The Tooth Tattoo Read online

  ‘So glad you came. There’s an anteroom we can have to ourselves. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mel lied, not wanting to be treated to a meal before he knew what this was about.

  ‘In that case, cognac should go down well. Agreed?’

  A beer would have been more to Mel’s liking, but he didn’t have the neck to ask for one. A club servant was sent for the cognac.

  Bound copies of Punch lined the anteroom. Laughs all round.

  ‘I still don’t know your surname,’ Mel said when they were seated in leather armchairs either side of a marble fireplace big enough to park a car in.

  ‘Better you don’t unless and until we come to an agreement,’ his host said. ‘You will have guessed I, too, am a musician. Violin. You’ve heard me play.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Possibly in the concert hall and certainly on disc.’

  What do you say to that? If the guy was a soloist, Mel didn’t recognise him. He could think of dozens he’d heard in the last eight years.

  ‘In a well-known string quartet,’ he added.

  ‘Ah. Am I supposed to guess which?’

  ‘No.’

  Be mysterious, Mel thought. See if I care. The cognac arrived in a cut-glass decanter and was poured into balloon glasses. Ivan waited for the flunkey to leave the room.

  ‘There could be a vacancy in the quartet,’ Ivan said.

  ‘Could be?’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘For a violist? And you have me in mind?’

  ‘In mind is a good way of putting it.’

  Mel waited, but nothing else followed. ‘Is this an offer?’

  ‘Not yet. The others will have a say.’

  ‘Are they coming here to join us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  All this stonewalling was hard to take. Ivan had issued the invitation. He should have been selling the deal. Instead he was swirling the brandy in the glass as if he was reading tea-leaves.

  At last, he said, ‘It’s not straightforward.’

  ‘That’s getting obvious,’ Mel said.

  ‘The others don’t know I’ve approached you. I believe I can persuade them. We play as a unit, but we’re all individuals, which is our strength. A quartet of yes-men would never make fine music. Playing in a quartet is all about dialogue, distinct voices that respond to each other, but not passively. There’s question and answer in musical terms, sharp debate, argument even. It isn’t all resolution and harmony.’

  Mel felt like saying he wasn’t a total beginner. He’d played in quartets. ‘You said they don’t know about me. What if they don’t approve?’

  ‘I would expect to persuade them – if I’m persuaded myself.’

  ‘You said on the phone you’ve heard me play.’

  ‘But can you commit?’

  ‘Commit what – murder?’ A cheap remark. Something had to be said to lighten the mood.

  Ivan didn’t smile. ‘Commit to a trial period of, say, a year? It would mean total loyalty to the quartet, rehearsals, business meetings, performances, recordings and touring.’

  ‘I’d need to know more.’

  ‘In particular?’

  ‘Who am I replacing?’

  ‘That I can’t say.’

  ‘Has he retired – or have you given him the elbow?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Died?’

  Silence.

  ‘He’s still playing? You’re plotting to dump him and he doesn’t know?’

  A shake of the head. ‘We’re professionals, Mr. Farran. We have our disagreements, but we’re not like that.’

  ‘Speaking of the professional part, how much would I expect to earn? I need to live.’

  ‘Enough for that, and more. We divide all the income equally and that includes our manager. As a new member, you’d take home precisely the same as the rest of us. Not as much as a bank executive earns, but better than you’re used to getting.’

  ‘How much approximately?’

  ‘Just under six figures in a good year.’

  Yoiks. This was the first thing Mel had heard that he liked. ‘At some point soon, you’ll have to come clean about who you are, the name of the quartet. If you’re earning that money, you must be famous.’

  ‘The fame is immaterial. You’re single, yes?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So touring shouldn’t be a problem?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets. There’s no sharing of rooms, no forced mingling. All we would insist on is that you are there for rehearsals and concerts. If we take on a residency, as we may, that can involve some teaching. Are you comfortable with that?’

  ‘I’ve done some. I’d still want to meet the others before deciding.’

  ‘Naturally – and they will insist on meeting you.’

  ‘So will it be arranged?’

  Ivan hesitated. ‘Possibly. In the fullness of time.’

  The ‘fullness of time’ was presumably how long it would take to dump the current violist, Mel mused, wondering what the unfortunate musician had done wrong. Difficult to feel comfortable about this set-up, but he was willing to stretch a point for a hundred grand a year.

  Nothing more of substance was said and he left soon after. It was clearly a ‘don’t call us’ situation.

  Three weeks went by before he was contacted again. He was on the sundeck of a riverboat on the Thames playing in a string trio for someone’s wedding. This kind of gig was a steady source of income and he didn’t think of it as slumming, as some musicians did. The repertoire was undemanding, but the pieces were popular for a reason. Most were from the shows and it was no hardship to play Gershwin and Bernstein along with others who had written damn good tunes and never aspired to the concert hall. In a mid-session break for drinks Mel was cradling a tankard and leaning on the rail watching ducks and moorhens taking refuge in the reeds along the river bank when a nudge from behind almost sloshed the beer out of his glass.

  ‘Careful, chuck. You don’t want to wet your Strad.’

