The Tooth Tattoo Read online

  ‘Peter, you probably don’t mean it, but that sounds so uncaring.’

  Smarting from that, he justified his statement. ‘We’re not social workers or psychologists. We’d be wrong to try.’

  ‘But you’d try if she’d been murdered. That’s where your argument breaks down.’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t think we were arguing. Besides, it’s not my case. The Vienna police dealt with it.’

  ‘And decided it was suicide because of nothing more substantial than the netsuke? Didn’t they go into it any more deeply than that? Someone could have stuffed the netsuke into her clothes and pushed her in.’

  ‘Murder, you mean?’

  ‘Or manslaughter, horseplay that went wrong.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If they used the netsuke to delude the police the killing would be premeditated. But it wouldn’t be a very reliable way of going about it. You couldn’t guarantee the police would find the thing. It was not much bigger than a walnut.’

  ‘So you agree with the official line - it was suicide?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt they looked at all the evidence.’

  ‘And this was how long ago? Four years? People still care enough to leave flowers.’

  ‘It’s a modern custom.’

  ‘And a nice one. Her family must be devastated. For this to have happened thousands of miles from home – that’s heartbreaking.’

  He couldn’t prevent Paloma identifying strongly with the people involved. He’d hoped she would be satisfied knowing the main facts. She’d spoken of the temporary shrine of flowers several times since returning from Vienna.

  He tried one more time to draw a line under the incident. ‘Nothing we can do about it. Bad things are happening every day in this world. It’s no good letting them get to you.’

  She rounded on him with more passion than he expected. ‘That’s bloody typical of a policeman, if I may say so. Cut yourself off from reality. Develop the hide of a rhinoceros. This was a tragic suicide, a young life sacrificed and probably for love, if the netsuke means anything.’

  ‘Paloma, we didn’t know her. I haven’t even told you her name.’

  ‘It’s the offhand way you said it: “Nothing we can do” – as if she’s just a statistic. I know there’s nothing we can do. It’s up to the Austrian police. But I can’t forget we were there and I picked up the flowers. Someone obviously cares about her enough to place a bunch of lilies there four years after the event, even if you want to turn your back.’

  He ignored the last remark. ‘Japanese friends, I should think, or local people with more sympathy than most of us, like you.’

  ‘There you go again, analysing, looking for explanations. I’m saying it’s a personal tragedy. It’s real.’

  No question: the very thing he’d wanted to avoid was happening. Paloma was reliving the incident and more upset than ever. Worse, it was becoming an issue between them.

  She continued, ‘We spent most of our time in Vienna tracking that bloody film as if the events actually happened. It was only a story, but you seemed more affected by it than the real human tragedy we stumbled over. I tell you, that scene has been on my mind a lot since we got back.’

  ‘That much is obvious,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to keep telling me. That’s why I asked Ingeborg to find out more. Maybe I shouldn’t have done.’

  She turned her head, as if talking to the river. ‘It’s better knowing, even if we can’t do anything about it.’

  They walked as far as Weston footbridge before Diamond spoke again, trying to make peace.

  ‘You had a basinful of The Third Man. Selfish of me. I should have given you more choice in what we did.’

  ‘I’m not complaining about that. What I find hard to stomach is that you can get emotionally involved in a film, yet cut off from a real death.’

  ‘My job. Simple as that.’

  ‘Being detached, you mean?’

  ‘Any professional will tell you the same – doctor, paramedic, fireman.’

  ‘Yet you’re a softie underneath. I’ve seen you in tears at the end of the film when the woman walks straight past Joseph Cotten and into the distance.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to notice. I’m just the same in Casablanca. She was Anna, by the way.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘The woman in the film, played by Alida Valli.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Peter, I despair of you. Yet you won’t name the Japanese suicide victim.’

  ‘If it mattered, I would.’

  At Twerton, the river divides to accommodate a weir. They followed the towpath along the Western Cut as far as the small humpback bridge that takes its name from the Dolphin.

  ‘This is almost three hundred years old, did you know?’ Diamond said with a too-obvious shift in the conversation.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Most of it is. One side was bombed in the Bath Blitz and had to be rebuilt. The pub copped it, too. It’s said to be equally old.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I live just down the road, don’t I? This is one of my locals.’

  ‘One of them. I like that.’

  It was too damp to sit in the garden, so they found a table in one of the eating areas inside. He brought a pint from the bar and a glass of Chablis for Paloma.

  She was still tetchy with him, as if more needed to be said. He wittered on for a while, explaining that the Dolphin hadn’t got its name from a small whale that had strayed up the Avon, but an old word for a mooring post.

  Only when their meal arrived did Paloma say, ‘When I called you a softie just now, it wasn’t meant as an insult. I don’t think it’s bad if you shed a few tears over a film. It shows you have emotions that are bottled up mostly. You keep them hidden in your working life and I understand why. What I can’t work out is why you don’t relax enough to let your feelings show when you’re off work, such as now.’

  ‘What do you expect? I’m a bloke.’

  ‘There you go again, putting up the shutters.’

