The Tooth Tattoo(104)

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?’