The Tooth Tattoo by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online Page B

a forty minute masterpiece. He’d have five days to prepare. ‘I wouldn’t say familiar. I’ve played it.’
    ‘That’s all right, then,’ Ivan said. ‘Be sure to bring your best instrument. We need to hear the sound.’
    ‘Is this an audition, then?’
    ‘Don’t think of it as such. Treat it as
an afternoon of making music
. The car will pick you up at two. Do you eat smoked salmon?’
    ‘When I get the chance, yes.’
    ‘We’ll have some for tea. Oh, and there’s no need to dress up this time. Come in your weekend attire, whatever that may be.’ This was Ivan at his most human. Apparently deciding he’d gone overboard, he abruptly ended the call.
    ‘I’m about to find out if this is genuine,’ Mel told Dolores. ‘Sunday afternoon, Beethoven Opus 131. In at the deep end.’
    ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Think of it as – ’
    ‘An afternoon of making music?’
    ‘Exactly.’

6
    A n afternoon of making music?
    Some chance.
    Mel wasn’t treating this lightly. He was about to be put to the test. Each waking hour must be devoted to preparing the piece, learning the seven movements passage by passage in readiness to respond to the other instruments, letting the viola speak, sing, inspire, transform, in harmony with the rest. And of course the difficulty was not being able to predict how the others would interpret their parts. The preparation you can do in isolation is limited.
    For encouragement he kept telling himself that this wouldn’t be a memory test like a solo performance. Quartet-playing is almost always from the sheet. They’d have the score in front of them with the composer’s markings.
    Opus 131 is said to have been Beethoven’s favourite of all his string quartets. It is also said to be the ultimate in difficulty, in places almost beyond comprehension. Enough to make a nervous player take up drumming.
    Yet more than once Mel had filled in for a quartet when the violist had become ill between final rehearsal and concert. He’d gone in cold and performed well enough to get through. Nobody had thrown anything.
    Surely these people would make allowance.
    Or would they? Ivan was the sort who expected perfection, gritting his teeth at anything less. Cat would treat any false note as hilarious. Hard to say which would be less mortifying. The great unknown was the mysterious third member, the second violin, who hadn’t shown any interest yet. Mel tried toput all three out of his mind and steep himself in the work, but he knew in his heart that the personalities in a quartet are fundamental to its performance.
    By Saturday he was up with the piece, as well prepared as anyone could expect to be. Sunday morning he went through it twice without fluffing a note. He drank a large black espresso, packed the instrument in its case and started looking out of the window for the black Mercedes.
    But it never arrived.
    Instead, around ten past two, a red convertible with the roof down rattled the Fingis Street window frames. The driver – not the man he’d met before – got out, gave the house a long look and decided against all appearance to the contrary it must be correct.
    Mel saved him the trouble of ringing the doorbell. ‘It’s me you’re picking up, I think. Mel Farran.’
    ‘Good man. Set to go, then?’ There was none of the deference of the previous chauffeur. This guy looked and behaved as if he owned the Aston Martin. ‘I’m Doug, of Douglas Christmas Management.’
    Pause for thought. ‘You manage the quartet?’
    ‘Try to – on their more agreeable days. Hop in. We’re running late.’
    ‘I need my instrument.’
    The driver flashed his whitened teeth. ‘Of course.’ He took a key from his pocket, pointed it at the car and the boot lid opened.
    ‘Thanks,’ Mel said, ‘but I’d rather keep it by me.’
    ‘You fiddle players are all the same. Treat them like newborn babies.’
    They left Fingis Street behind, roaring through West London, the sound exaggerated by the