in the film. The worst of the clouds had rolled away to the south and Paloma’s headache had departed with them. She was actually enjoying the ride in the rickety old cabin. They were definitely cabins and not pods or capsules. Each was a little room like a railway compartment with a curved roof and windows. They shared theirs with an elderly man in a brown Tyrolean hat with a feather trim who was at the far end surveying the view with a benign smile. Below, ribbons of light stretched to infinity. The wheel itself periodically flashed silver and gold.

  ‘I don’t really mind hearing it again,’ she told Diamond with a smile.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Harry Lime speech about Switzerland, five hundred years of brotherly love, democracy and peace producing the cuckoo clock.’

  ‘I was going to spare you that. It wasn’t in the original script, you know.’

  ‘You tell me that each time.’

  ‘Orson Welles –’

  ‘That, too.’

  He placed a hand over hers. ‘You’ve shown the patience of a saint all day.’

  ‘If I’m honest, I haven’t been feeling that way,’ she said. ‘But I can see how much it means to you, reliving the film.’

  ‘The old black and white movies have got it for me.’

  ‘I know. Giant shadows, sudden shafts of light.’

  He took a deep, appreciative breath. ‘Like the night scene when Lime appears in the doorway.’

  ‘With a blast of zither music just in case anyone in the cinema isn’t paying attention.’

  ‘Er, yes. Well, it is called the Harry Lime Theme.’

  ‘And you grew up with it.’

  He baulked at that. ‘The film was released before I was born. Orson Welles was old enough to have been my grandfather.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘But that scene gets to me every time.’

  ‘Strange.’

  He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Harry Lime was the villain, selling adulterated penicillin. You’re supposed to be on the opposite side. You should identify with the Joseph Cotten character.’

  ‘But Welles had all the charisma. The film is clever, playing with your loyalties.’

  She tried to see it from his point of view. ‘I suppose as a policeman you have to get inside the minds of bad people.’

  ‘Sometimes – but you aren’t supposed to admire them. Each time I see it, I really want him to stay at liberty. And today we walked in his footsteps.’

  ‘With great care, watching where we trod,’ Paloma said.

  There was a movement at the far end of the cabin. The elderly man turned from the window and raised his hat. He may even have clicked his heels. ‘Excuse me. I heard what you said. You were talking about the sewers, am I right?’

  ‘You are,’ Paloma said. ‘We did the tour this afternoon.’

  ‘It wasn’t Orson Welles.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Believe me, it was,’ Diamond told him. ‘I’ve seen that film more times than I care to count.’

  ‘Mr. Welles took one look and refused to work in such a place,’ the old man said.

  Diamond was speechless, shaking his head.

  ‘Most of the scenes featuring him were filmed with a double, or in Shepperton studio in England.’ The old man seemed to know what he was talking about.

  Paloma laughed. ‘Do you mean we traipsed through all those dreadful-smelling tunnels for no reason at all?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ the old man said. ‘They did hours of filming down there, but little, if any, with Orson Welles.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He was being difficult at the time, playing – what is the expression? – hard to get. He had an agreement with Mr. Korda, the producer, to star in three films, but nothing much had come of it and he was annoyed. This was only a cameo role. He is on screen for less than ten minutes of the entire film. I believe he was taken down to the sewer once to see a place where water cascaded from one of the ducts. Harry Lime was supposed to run underneath and get drips running down his face. Welles absolutely refused.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘I’m a Viennese. It’s part of our city history.’

  ‘So they built a studio mock-up of the sewer?’ Paloma said, and she seemed to be leading him on.

  ‘That is my understanding.’

  Determined not to have his day spoilt, Diamond rubbed his hands and said with conviction, ‘Well, at least Orson Welles did what we’re doing now – rode the Ferris wheel.’

  The old man turned and looked out of the window again. ‘Have you heard of back projection? Look carefully next time you watch the film.’

  Back in their hotel room, Paloma saw how deflated Diamond was and said, ‘We’ve only got his word for it.’

  ‘He seemed to know what he was talking about. I did read once that they shot parts of the film at Shepperton.’

  ‘Bits, I expect. It was the way they worked. It’s still a classic.’

  ‘You’re right about that.’

  ‘Silly old man. I bet he rides the damn Ferris wheel for hours on end lying in wait for fans like us.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Destroying people’s illusions – that’s his game. Don’t let him ruin our day, Peter. We did the tour. We visited the right places. You’ll spot them next time you see the film.’

  He was grateful for her words. Paloma was a terrific support. She knew how his pleasure in the day had been undermined. And the weekend hadn’t offered much for her to enjoy. He’d been planning to fit in a visit to another of the film locations – the cemetery – next morning and now he changed his mind. ‘I’m going to suggest we do something different tomorrow. Our flight home isn’t until the evening. Let’s make it your day. How would you like to spend it?’

  She took off her shoes and flopped back on the bed, hands clasped behind her head. ‘That’s a lovely suggestion. Let me give it serious thought.’

