The Tooth Tattoo(58)

The taxi forked left at Park Lane, heading directly north past Royal Victoria Park – an odd decision considering Mel’s lodgings were in Forester Road, north-east of the city. Cab drivers were a law unto themselves, so Mel didn’t question the route. Maybe the man knew about some obstruction along the way. Or maybe he was putting another half-mile on the clock. If so, it didn’t worry Mel, as all the fares went on the quartet’s account and were settled by their agent, Doug.

But when they slowed to a crawl for no obvious reason he tapped on the glass. ‘Hey, this isn’t where I live.’

‘All right, mate. It’s under control. I’m picking up another fare.’

‘What?’

‘Just ahead. Your lucky day, by the look of her.’

A woman was waiting opposite the entrance to the Botanic Garden, hand raised for the taxi to stop. People sometimes shared when cabs were in short supply at the station, but this woman was behaving as if she was hailing an empty one. Mel was on the point of objecting before he saw what a dream she was. She could have stepped off the style pages of a weekend magazine. Blonde, in a short white leather skirt and black top, she was smiling as if she knew exactly who Mel was, even though he was sure he’d never met her. She wasn’t in any way forgettable.

Mel was a ladies’ man. Any lingering thoughts of protest went out of the cab door when it opened and a tidal wave of cleavage almost engulfed him.

‘I’m Olga and you must be Mel.’

Distracted, he almost forgot to move his viola case from the seat beside him. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Relax. It’s all good news if you’re up for it.’

‘Up for what?’

She laughed. ‘Wait and see. It seems a bit cloak and dagger, but from now it’s champagne all the way.’

The taxi was already speeding along Weston Road. Mel had abandoned all thoughts of objecting to the extra passenger.

‘Heavy practice this morning?’ Olga asked. This close, her perfume was overpowering.

‘I’m used to it.’

‘But you’re new to the quartet.’

‘Newish. You seem to know a lot.’

‘Only the essentials.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘The Royal Crescent Hotel.’

The taxi took the turn to Marlborough Buildings and was soon rattling over the cobbles in front of Bath’s best known thirty houses, a five-hundred foot semi-elliptical terrace faced with Ionic columns. The crescent’s position, high above the park with views across lawns and trees to the city, was intrinsic to its glory. Three months into his stay in Bath, Mel hadn’t been here before. He was awed.

The famous hotel occupied the space for two houses at the centre, fitting unobtrusively into the architecture. From a distance the only way you could tell it wasn’t private dwellings was a pair of ornamental trees in tubs either side of the entrance.

A doorman in dark blue livery stepped forward and opened the cab.

Mel was in such a state that he almost forgot to reach for his viola, an unthinkable oversight ever since he’d been mugged that time in London. He snatched it up and stepped out.

In the front hall, it became obvious Olga knew where to go when she crossed the chequered floor to the staircase. Mel followed his new companion up the stairs as if her undulating bottom had hypnotic powers. Powers of some sort, for sure. Whatever she planned next he was unlikely to object.

The doors along the first floor corridor had the names of well known former residents of Bath. Olga stopped outside the John Wood suite.

‘We have the use of this for the afternoon.’

Which beat working on the Beethoven, he decided.

She opened the door.

The suite was spacious and honey-coloured, with a padded sofa and armchairs at the centre and walnut furniture. The windows facing the front were elegantly pelmeted and draped in a gold fabric. To the left, discreetly recessed behind a white wooden balustrade, was a kingsize bed.

At full stretch on it was a man.

Mel came to an abrupt halt. A threesome wasn’t in his thoughts, and certainly not a threesome in this combination.

Olga said, ‘Mel, this is Mr. Hamada. He doesn’t speak much English so I’ll need to translate.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mel said. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m leaving.’ He turned towards the door.

‘No, please be reasonable.’ She put her hand on his arm.

Something sharp but unintelligible was said from across the room. Mel glanced back.

Mr. Hamada had sat up and removed himself from the bed. He was fully dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He stepped over the little balustrade, bowed solemnly and spoke some words in his own language.