The Tooth Tattoo (25 page)

Mel nodded as if he approved every word.

Mrs. Carlyle said, ‘Is that gin and tonic you’re holding, Mel?’

‘Would you like some?’ he said, pleased to find anything to say that wouldn’t land him deeper in trouble.

‘I wouldn’t mind, but not here. We don’t want Tippi walking in and finding us.’

‘True.’

‘Heaven knows what she’d think mummy was up to. Bring it across to my room.’

Mel had alarming doubts of his own about what mummy was up to, but he’d offered the drink and he couldn’t easily refuse. ‘Is she about?’

‘Carry the booze across and I’ll tell you.’

He felt he had no option.

‘Last door on the left,’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘Don’t be surprised how bijou it is. When I took a lodger I switched rooms.’

He pushed open her bedroom door. Certainly it was small, and dominated by a double bed that was a nest of pink, with ruched satin along the headboard and sides. The walls, too, were pink, with a design of ribbon and roses.

‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ Mrs. Carlyle said. ‘Make yourself
comfortable on the bed. I don’t have room for a chair, as you see. I have to perch on the edge of the mattress when I’m using my dressing table.’

Uneasily he lowered himself into the softness of goose down and foam rubber. He was facing the window, which was mostly covered by pink velvet draped in two deep curves held by tiebacks. He couldn’t help thinking it was the shape of a pair of enormous buttocks.

‘There isn’t much choice over seating arrangements, is there?’ Mrs. Carlyle said. She took her place beside him and they both sank a few inches deeper. ‘Yours is the master bedroom, which is right and proper for a masterful man.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m masterful.’

‘We’ll find out presently. I’m ready for that snifter now,’

He felt the warmth of her hip against his. In this new predicament he’d almost forgotten he was still holding the miniatures. ‘Do you have a glass?’

‘Not here. Let’s be depraved and drink the gin straight from the bottle and chase it with the tonic.’

‘All right.’ He handed her one of the gins.

She unscrewed it and tipped the contents straight down her throat.

He handed her the tonic and she took a gulp of that.

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Next time, we can do it properly with my Waterford glasses and ice and lemon, but you made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Seize the moment, I say. Do you believe in seizing the moment?’

‘I like a drink, if that’s what you mean.’

‘How old are you, Mel, if you don’t mind me asking? And don’t say old enough to sit on a lady’s bed and sink gin. That’s self-evident.’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘Are you sure? Not an itsy-witsy bit over thirty?’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘You just appear more mature than that. Far be it from me to complain. The reason I asked is that I was lying here on the bed a couple of nights ago thinking about you – in a
totally innocent way, I must add – and it struck me that you must be quite a bit older than Tippi.’

‘Tippi?’ Mel said as if he hadn’t heard of her. ‘I’ve no idea. How old is she?’

‘Eighteen last August twentieth. Not quite a Virgo.’

Mel couldn’t follow that, so he looked steadily ahead.

‘And I had her when I was twenty-one, so I’m thirty-nine, only ten years older than you. Do you realise what that means?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re closer in age to me than you are to Tippi.’

‘Is that a fact?’ he said with all the enthusiasm of a man told that a pit-bull terrier wanted stroking.

‘And I was reading in the
Daily Mail
that it’s become very fashionable for men to be attracted to women older than they are. It’s all about sophistication and experience, on the part of the women, I must add. I’m not saying men aren’t sophisticated and experienced about certain things we won’t go into – not after only one G&T – but when a knowledgeable woman takes the initiative it enriches the man’s enjoyment, and I can understand why.’

Was this a try for more gin? It could be a way of escape if he could leave the room and find some reason not to return. A sudden emergency? A blackout? A coronary?

‘The shame of it is that there’s this wealth of experience in my generation that men aren’t aware of,’ Mrs. Carlyle continued while Mel was weighing the options. ‘They get distracted by young things who know nothing at all. Surface impressions are so misleading, Mel. A pretty face with a figure to match and they think that’s all there is in life. What fools they are. And the biggest fools are the old fools, middle-aged men who chase after girls scarcely out of school.’

