‘I was playing, not listening,’ Anthony said.
‘Not waving, but drowning.’
‘What?’
‘Ignore me, sweetheart. Just something that popped into my head as you spoke. I know exactly what you mean. I wish we’d recorded that. Personally, I think the composer himself would have clapped. D’you think God has fitted Beethoven with a hearing aid? I hope so. Ivan, have you taken a vow of silence? We’re all waiting for your verdict.’
‘You’re right. We should record it,’ Ivan said.
‘Do you mean that?’
‘It’s a step on from the recording we made with Harry. A significant step.’
‘Count me in.’
‘If only for ourselves we should do it,’ Ivan said. ‘I can book the studio and the technical people. Let’s go for it tomorrow.’
‘All agreed?’ Cat said.
The others nodded.
‘Better call those taxis, then. I’m getting an early night. I suddenly feel bushed.’
The unexpected sound of a cough came from above them. They all looked up. The rehearsal studio had a gallery. Nobody was in sight, but they heard a door closing.
‘Someone was up there,’ Cat said. ‘Damn cheek, listening in.’
‘Students, I expect,’ Mel said. ‘You can’t blame them. After all, it is a music department.’
Ivan was out of his chair and across the floor to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Cat said.
He didn’t answer. They heard him running along the corridor towards the stairs.
‘He’s getting more paranoid by the day,’ Cat said.
Mel stowed the Amati in its case and said with what he hoped was a voice devoid of urgency, ‘I’ll just take a look out the front.’
‘You’re no better than he is,’ Cat said. ‘All right. Leave it to Big Momma to fix the transport.’
The entrance hall was crowded with students when Mel got there. After threading his way through to the plate-glass front he checked the open area where cars drew up. Nothing was parked there. But a black hatchback was speeding away along the drive and might just have been the Renault Megane. Difficult to be certain from that distance.
He returned to the others. Ivan was back with them, fussing with his music sheets, clearly frustrated. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked Mel.
‘Out front.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘Only a load of students. How about you?’
‘Negative.’
Cat folded her arms and emitted a sharp, displeased breath. ‘What’s happening here? You guys are as jumpy as toads in a thunderstorm. Isn’t it time you let me in on the secret?’
Ivan busied himself returning his violin to its case.
The focus shifted to Mel. As the new man, he’d received nothing but friendship from Cat. He felt he couldn’t ignore her. ‘I told you about my little accident,’ he said. ‘What I didn’t say is that I’m pretty certain the car that knocked me down outside my lodgings was here the same afternoon, waiting out front. When Ivan and I took some interest, he drove off fast. I just went to check in case he was back today.’
‘And he wasn’t?’
‘I saw a car disappearing into the distance. It could have been the same one.’
Ivan looked up. ‘You didn’t say that when I asked.’
‘Because I don’t know for certain.’
Any of the others could have seen that a struggle was going on in Ivan’s mind. His cavernous Slavic eyes held Mel’s for a moment and then moved to Anthony and finally fixed on Cat. ‘I’ve been keeping something to myself because I didn’t think it was helpful for any of you to know. I can’t explain it. I don’t like to think what it means. I recognised the man in the car the other day, the man who is stalking us. I’m absolutely certain it’s Harry.’
24
Just when he’d scaled the heights, Mel was in free fall. His place in the Staccati had seemed secure, the Grosse Fuge mastered, the South American tour confirmed. His magnificent new instrument was producing sound of such purity that his soul rejoiced each time he put bow to strings.
And now this.
For all the amazement everyone had voiced, Ivan had insisted he was not mistaken. He wasn’t given to exaggeration. Precision was innate to his character, a Slavonic insistence on stating the facts with accuracy. No question: he had seen Harry Cornell sitting in that car.
So if Harry was alive and secretly watching the quartet, what was his game? It seemed obvious to Mel. The man had decided he wouldn’t muscle in right away and demand his place back. He’d chosen to play it cautiously and get a sense of what was going on. His musicianship wasn’t at issue. He was a brilliant violist who had served the Staccati well, toured with them, played concerts, made recordings. They’d always spoken of him warmly. They’d surely welcome him back.
After Ivan’s shock announcement, they had all made a point of saying it was the best news possible that Harry was alive. What else could anyone say? As to taking him back, they had the tact to stay silent while Mel was there. But there’s only one violist in a string quartet.
Shocked and depressed, Mel sat in his room brooding on what would happen next. Without difficulty he could see himself back to the grind of playing for weddings and anniversaries, filling in when orchestras needed a stand-in for one of their regulars.
Worse still, he’d be stuck with his old William Hill. Mr. Hamada would want the Amati back as soon as word reached him. What a wrench that would be. Mel had fallen in love with his new viola. It was a deeply emotional attachment. With that superbly crafted fiddle he experienced fulfilment, a richness of experience he hadn’t dreamed was within his capacity. He’d felt ready to join the company of the masters.
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.