‘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.’
18
The 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.’