Mel wouldn’t mind betting Tippi had left school two years ago, at sixteen, the earliest possible opportunity. She wasn’t the brightest. But he’d got an opening here. He could take a strong line and get out of this unscathed. ‘Are you talking about me, Mrs. Carlyle?’

‘Cyn,’ she said.

‘I don’t follow you,’ he said, already undermined.

‘My first name is Cynthia, but I prefer Cyn if we’re getting on closer terms, and you don’t need to state the obvious. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a hundred times.’

‘Well … Cyn … I didn’t like the drift of what you were saying. I’m not a middle aged predator.’

‘Lord love us, Mel, it wasn’t you I was talking about. It was the man who parks his car across the street and sits there waiting for her.’

Another surprise. She was full of them. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about him except he’s no spring chicken. Anyone can see that.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Quite good-looking, dark-haired going grey at the sides. I’ve been watching him through the binoculars I use when I’m watching the birds on my feeders. He’s forty if he’s a day.’

‘When did he first appear?’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘Is he there now?’ Mel started to get up.

Mrs. Carlyle grabbed his arm and pulled him down again. ‘He’ll see you. It’s better to look through the lace curtains downstairs.’

‘Shall we go down, then?’

‘He won’t be there now. Tippi went out for a manicure and he’ll know that. He’s probably parked outside the shop.’

‘Are you sure it’s Tippi he’s interested in?’

She giggled a little. ‘What are you suggesting, Mel – that I’m the star attraction?’

This wasn’t what Mel was thinking. It was far more likely some crook had got a sniff of the Amati. ‘As the man of the house, I’d better go downstairs and check. Where do you keep your binoculars?’

‘They’ll be where I left them, on the sill in the front room. I’ll come with you.’

‘No need.’

‘I insist.’

Any excuse to be out of here, he thought – and the man
in the street interested him as well. He took the stairs fast, with Cyn Carlyle not far behind. He grabbed the binoculars. ‘Which direction?’

‘A little to your right if he’s still there. Oh, I say. That’s him, our stalker.’

Mel adjusted the focus and felt his blood run cold. He was looking at a black car, a Megane, and he was pretty sure it was the same car that had raced out of the forecourt of the Michael Tippett Centre.

There was definitely someone in the driver’s seat, but in shadow.

‘I think it’s me he’s tailing,’ he said, handing the binoculars to Mrs. Carlyle. ‘I’ve seen him before. I’m going out to have a word with him. Shut the door after me.’

‘Is that wise?’ she said.

Mel was already though the door and crossing the street. He headed straight for the car at a fast step, but the driver was faster. Two massive roars from the engine and the vehicle was in motion.

Mel was about to cross in front of it, to the driver’s side. When the car powered away from the kerb, he jerked to a stop and took a step back. Even so, it caught his right leg below the knee, tipped him off balance and threw him onto the road. It was a good thing he wasn’t any closer or he would have ended up dead. As it was, his left hand and arm took most of his weight. His shoulder crunched against the tarmac and his head followed.

The driver must have known he’d caused an accident, but he didn’t stop. Mel watched the car race to the far end of the street and over the crossroads without a flicker of the brake-lights.

Crazy. It had to be the same fool who’d been at the Tippett Centre. The pity of it was that Mel still hadn’t got a sighting of him.

Shaken and angry, he heaved himself into a sitting position. His hand was smarting. There was grazing from the smallest finger to the heel of his palm. Blood was starting to ooze
from the flesh. And this was the hand he used for fingering. He didn’t think anything was broken, but it could so easily have been. He got to his feet, checked that nothing else was coming up the street, and returned to the house.

The door was opened by Mrs. Carlyle. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just about.’

‘You’re not. You’re bleeding.’

He looked at the hand again. ‘It’s not serious. I’d better run some water over it.’

‘That was masterful,’ she said.

‘Idiotic, in my opinion.’

‘You, not him,’ she said. ‘He could have killed you. He wasn’t going to stop. It’s a disgrace. I’ll call the police right away.’

‘Don’t do that. I don’t want all the hassle.’

‘I think I should.’

‘It’s more trouble than it’s worth. I didn’t get the number. Didn’t even get a proper look at the driver.’