  ‘There’s some wine left. I’ll pour you a drink while you decide.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  But when he returned from the bathroom with the two glasses, Paloma’s eyes were closed and she was breathing evenly. It had been an exhausting day.

  Over coffee next morning in a small shop near the hotel with a display of irresistible fruit tarts, they debated how to spend their last hours in Vienna. ‘Knowing you,’ she said, ‘and I don’t mean to sound offensive, you may not be too thrilled about this. So many great musicians lived and composed their masterpieces here. Could we find Beethoven’s house?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said, doing his best to sound enthusiastic. ‘Where is it?’

  They opened their map and asked the waitress, but she didn’t seem to understand.

  ‘We need a phrasebook,’ Diamond muttered.

  From behind them a voice said, ‘If it’s Beethoven’s house you want, you have about forty to choose from in Vienna. He was constantly on the move.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Diamond turned in his chair, peeved that somebody had been eavesdropping.

  The speaker wasn’t the old man from the Ferris wheel, but he could have been his brother. He had the same gnomish look and a voice like a scraper stripping wallpaper. Probably a Tyrolean hat was tucked under the table on one of the other chairs.

  ‘There are two of any note,’ the man went on. ‘The first is the B
eethoven Memorial House, but you are too late for that. It is closed this month. The other is the Pasqualati House where he composed his fourth, fifth and sixth symphonies and the opera Fidelio.’

  ‘That’ll do us,’ Diamond said. ‘Is it open?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Where exactly is it?’

  ‘Before you dash off, I think I should inform you that Beethoven didn’t actually live there.’

  ‘I thought you said he did.’

  ‘The rooms open to visitors are furnished to look as if Beethoven was the tenant, but in reality his home was in the adjacent flat – which is privately owned and not open to the public.’

  It was like being told Orson Welles hadn’t run through the sewers.

  ‘I give up,’ Diamond said. ‘Where do we go to see something authentic in this city?’

  ‘Some of the exhibits are authentic. The salt and pepper pots unquestionably belonged to Beethoven.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Diamond murmured to Paloma.

  ‘You asked where it is,’ the old man said. ‘You’ll find it west of Freyung. This is an old part of the city. You go up a cobbled lane called Schreyvogelgasse to the Mölker Bastei and the Pasqualati House is there. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’ Diamond asked Paloma, but she had already passed their map across.

  ‘Here.’ A bony finger pinned down the map. ‘At the western margin of the Innere Stadt.’

  ‘Some way off, then,’ Diamond said. ‘Maybe we should choose another composer’s house.’

  ‘This is Schreyvogelgasse. As you pass along, you may wish to glance at number eight. The doorway is famous. It’s where Harry Lime first appears in that film, The Third Man.’

  Diamond’s eyes widened.

  ‘It looks as if we’ll be going there after all,’ Paloma said.

  In the taxi, Diamond said, ‘I’m beginning to understand. They post little old men all over the city to bring innocent tourists down to earth with a bump.’

  ‘He was trying to be helpful.’

  ‘So was the guy on the Ferris wheel. There are some things I’d rather not be helped with.’

  ‘That’s rich – from a professional detective.’

  ‘A secret romantic.’

  Her eyebrows popped up.

  In the cobbled street she told him to stand in the doorway of number eight for a photo.

  ‘I can’t. It’s so cheesy.’

  ‘But you want to.’

  He didn’t need any more persuading. He took up the pose, even giving his straw hat a rakish tilt.

  The Beethoven house pleased Paloma. There was a good atmosphere and enough genuine relics to make the old man’s criticisms unimportant. ‘To think Fidelio was created here,’ she said.

  ‘Next door.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to matter any more. Are you impressed? I’m sure I can feel his presence.’

  ‘It’s not my strongest suit, classical music,’ he admitted.

  ‘What is, apart from the Harry Lime Theme?’

  ‘Queen’s greatest hits, I suppose.’

  ‘I can see I’ll have to work on you.’

  ‘You can try. It’s still your day. How shall we spend our last couple of hours here?’

  ‘Let’s take a look at the Danube. Is it really blue? We haven’t seen it by daylight.’

  The nearest bridge wasn’t far from their hotel. They packed, cleared their room, left the cases in a storeroom and strolled down Schwedenplatz.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Diamond said, studying the map. ‘It isn’t actually the Danube.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘It’s the Danube canal. The river is way off to the north-east.’

  ‘Second best as usual, then.’

  Blue the water was, under a clear sky. They walked to the centre of the bridge and watched the shipping gliding underneath. A breeze ruffled Paloma’s hair.

  ‘This has been a treat,’ she said, linking her arm with his.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Every minute, now I look back. We got you out of the CID room for a whole weekend. Go on, admit it, you needed the break.’

  ‘It’s done me good,’ he said.

  ‘And all because of that scratch-card. Next time we shouldn’t rely on a piece of luck. I’ll try persuading you to look at a travel brochure.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  With more time in hand they bought ice creams and took a walk along the embankment.