  At a loss, he stared across the room. He could think of nothing to say. He’d never been comfortable talking about what he thought of as personal. Even with his beloved wife, Steph, he’d rarely opened up and after her sudden and violent death he’d confided in nobody, preferring to endure the unimaginable grief in isolation. The wound would never heal and he was certain that no one, however well-meaning, could assist. He’d put the shutters up – as Paloma had expressed it – for a reason. He couldn’t predict how he would react if she were to probe his hidden emotions. Paloma was a valued friend and an occasional lover. Up to now she’d been willing to conduct their relationship on those terms. Unless he was mistaken she seemed this evening to be demanding a change in him that he didn’t think he could make.

  When it became obvious Diamond wasn’t going to speak, Paloma said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. Let me remind you that we’ve both got painful areas in our lives – totally different, but hard to bear. My ex-husband, my son. I’ll never come to terms with what happened, just as I wouldn’t expect you to get over your personal tragedy. We’re scarred for life, both of us. But we still have a life. Surely it helps to share joys and sadnesses?’

  ‘I prefer to keep my sadnesses to myself,’ he said.

  She looked surprised. ‘But a trouble shared is a trouble halved – or so they say.’

  ‘Claptrap.’

  She didn’t speak for a moment, but her face drained of colour. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘What you just said – it’s only a saying and it’s rubbish. I’m not discussing my private life with anyone.’

  She caught her breath. ‘I thought I was a part of your private life.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you’re on the inside with a licence to go where you want.’

  ‘You don’t know how hurtful you’re being.’

  ‘I’ll shut up, then.’

  He finished the pie and chips in si
lence. Although rows with work colleagues were his stock-in-trade, this was his first serious difference with Paloma and he knew he was handling it badly. He offered to get another drink.

  She was tight-lipped.

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ he suggested.

  Still silent, she got up from the table and walked to the door. The barman shouted, ‘Cheers, folks. Have a great evening.’ Neither Diamond nor Paloma answered.

  Out on the towpath, something definitely needed to be said. In ordinary circumstances they would head towards his house and she would spend the night with him. But it wasn’t as if they were married. These intimacies were occasional and by arrangement – a subtle, consensual understanding.

  He said, ‘Perhaps it’s a sign that we’ve moved on, having a few strong words with each other.’ He meant to say they’d grown closer and could speak their differences without the relationship breaking down.

  That wasn’t how Paloma took it. ‘Moved on? Are you saying you want to end it?’ She stopped walking and swung round to face him. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Paloma, it’s not me making an issue out of nothing.’

  ‘So I’m to blame, am I?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Not in as many words, but that’s obviously what you meant. It may sound like nothing to you but I’m not used to being told my opinions are claptrap, especially when I was reaching out to you, doing my best to understand you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be understood – not like that, anyway.’

  Her face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. ‘In that case you don’t need me around. Find some other woman to shag, someone who doesn’t give a damn about you. You and I are through.’

  She turned and stepped briskly away without looking back.

  5

  Two weeks passed and Mel heard nothing more from the “Famous Foursome,” Cat’s term for the mysterious string quartet. Thinking they may have decided he wasn’t the right choice for violist, he made up his mind not to lose any sleep over it. Sure, the money was tempting, but he didn’t care for their methods, acting like Cold War spies, obtaining his address, whisking him off for a secret meeting in a London club, refusing to say who they were and gatecrashing a private wedding party for a second look at him. Out of curiosity he’d Googled string quartets. Would a reputable, high-earning ensemble group be able to exist in the twenty-first century without its own website with pictures of the performers? Even if Ivan was a shadowy figure, the rumbustious Cat was not. He’d found more ensembles online than he had ever dreamed existed, plenty with female cellists and their pictures, too, but none looked like her. If he’d been able to supply a name for the quartet he might have had more success. After numerous tries he decided his time would be better spent practising.

  He was starting to think the whole thing could be an elaborate hoax. Classical music wasn’t without its jokers, however solemn its reputation. Generally they struck in rehearsal sessions when fooling about was excusable. Most of it was at the level of sabotaging piano stools, music stands and sometimes even the instruments. On occasions the trickery was more sophisticated, involving players being sent wrong instructions. He’d heard of an unfortunate first violin led to believe everyone would be wearing a red bow-tie for a concert of Russian music. Then there was the percussionist tricked into moving his entire set of instruments into the royal box at the Albert Hall for a performance of the ‘1812 Overture’.

  The more he thought about this leg-pull theory, the more plausible it became, but where it was leading? Presumably some kind of humiliation was in store. He’d be notified he was picked for the quartet, turn up somewhere for a rehearsal, open a door and be greeted by all his jeering mates. Was that the sting? It didn’t seem enough after such a build-up. Better think again.

  There had to be a bigger pay-off.

  With a sinking heart he recalled the Candid Camera show that had run for so many years taking advantage of unsuspecting members of the public. Surely that had disappeared from TV screens, along with its imitators? They’d spared no expense in staging elaborate cons. What if some crap TV company had decided to dust off the formula and serve it up again?

