Single, hetero, not bad looking, he was originally from Beaconsfield and currently living in a poky first-floor flat in Acton, West London. Fingis Street had never seen the like of the gleaming black limo that drew up outside at seven thirty. Good thing he didn’t keep it waiting or the local youths would have unscrewed the Mercedes logo in seconds and scraped a coin along the bodywork to see if it was real.
He was wearing an almost new pinstripe suit from Oxfam. You can bet the original owner had died, but you can’t get fussed about stuff like that when you’re skint and need to look respectable. All of his work clothes, evening suits, dress shirts and bow ties, black and white, also came from charity shops. Bargains, every one.
‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked the driver.
‘Clubland, sir. St James’s.’
‘Which club?’
‘I was told it’s confidential.’
‘Well, I’m being driven there, so I’m going to find out.’
‘And I have my orders, sir.’
Mel didn’t press him. If Ivan wanted to make a cloak-and-dagger occasion out of the meeting, let it be, he told himself to calm his nerves. He hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a huge let-down.
For all the man-about-town bluster, Mel couldn’t say he was familiar with the St James’s area of London. He’d never set foot in a gentlemen’s club, and when they drew up outside a set of white steps to a shiny black door with brass fittings, he forgot to look for the name.
The doorman had his instructions and waved Mel through when he said who he was. Carpeted entrance hall, grand staircase and oil paintings in gold frames. Mel couldn’t say who painted them, except it wasn’t Andy Warhol or Francis Bacon. A short, bald man appeared from behind a potted fern and extended his hand. The grip was firm, as if they were old chums.
‘So glad you came. There’s an anteroom we can have to ourselves. Have you eaten?’
‘Yes,’ Mel lied, not wanting to be treated to a meal before he knew what this was about.
‘In that case, cognac should go down well. Agreed?’
A beer would have been more to Mel’s liking, but he didn’t have the neck to ask for one. A club servant was sent for the cognac.
Bound copies of Punch lined the anteroom. Laughs all round.
‘I still don’t know your surname,’ Mel said when they were seated in leather armchairs either side of a marble fireplace big enough to park a car in.
‘Better you don’t unless and until we come to an agreement,’ his host said. ‘You will have guessed I, too, am a musician. Violin. You’ve heard me play.’
‘Have I?’
‘Possibly in the concert hall and certainly on disc.’
What do you say to that? If the guy was a soloist, Mel didn’t recognise him. He could think of dozens he’d heard in the last eight years.
‘In a well-known string quartet,’ he added.
‘Ah. Am I supposed to guess which?’
‘No.’
Be mysterious, Mel thought. See if I care. The cognac arrived in a cut-glass decanter and was poured into balloon glasses. Ivan waited for the flunkey to leave the room.
‘There could be a vacancy in the quartet,’ Ivan said.
‘Could be?’
‘Is.’
‘For a violist? And you have me in mind?’
‘In mind is a good way of putting it.’
Mel waited, but nothing else followed. ‘Is this an offer?’
‘Not yet. The others will have a say.’
‘Are they coming here to join us?’
‘No.’
‘Who are they?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’
All this stonewalling was hard to take. Ivan had issued the invitation. He should have been selling the deal. Instead he was swirling the brandy in the glass as if he was reading tea-leaves.
At last, he said, ‘It’s not straightforward.’
‘That’s getting obvious,’ Mel said.
‘The others don’t know I’ve approached you. I believe I can persuade them. We play as a unit, but we’re all individuals, which is our strength. A quartet of yes-men would never make fine music. Playing in a quartet is all about dialogue, distinct voices that respond to each other, but not passively. There’s question and answer in musical terms, sharp debate, argument even. It isn’t all resolution and harmony.’
Mel felt like saying he wasn’t a total beginner. He’d played in quartets. ‘You said they don’t know about me. What if they don’t approve?’
‘I would expect to persuade them — if I’m persuaded myself.’
‘You said on the phone you’ve heard me play.’
‘But can you commit?’
‘Commit what — murder?’ A cheap remark. Something had to be said to lighten the mood.
Ivan didn’t smile. ‘Commit to a trial period of, say, a year? It would mean total loyalty to the quartet, rehearsals, business meetings, performances, recordings and touring.’
‘I’d need to know more.’
‘In particular?’
‘Who am I replacing?’
‘That I can’t say.’
‘Has he retired — or have you given him the elbow?’
‘Neither.’
‘Died?’
Silence.
‘He’s still playing? You’re plotting to dump him and he doesn’t know?’
A shake of the head. ‘We’re professionals, Mr. Farran. We have our disagreements, but we’re not like that.’
‘Speaking of the professional part, how much would I expect to earn? I need to live.’
‘Enough for that, and more. We divide all the income equally and that includes our manager. As a new member, you’d take home precisely the same as the rest of us. Not as much as a bank executive earns, but better than you’re used to getting.’
‘How much approximately?’
‘Just under six figures in a good year.’
Yoiks. This was the first thing Mel had heard that he liked. ‘At some point soon, you’ll have to come clean about who you are, the name of the quartet. If you’re earning that money, you must be famous.’
‘The fame is immaterial. You’re single, yes?’
‘I am.’
‘So touring shouldn’t be a problem?’
‘I guess not.’
‘We don’t live in each other’s pockets. There’s no sharing of rooms, no forced mingling. All we would insist on is that you are there for rehearsals and concerts. If we take on a residency, as we may, that can involve some teaching. Are you comfortable with that?’
‘I’ve done some. I’d still want to meet the others before deciding.’
‘Naturally — and they will insist on meeting you.’
‘So will it be arranged?’
Ivan hesitated. ‘Possibly. In the fullness of time.’
The ‘fullness of time’ was presumably how long it would take to dump the current violist, Mel mused, wondering what the unfortunate musician had done wrong. Difficult to feel comfortable about this set-up, but he was willing to stretch a point for a hundred grand a year.
Nothing more of substance was said and he left soon after. It was clearly a ‘don’t call us’ situation.