  ‘Look, someone’s dropped some flowers,’ Paloma said as they approached a point where some steps led down to a mooring. A bunch of pinkish-white flowers wrapped in paper was lying on the pavement. When they got closer, they saw more flowers pressed into the lattice mouldings in the wall. Most were dead carnations. ‘It must have fallen out.’ She stooped to lodge the fresh flowers back into a space in the stonework. They were star-shaped with long, yellow-tipped stamens. ‘The scent is powerful. Must be some type of lily. The place has been made into a little shrine. Do you think someone drowned here?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ he said, wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Where are the little old men of Vienna when we need one?’

  ‘There’s a card with one of these dead bunches, some kind of message. But it isn’t in German. I think it’s Japanese.’

  3

  ACTON, WEST LONDON, 2012

  Temptation arrives in many forms. For Mel, it was cued by the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, the ringtone on his phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr. Farran, the viola player?’ A male voice, educated, middle-aged and as imperious as Sir Thomas Beecham’s in rehearsal.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Depends. Are you selling something?’

  ‘Certainly not. This is a serious call.’

  A rap over the knuckles. Mel should have cut the call immediately and saved himself from the wrecking ball that was swinging his way.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s immaterial at this juncture. Call me Ivan, if you wish. I have a proposal massively to your advantage.’

  ‘You are trying to sell something.’

  ‘Pay attention, please. This is about your professional career.’

  ‘As a musician?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘A gig?’

  A pause. Ivan was plainly unhappy with the expression and considering whether to hang up. ‘More than that, much more – if you’re prepared to cooperate. But this is too important to discuss over the phone. Are you free tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Free for what?’

  ‘For a drink and a chance to discuss the opportunity. I’ll send a car at seven thirty.’

  ‘You know where I live?’

  ‘This isn’t spur of the moment, Mr. Farran. I’ve heard you play, or I wouldn’t be bothering.’

  Let’s admit it – flattery is a sure-fire persuader. ‘Where are we having this drink?’

  ‘At my club. There’s a dress code, by the way. Lounge suit and tie. You do possess a suit?’

  Irritated by the patronising tone, sceptical, yet intrigued, Mel switched off and pocketed the phone. In truth, he was in no position to turn down the invitation. A life in classical music is precarious. His income from orchestral work and teaching was barely a living wage. Yet he was good at what he did. He’d been gifted with perfect pitch and a mother hooked on Mozart. Handed a miniature violin at an age when other kids were learning to tie their shoelaces, he’d mastered the basics within days. He was taught by an elderly Polish maestro and within a year on his advice switched to a miniature viola. Really. They do exist. Violists, the maestro told him, were always in demand, whereas there was a glut of violinists. The old man had been right – to a degree. Mel had never gone for long without ensemble work. He’d survived. However, there wasn’t much prospect of advancement. Solo opportunities with the viola were rare. If he’d excelled at the violin – as everyone suggested he c
ould have done – the repertoire is huge and he could have toughed it out with the army of East Asian players who came along at that time. No use complaining now. He could play both instruments to a good level, but it was the viola he was known for. He’d trained at the Royal College and filled in with some of the great orchestras of Europe. Violists are an endangered species. If he’d known just how endangered, he wouldn’t have listened to Ivan. But he was an innocent. At twenty-nine, he needed an opportunity and this promised to be it.

  Single, hetero, not bad looking, he was originally from Beaconsfield and currently living in a poky first-floor flat in Acton, West London. Fingis Street had never seen the like of the gleaming black limo that drew up outside at seven thirty. Good thing he didn’t keep it waiting or the local youths would have unscrewed the Mercedes logo in seconds and scraped a coin along the bodywork to see if it was real.

  He was wearing an almost new pinstripe suit from Oxfam. You can bet the original owner had died, but you can’t get fussed about stuff like that when you’re skint and need to look respectable. All of his work clothes, evening suits, dress shirts and bow ties, black and white, also came from charity shops. Bargains, every one.

  ‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘Clubland, sir. St James’s.’

  ‘Which club?’

  ‘I was told it’s confidential.’

  ‘Well, I’m being driven there, so I’m going to find out.’

  ‘And I have my orders, sir.’

  Mel didn’t press him. If Ivan wanted to make a cloak-and-dagger occasion out of the meeting, let it be, he told himself to calm his nerves. He hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a huge let-down.

  For all the man-about-town bluster, Mel couldn’t say he was familiar with the St James’s area of London. He’d never set foot in a gentlemen’s club, and when they drew up outside a set of white steps to a shiny black door with brass fittings, he forgot to look for the name.

  The doorman had his instructions and waved Mel through when he said who he was. Carpeted entrance hall, grand staircase and oil paintings in gold frames. Mel couldn’t say who painted them, except it wasn’t Andy Warhol or Francis Bacon. A short, bald man appeared from behind a potted fern and extended his hand. The grip was firm, as if they were old chums.