  His comeuppance as mass entertainment? He didn’t want that.

  Either way, he was obviously the fall guy. Why? He hadn’t been getting above himself, had he? He was an even-tempered, unassuming bloke, or so he liked to think. He didn’t go out of his way to annoy people.

  Maybe he did, and was not aware of it.

  Or he was a born sucker. He still recalled with pain the night he’d been robbed of his viola outside the Festival Hall.

  If this was a con, he knew musicians were involved. Ivan could have been an actor, but Cat was not. She was a damn good cellist. Someone in the business must have persuaded her to join in the fun.

  Next question: who, of all the players he knew, was devious enough to have picked on him? Actually, plenty. In his situation, filling in often for violists in ensemble groups and orchestras, there were hundreds who know him by name. Generally there’s some banter when you return to a bunch of people you’ve met before. A few might want to take it further.

  His thoughts veered in another, darker direction. This could be a revenge thing. He’d once had sex with a flautist called Destiny who played for the Royal Opera, a haughty-looking lady with hidden lusts. She’d approached him first, literally put her arm around him and led him below stage at Covent Garden where they’d had a vigorous session on the single-ended sofa normally used for the dying Violetta in La Traviata. This didn’t inhibit Destiny in the least. Mel was left with soreness amidships and multiple scratches to arms and back. He’d vowed not to repeat the experience, but Destiny had other ideas. For the rest of Mel’s stint with the Opera orchestra she made sure everyone knew he’d scored with her and she was up for more. Months afterwards he was still getting phone calls and texts suggesting another session. Everyone in the music world seemed to know. He got weary of being asked when he was planning another date with Destiny.

  Could she have hatched this plot? On reflection, probably not: she believed in the direct approach.

  But once he’d started on this tack, he thought of other affairs with musicians. Playing in an orchestra tends to encourage close relationships. Sitting for hours in rehearsal with attractive, creative people, you find yourself becoming fascinated by physical details, how her hair is fastened to leave the nape of her neck exposed, or how she crosses her legs at the ankles. The discipline of the music means that in moments between playing, a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow can convey more than it would outside. With a love of music in common and the shared experience of making it as near to the ideal as possible, responding to the conductor, to the harmonics, you already have everything in place for some flirting when the formalities end.

  That was how Mel had scored a number of times. Some romances lasted longer than others, but all had come to an end, almost always with unhappiness on one side or the other. It was not impossible that some of the hurt had lingered. He tried to imagine which former girlfriends were capable of engineering a plot like this, designed to raise his expectations and then humiliate him, and he just couldn’t see it. What was happening to him called for a degree of organisation, of bringing in people to help, that didn’t square with any of the women he’d slept with.

  Currently he was going out with Dolores, the redheaded fount of all knowledge from his local record shop. She didn’t play (or wouldn’t admit to it), but knew more than he did about all the great artists and ensembles. And while she had a quirky sense of humour that made her approachable, she was most unlikely to be behind what was currently happening to him.

  Tonight they were drinking the house Merlot at the Coach and Horses on Kew Green and she looked at him over her rimless specs and said, ‘Something bugging you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re miles away.’

  He decided to tell all.

  Dolores listened with increasing interest.<
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  ‘The thing is,’ Mel summed up, ‘I hate uncertainty. These people could be taking me for a ride, getting my hopes up about a well-paid job in a high-class quartet. If it’s a hoax, I need to know. But it’s just possible it’s on the level and I can’t afford to let a good opportunity pass by.’

  ‘How long is it since you met the cellist lady?’

  ‘Couple of weeks.’

  ‘Didn’t she give any clue what happens next?’

  ‘She was upbeat. Said something about seeing more of me soon.’

  ‘Suggestive.’

  ‘Just about everything she said was, but she can get away with it. She’s big, wall-to-wall. Have you heard of anyone like that?’

  ‘Playing cello in a string quartet? I can’t say I have.’

  ‘But you know all the top ensemble groups.’

  ‘On CD, yes. I haven’t watched them all perform. Sometimes they’re pictured on the cover, but not always. You said her name is Cat. Would that be short for Catherine?’

  ‘She didn’t say. Katrina? Kathleen? It may be a nickname.’

  ‘I’m trying to think of cellists,’ Dolores said.

  He sipped the wine and waited.

  She took a different tack. ‘You’ve met two of them. Logic suggests that the third will want to vet you soon.’

  He nodded. ‘They’ve got me on a piece of string.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I expect they’re as nervous as you are. It’s a massive decision. Get someone who isn’t compatible and he could destroy the group in a very short time. Did they say what happened to their violist?’

  ‘That’s another mystery. I asked Ivan straight out if he died or is being given the push. He more or less told me to back off. He’s a hard man, is Ivan. There’s some East European in his manner as well as his name – if that is his name.’

  ‘Yet he was the first to approach you, and he told you he’d heard you play, so he must be on your side.’

  ‘You’re talking as if this is going to happen.’

  ‘I think it will,’ she said.

  ‘But you can’t identify the quartet. They’ve got to be famous if they’re earning the money Ivan spoke about.’