  He turned and found himself staring into a cleavage threatening to give him vertigo. He’d noticed this large wedding guest in a lyre-shaped fascinator hat and a wispy, low-cut yellow dress whooping it up with several of the men. The hearty shove in his back had come from her and here she was telling him to be careful.

  This lady’s had a few, he told himself. People do at weddings. Keep in the spirit of the occasion. ‘If this is a Strad,’ he said, ‘I’m putting it up for sale. What’s your best offer?’

  ‘My body,’ she said, ‘and there’s plenty of that, but on closer inspection it looks like a Chinese imitation. The viola, I mean, not me. I withdraw the offer. You’re Mel Farran, right?’

  Caught by surprise, he said, ‘I am.’

  She drew back a fraction, allowing him to get a wider focus on her physique. She was exceptionally large in all areas. Under the rake of the hat, blonde curls in profusion surrounded a face that was both pretty and pudgy. ‘I came specially to see you. I’m the cellist in the quartet you could be joining.’

  He took a moment to absorb this. ‘Really? Which quartet is that?’

  She wagged her finger. ‘I may look decks-awash, buster, but you won’t catch me as easily as that. I’m more sober than you think and that’s restricted information.’

  ‘Are you allowed to tell me who you are?’

  ‘I’ve told everyone else, so I might as well tell you. I’m Cat – known for obvious reasons as Cat with Kitties. Rhyming slang.’

  Difficult to follow that. Mel summoned a faint grin.

  Cat continued blithely, ‘You look the part, anyway, and apparently you can play a bit. Have you ever tried the cello?’

  ‘I know enough not to stick it under my chin.’

  ‘Don’t get modest with me. I bet you can play, and I could play yours if you’ll pardon the expression.
At a pinch I can stand in for anyone.’

  ‘Useful.’

  ‘In the quartet we back each other up.’

  ‘Does that mean you get someone else to carry your cello?’

  She laughed and everything wobbled. ‘Now you’re talking, kiddo. If that’s a genuine offer, you could have just sealed your place in the famous foursome. Mind if I handle your instrument?’

  She had the knack of giving an innuendo to everything, and she had already picked up his viola.

  Mel handed the bow across. Cat gripped the fiddle in a way that showed she was no beginner, tucked the chin-rest into her flesh and played a few bars of Elgar’s ‘Salut d’Amour’, inescapable at events like this.

  ‘Would I get by?’

  ‘You know you would.’

  With a sure touch, she segued to the opening solo chords of the Telemann Viola Concerto. Much more demanding.

  ‘You don’t need me in your quartet,’ Mel said.

  ‘I’m a smart gal, but there’s a problem. I haven’t yet learned how to play my cello whilst holding the viola.’ In yet another smooth change of styles she knocked out some bars from one of the numbers the trio had performed, “Those Were the Days”, and did it with gusto. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you get yourself another drink and I’ll sit in for you? The others won’t mind.’

  They didn’t. She delighted everyone, including Mel’s colleagues in the trio, not merely coping with the music, but giving it some welly.

  Mel looked on in awe from behind a cluster of guests bobbing to the beat. He was amazed that this boisterous woman belonged to the same quartet as the po-faced Ivan. How on earth did the pair of them relate to each other? Ivan had said something about the members all being individuals, but these two came from different planets. Perhaps the playful Cat was needed as a counter-balance to Ivan’s navel-gazing. Mel was in no doubt which of the two he’d rather have for company. What could the others be like? As yet he couldn’t picture a rehearsal. String quartets were sometimes known as the “music of friends”. His own experiences of ensemble playing told him this could be a long way from the truth, but there was an understanding that discussions must take place and agreement reached on fine points as well as the major issues of interpretation.

  He still had no clue as to which quartet they were. He knew of many and had played in some. This wasn’t to say he was an expert. String quartets were legion, a surprising number top notch, plenty whose best hope was to get through a concert without people leaving, a humble majority who confined themselves to weddings like this and a few who were just abysmal. The high-flyers literally jetted around the world delighting audiences in distant places, so it was understandable that he’d not heard Cat in concert. He was sure he’d have noticed her.

  They’d reached the end of a rendering of Moon River that she’d embellished with trills the trio hadn’t heard before, all in waltz time, and now she waved the bow for Mel to take over. ‘Melly, my dear, I haven’t had my second slice of wedding cake. I’m through playing.’

  She was given a round of applause and blew kisses to the audience. While changing places with Mel she said with a wink, ‘See more of you soon, eh?’

  ‘So I may be in with a chance?’

  ‘Don’t push it, ducky. We only met an hour ago.’

  ‘I meant the quartet.’

  ‘Oh, that. Better wait and see. Is this your best instrument?’

  ‘I do have another I keep for concert work.’

  ‘That’s a relief. This one isn’t fit to use as a doorstop. Promise me you won’t show it to any of the others.’

  He wasn’t going to miss an opening like that. ‘I only show mine to girls, really lucky girls.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t get my juices going, honey. Keep it hidden.’

  ‘Does anyone else need to vet me?’

  ‘You bet.’ She blew a kiss. ‘Thanks for today. Wild.’

