The Tooth Tattoo by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online

was devious enough to have picked on him? Actually, plenty. In his situation, filling in often for violists in ensemble groups and orchestras, there were hundreds who know him by name. Generally there’s some banter when you return to a bunch of people you’ve met before. A few might want to take it further.
    His thoughts veered in another, darker direction. This could be a revenge thing. He’d once had sex with a flautistcalled Destiny who played for the Royal Opera, a haughty-looking lady with hidden lusts. She’d approached him first, literally put her arm around him and led him below stage at Covent Garden where they’d had a vigorous session on the single-ended sofa normally used for the dying Violetta in
La Traviata
. This didn’t inhibit Destiny in the least. Mel was left with soreness amidships and multiple scratches to arms and back. He’d vowed not to repeat the experience, but Destiny had other ideas. For the rest of Mel’s stint with the Opera orchestra she made sure everyone knew he’d scored with her and she was up for more. Months afterwards he was still getting phone calls and texts suggesting another session. Everyone in the music world seemed to know. He got weary of being asked when he was planning another date with Destiny.
    Could she have hatched this plot? On reflection, probably not: she believed in the direct approach.
    But once he’d started on this tack, he thought of other affairs with musicians. Playing in an orchestra tends to encourage close relationships. Sitting for hours in rehearsal with attractive, creative people, you find yourself becoming fascinated by physical details, how her hair is fastened to leave the nape of her neck exposed, or how she crosses her legs at the ankles. The discipline of the music means that in moments between playing, a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow can convey more than it would outside. With a love of music in common and the shared experience of making it as near to the ideal as possible, responding to the conductor, to the harmonics, you already have everything in place for some flirting when the formalities end.
    That was how Mel had scored a number of times. Some romances lasted longer than others, but all had come to an end, almost always with unhappiness on one side or the other. It was not impossible that some of the hurt had lingered. He tried to imagine which former girlfriends were capable of engineering a plot like this, designed to raise his expectations and then humiliate him, and he just couldn’t see it. What was happening to him called for a degree of organisation,of bringing in people to help, that didn’t square with any of the women he’d slept with.
    Currently he was going out with Dolores, the redheaded fount of all knowledge from his local record shop. She didn’t play (or wouldn’t admit to it), but knew more than he did about all the great artists and ensembles. And while she had a quirky sense of humour that made her approachable, she was most unlikely to be behind what was currently happening to him.
    Tonight they were drinking the house Merlot at the Coach and Horses on Kew Green and she looked at him over her rimless specs and said, ‘Something bugging you?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘You’re miles away.’
    He decided to tell all.
    Dolores listened with increasing interest.
    ‘The thing is,’ Mel summed up, ‘I hate uncertainty. These people could be taking me for a ride, getting my hopes up about a well-paid job in a high-class quartet. If it’s a hoax, I need to know. But it’s just possible it’s on the level and I can’t afford to let a good opportunity pass by.’
    ‘How long is it since you met the cellist lady?’
    ‘Couple of weeks.’
    ‘Didn’t she give any clue what happens next?’
    ‘She was upbeat. Said something about seeing more of me soon.’
    ‘Suggestive.’
    ‘Just about everything she said was, but she can get away with it. She’s big, wall-to-wall. Have you heard of anyone like