‘You wouldn’t find me much of a challenge.’
‘Plenty of musicians enjoy the game,’ Ivan said. ‘I expect you have a life outside music. I’m sure you do.’
Now that the focus switched to Mel, he became ill at ease himself. ‘Nothing to speak of.’
‘Women,’ Ivan threw in. ‘I’ve seen you eyeing up the students in short skirts. Have you dated any of them?’
With his chess-playing skill, Ivan had definitely taken the initiative. Mel felt as defensive as when Mrs. Carlyle was making barbed hints about what went on with her nubile daughter. ‘I can’t afford the time. I need hours of practice to keep up with you and the others.’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that we’re all practising like fury and not telling each other?’
Mel wasn’t sure if this was a heavy-handed attempt at humour. ‘That would be a comfort.’
But Ivan was serious as usual. ‘You may get the idea that because we played the repertoire many times before, we don’t need the preparation you do, but you’d be wrong. I practise several hours each evening, however loudly my landlord turns up the volume. For me, the ideal time would be early in the morning, but they’d treat that as an act of war and I can see their point of view. Anthony does nothing else but practise, as we know, and I’m pretty certain Cat will be bowing her cello at this minute, even in the throes of a headache.’
‘Thanks. I’ll remember I’m not alone when I put in some hours tonight.’
Ivan became the abbot again. ‘Don’t get distracted by women.’
Mel felt himself blush, as much in annoyance as embarrassment. ‘You’re reading too much into a few glances at girls.’
‘Some of whom come to one-to-one tutorials.’
‘You’re out of order now. I can honestly say there’s nothing going on with any of my students.’
‘Keep it that way, then.’ Ivan hesitated, realising, possibly, that he needed to justify interfering. ‘We don’t know for sure if women were Harry’s undoing, but they could have been.’
‘In Budapest?’
‘Budapest, New York, Tokyo. He was always getting out of contact with the rest of us.’
‘But you’ve often said you respect each other’s space.’
‘Too much, in the case of Harry. He disappeared into a space none of us were aware of.’
‘From all I’ve heard about Harry, he comes across as a likeable guy.’
‘He was — or is, I suppose I’d better say. We valued his company as well as his playing.’
But not the playing away, Mel thought. ‘As his replacement, I often find myself wondering what he was like. I don’t even know his age. I may be wrong, but I get the impression he was one of my generation.’
‘A few years your senior.’
‘What was his musical background?’
‘He started as a violinist, as most viola players do. Went to the Guildhall School of Music and found he preferred the darker tones of the viola. He was with the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra for a short time before joining a talented quartet based in Dublin. There were personality clashes, I believe. The Irish are an excitable nation. They broke up at about the time Cat and I were looking for an experienced violist.’
‘Lucky you,’ Mel said.
‘It wasn’t luck.’
‘Nice timing, then.’
‘As a musician, you should know that timing is ordered and I always make sure it is.’
‘Like when you defected?’
‘A perfect example. I planned my escape. You don’t leave anything to luck when your freedom depends on it. And when it came to forming the Staccati, we were very deliberate.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if you triggered the break-up of the Irish quartet just to get Harry on board.’
Ivan lifted an eyebrow and said nothing. Mel had spoken in jest, but now he was in two minds. This man with his deep-set, unblinking gaze was starting to come across as willing to stop at nothing to get what he wanted from music.
Soon after, Ivan said he needed some time alone. He was giving a master class in the afternoon.
Mel had no students to teach for the rest of the day, so he phoned for a taxi. He rather hoped Tippi would be at the house. After all that pious stuff from Ivan about not letting women distract him he felt like a damn good screw.
He was in the glass-walled foyer looking out for his cab when a small private car came up the drive. A young blonde woman he didn’t recognise got out and came inside. She was about ten years older than most students and didn’t look as if she was arriving for a lunchtime concert.
She spoke first. ‘Are you on the staff, by any chance?’
‘Sort of,’ Mel said. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’m police,’ she said. ‘Ingeborg Smith, Detective Sergeant.’
12
The dead woman was Mari Hitomi, a twenty-year-old from Yokohama. Her father, Kenji, the owner of a sushi bar on Lavender Hill, Clapham, had informed the embassy three days ago that she was missing, having believed for some weeks she was with friends. She should have come back to London at the weekend prior to catch a return flight to Japan. Mr. Hitomi’s account of her movements and the tooth tattoo and the interest in classical music had made the identification convincing and a DNA test had confirmed it.
Peter Diamond took Paul Gilbert with him to South London, or, rather, ordered young Gilbert to drive him. Not much was said until they were a few minutes from Clapham. A potential problem was nagging at the big man’s confidence. ‘Do you eat Japanese food?’ he finally asked.
‘Why, guv? Do you think we’ll be offered some?’
‘They’re polite people. It’s an eating place, a good one, going by the reports.’
‘Sushi’s okay. I like it.’
‘All of it?’
‘I can’t say I’ve tried everything.’
‘The raw fish?’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Good.’ Diamond relaxed. ‘If it’s offered, I’ll pass mine to you when he isn’t looking. Between you and me, I prefer my fish cooked in batter.’
‘With chips?’
‘What else is there?’
With that off his mind, Diamond concentrated on the job. Interviewing a bereaved parent wasn’t easy, but at least he didn’t have to break the news. The embassy had already done that.
The sushi bar was near enough to Clapham Junction to have a thriving trade from commuters. Every seat was taken at the rotating counter and waitresses in red suits with black bow ties were steadily adding new offerings. Diamond’s troubling prospect of questioning Mr. Hitomi over a plate of rice-coated suspicious objects was quickly dispelled.
‘We get the hell outta here,’ the slight, silver-haired father of the victim suggested after they had introduced themselves and dipped their heads in response to his courteous bow. ‘Better joint across street.’
The better joint was a dimly lit coffee shop without many customers. They carried their mugs upstairs and found a table that was reasonably private. ‘Touch base here, no problem,’ Mr. Hitomi said. His English sounded as if it was learned mainly from American movies, but the tough talk came in a subdued, husky tone that seemed to show he was still suffering from shock. He was wearing a black tie with a grey pinstripe suit.
‘Is your wife here in Clapham?’ Diamond asked, wanting to begin as painlessly as possible.
‘Yokohama,’ Hitomi said. ‘Divorce, 2001.’
More of a conversation stopper. It required some sort of respectful response, but ‘Ah, so,’ wouldn’t do. Dive in at the deep end, then. ‘And your daughter...?’
‘Mari.’
‘Was she living at home?’
‘Yokohama, also.’