  He didn’t see her again that afternoon. At the end of the river trip, when they were packing up, one of the ushers asked him who the woman in yellow had been.

  ‘That was Cat,’ Mel said.

  ‘Your girlfriend?’

  ‘D’you mind? We only met today.’

  ‘The reason I asked,’ the usher said, ‘is that no one seems to know who invited her. The bride’s people thought she was one of the groom’s family and the groom thought she was on the bride’s side. We decided in the end she must have come with you.’

  4

  BATH, 2012

  ‘It was a suicide,’ Diamond told Paloma. ‘Want to hear more, or would you rather not know?’

  Back in Bath, on an overcast evening with soft rain in the air, they were taking one of their walks along the industrial stretch of the river west of the city, crammed on the south side with warehouses and factories, a far cry from the elegant part of Vienna they’d stayed in, but there was a compensation: they were only five minutes, he judged, from the Dolphin in Lower Weston. Walking wasn’t a pleasurable activity for Diamond unless there was a pint and a pie when it finished.

  ‘Every suicide is a tragedy,’ Paloma said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s been on my mind ever since I saw all those flowers people had left. I want to know the details – and yet in a way I don’t.’

  ‘Best forget it, then.’

  On the opposite side of the river an InterCity train bound for Bristol enforced a timely pause, long enough for Paloma to come to a decision.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I shan’t stop thinking about it. You’d better tell me what you found out.’

  ‘Then we leave it and move on?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I asked Ingeborg. She’s a wiz at winkling out information. Even so, it took her a while on the internet. Four years ago the body of a tourist was found in the Danube canal close to those steps. A Japanese woman in her twenties.’

  Paloma’s sympathy now had more to latch onto. ‘A tourist? Poor soul. Was she travelling alone?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘I wonder what drove her to do such a thing. Did they identify her?’

  ‘Months later, through her DNA. She’d been in the water too long to be recognised.’

  ‘How do they do that?’

  ‘DNA is unique to each individual, as you know. They take a sample from the remains and once they know of a missing person they can compare the profiles.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Traces found in the home – hair follicles, skin cells, blood, saliva. A comb or a toothbrush will often have DNA attached.’

  ‘I suppose the family reported her missing.’

  ‘Not immediately. She’d been away some time. Her travel arrangements were open-ended.’

  Paloma took a sharp, pitying breath. ‘So easy to get depressed when you’re alone in a strange city.’

  ‘She must have known what to expect.’

  ‘Yes, but things can easily go wrong. You find you’re running through your cash, or you lose your credit cards, or you just get ill and there’s no one with you to share your troubles and laugh them off. The world can seem a hostile place.’

  ‘It would take more than that to make me jump into a canal.’

  She didn’t take the remark as lightly as he intended. ‘We’re not all men of steel.’

  ‘Just trying to keep a sense of proportion.’

  ‘Not always so simple. You said she was Japanese. They think differently about suicide. It’s rooted in their culture.’

  ‘What – harry-karry?’

  ‘Hara-kiri, actually. No, that’s part of the samurai tradition and too gory to go into. I’m talking about the mass of the people, and the way they think. I’m trying to think of the name of the most famous Japanese dramatist. Anyway, he specialised in plays about lovers who commit suicide, and he was writing over three hundred years ago.’

  Paloma’s knowledge of international drama had to be respected. She had her own company advising on historical costum
e for theatre, film and television.

  Diamond said, ‘I heard somewhere that the Japanese are in the premier league for suicide. If you fail in your job, topping yourself is the honourable thing to do. Politicians, bankers, business managers. It wouldn’t happen here. You write a book about your failings and make another fortune.’

  His efforts to raise a smile weren’t working.

  ‘Did this poor girl leave a note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do they know she killed herself?’

  ‘They found something with the body that was almost the same as a suicide note. What are those little carved ivory things people collect? They have some sort of practical function.’

  ‘Netsuke?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘They go with traditional Japanese costume, fixed to the sash of a kimono so that personal items can be suspended from them.’

  ‘Well, this one was found inside her T-shirt. She may have been holding it to her chest when she jumped. Two embracing figures in snow up to their waists.’

  ‘Chubei and Umegawa.’

  His high opinion of Paloma’s expertise went up several more notches. ‘You know their names?’

  ‘They’re well known, almost universal characters. And now I’ve remembered the name of the playwright: Chikamatsu. He used them in one of his plays. It ends with the lovers going out into the snow to die.’

  ‘You’re way ahead of me. The point of this is that the police took the netsuke to be a suicide emblem.’

  ‘Symbolically, it does make sense,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the story represented in woodcuts, paintings and netsuke. This poor woman may have been in love.’

  ‘Not just missing her credit cards, then?’

  She finally produced a smile, more in charity than humour. ‘Probably not. Had she met someone?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you. I don’t suppose the Vienna police could, either.’

  ‘Aren’t you interested in why she died?’

  ‘The “how” matters more than the “why”. If it happened here and it became obvious she’d killed herself, with no possibility of anyone else being involved, we wouldn’t go into all the possible reasons. The inquest will do that. It’s not up to the police to find out her state of mind.’