‘He shouldn’t get away with it, whoever he is.’

‘Can I use the tap in the kitchen?’

She followed him along the passage and ran the water for him. ‘Look at your hand, you poor dear. Is it painful?’

‘It’s numb. It just needs cleaning.’

‘I’ll get some paper tissue. I was so impressed by you, Mel, dashing out there to deal with the stalker. He panicked at the sight of you bearing down on him.’

‘Did you get a look at him?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘My eyes were on you alone. You’re shaking.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘I’m all of a quiver myself. What we both need is a socking great G&T. Shall we go to the master bedroom and see if the master has any more supplies?’

‘My legs wouldn’t carry me up there,’ Mel said. ‘Right now all I want is a strong black coffee.’

T
he only member of CID claiming to know anything about classical music was John Leaman, so next morning he got the job of listing all the Staccati tours and concerts he could trace from the internet. The quartet’s website was unhelpful. It had obviously been relaunched recently with all the emphasis on the current players. Whoever had designed it was under instructions to gloss over the problems of the past four years, so there was no detailed log of past performances. A summary of the cities they had visited and concert halls they had played in was provided, but without dates. He had to look for the information elsewhere. By degrees he got there. In their prime they had toured widely and earned rave reviews, but it became obvious that they had done little as an ensemble since 2008.

‘When exactly was it formed?’ Diamond asked.

‘Sixteen years ago,’ Leaman said. ‘Ivan Bogdanov and Cat Kinsella were founder members. The others are replacements for people who left.’

‘And who was Staccati?’

There was some sniggering behind the computer screens.

Leaman studied his boss’s face, uncertain if he was being led into a trap. ‘It’s a musical term for short notes sharply separated from each other, from the Italian,
staccato
, meaning “detached”.’

‘Strange choice,’ Diamond said with an effort to cover up his ignorance. ‘It’s the opposite of what you want for a team of people. They ought to be called Unison. That’s what they should be projecting.’

‘It hasn’t held them back. They were very successful, up there with the best, doing concerts across the world and making recordings – until the viola player dropped out.’

‘Dropped out or dropped dead?’

‘He went missing on one of the foreign tours and wasn’t heard of again.’

‘Ah, yes. Harry …?’

‘Cornell.’

‘Cat told me about him.’

‘It threw them right off course. Big efforts were made to find him. Interpol were notified. The theory seems to be that he gambled heavily.’

‘On what?’

‘Casino stuff. They think he got on the wrong side of some bad people and was taken out.’

‘Gambling doesn’t fit my idea of a classical musician.’

‘It comes with the territory. Quartets, in particular. Four is the right number for card games. The Budapest were well known for playing bridge, and for high stakes. I think the Amadeus preferred poker.’

‘But that’s in-house. You’re telling me Harry Cornell played with professionals.’

‘And rather badly. It’s the best guess, that’s all.’

‘I still can’t see it, a serious musician wasting his time gambling.’

‘Plenty have, from Mozart to Elgar. It could be to do with calculating the odds. There’s a well-known link between music and maths.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Diamond said. ‘So when Harry went missing, why didn’t they get a quick replacement? They were famous. They could take their pick.’

‘It’s not so simple. For a long time they expected he would turn up again so they couldn’t offer anyone regular work. They performed with stand-ins who didn’t cut it for one reason or another. The mix has to be right. Everyone has to blend in. You may find a brilliant soloist who can’t work with others. It’s as much about temperament and team-building as musical
ability. They were unlucky or unwise in their choices and for a time they went their own ways.’

‘Broke up?’

‘In all but name. Some time last spring they found this new man Mel Farran and he seems to be doing okay. It clinched the residency at Bath for them and soon they’ll be touring again.’

‘If they aren’t involved in a murder trial.’ Diamond picked up the printout of Leaman’s list. ‘Is this their itinerary? They certainly travelled. I heard about the Japan trip from Cat.’

‘They’ve been there a few times.’

‘Was this with Anthony on board?’

‘The last couple of visits.’

‘When Mari was probably in the audience. I’m assuming Anthony was the main attraction.’

‘Why him in particular?’ Leaman asked.