The Tooth Tattoo

26

‘It’s bloody frustrating,’ Keith Halliwell said to those of the team who were listening, ‘but there’s no point in us buzzing around Bath like blue-arsed flies. The boss has put out an all-units call. Wait for the shout. It’ll come. Then we can reel him in.’

‘Is he dangerous?’ Paul Gilbert asked.

‘Lethal when DCs ask daft questions.’

‘I mean Harry Cornell.’

‘Anyone on the run has to be considered dangerous. After four years he’s probably got himself a shooter.’

‘He must know he’s taking a risk coming here. What’s he doing it for?’

‘How would I know? He’s the one you want to ask. Old scores, maybe. If he’s stalking the people he used to know, he must have something to settle with them.’

‘Could it be sour grapes that they replaced him in the band and he’s a forgotten man now?’

‘The band?’

‘Quartet.’

‘You could be right. These performers have inflated egos.’

‘The guy who replaced him had better watch out, then. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’

Diamond treated himself to a later start. He’d worked overtime the evening before, not only visiting Ivan, but making a late trip to Manvers Street to set up the dragnet for Harry. He phoned in early. No news. It was too much to hope for a quick arrest.

He caught himself talking to the cat again as he put down food, a sure sign of stress. Raffles ignored him, and after a sniff ignored the pieces of salmon squeezed from the pouch and sat by the plate waiting, a way of informing a dim-witted owner that rabbit, lamb or beef were preferable every time. Cat food in packets of twelve always included some flavour Raffles rejected.

‘You’re too picky for your own good, Mr. Cat,’ Diamond said. ‘A contented mind is a continual feast. It’s a lesson in life.’

A short lesson. Ten minutes later he softened and put out a plate of lamb. Raffles had been Steph’s cat and he could almost hear her urging him to open another packet. So the cat got the continual feast and the contented mind.

The big man pottered around, making tea and toast until he noticed the message light winking on the kitchen phone. A call must have come in while he was shaving. He pressed play in case it was Manvers Street to say they’d found Harry Cornell.

The voice was Paloma’s.

He stopped everything, stood still and listened.

‘Peter, this is me. I expect you’re still hard at work on the case of those poor Japanese women. Well, I was thinking back to our Vienna trip and that little shrine of flowers we found by the canal. It may mean nothing at all, but on the other hand... Listen, I’ve been doing some research of my own and I ought to speak to you about it. Is there any chance we could meet? Let me know if you think I could be helpful.’

If you think I could be helpful.

No need to think. This was Paloma wanting to meet again. He called her mobile.

She had switched it off. Nothing is ever simple. So he left a voicemail message saying he’d be grateful for any help she could give and would call her again to fix a time and place.

He’d not slept well. His brain had kept returning to Harry Cornell, asking why the missing violist had resurfaced after so long. Was the man dangerous, as Ivan believed? Almost certainly.

Emi Kojima had last been seen alive in Harry’s company late at night in October 2008, in the bar of their hotel in Vienna. She was a Tokyo prostitute who had mysteriously arrived in Vienna and turned up at one of the Staccati concerts. Working girls don’t make expensive trips to Europe. Someone must have funded her, and for a reason. She had some knowledge of classical music so she’d been chosen for this job. What was the job? Surely to learn more about Harry’s trading in netsuke — a lucrative private enterprise that was upsetting the big boys. Some criminal syndicate had arranged for Emi to sleep with Harry and get the truth about his dealings. She was later found dead with one of Harry’s netsuke hidden in her clothing. This suggested she’d stolen it as a sample of his wares, but was killed before she could report back and deliver the goods — which made Harry the prime suspect.

Any of the quartet, or Douglas Christmas, could testify in court that they’d witnessed the pair drinking together and stepping into the lift. It wasn’t too much to surmise that the action moved from the hotel bar to Harry’s room.

Harry, already deeply in debt to the mafia, needed his second income. He would have been alarmed when Emi got interested in his business activities.

Alarm, panic, violence. A deadly sequence.

The hotel where all this had happened backed onto the Wienfluss, which fed into the Danube canal, where the body was found.

Then Harry went missing in Budapest, the next stop on the quartet’s tour. With the mafia calling in his gambling debts and the yakuza closing in on his netsuke dealings, and the Vienna police likely to discover the body, his only sensible option had been to disappear.

As it turned out, Emi’s death was assumed to have been suicide and no one made the connection with the quartet. They had never been questioned about their enthusiastic fan and who she slept with.

Four years on, the quartet had re-formed and were based in Bath. If Harry took the slightest interest in his fellow musicians, he’d have looked at the website. Curiosity may have brought him here, or envy, or the pull of the quartet-playing he loved and missed. Whatever the reason, he was in the city and a second Japanese woman had been strangled. By now, Harry would be desperate to know if there were fresh suspicions about the Vienna death and if his old companions had been questioned and how much they remembered.

This would explain the stalking.

Diamond tried putting himself in Harry’s situation. There was a limit to what he could learn from a distance. He needed to speak to one of the Staccati. Who would he approach? Not the prickly old Soviet defector, Ivan. Not Cat, who would blab to everyone and think it a huge joke. And certainly not Anthony whose tunnel vision recognised little else but music.

Which left Mel, the new man, an unknown quantity for Harry, but without direct knowledge of what had happened in Vienna. As a fellow violist Mel ought to be a twin soul. And well placed to report on what the others were saying these days. This explained why Harry’s car had been seen outside Mel’s lodgings. And why Mel had been followed into Sydney Gardens. It was even possible Harry had been on the point of approaching Mel that morning in the gardens — neutral ground — when Diamond and Ingeborg had appeared.

At the cost of a decent night’s sleep, Diamond had a better grasp of events. A meeting with Mel was next on his agenda.

But not quite.

As he was about to leave the house, his phone rang. He snatched it up and heard Paloma’s voice: ‘Peter? I was in the shower when you called. Any chance we could meet?’

‘Every chance,’ he said. ‘Can I come now?’

Her Georgian house in Lyncombe Vale doubled as home and business premises. Maybe it was understandable after their recent history that she chose to see him upstairs in her office with her mahogany desk between them and her personal assistant Judy in the same room working on the computer. Once in Vogue was a thriving international company that supplied period illustrations for television and stage designers. Two large bedrooms had been knocked into one to store the prints, books, bound magazines and newspapers. It was a huge archive, yet you had the sense that everything had its place and Paloma knew exactly where each item was to be found.

‘Coffee?’

‘Too early, thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s not my caffeine rush hour yet. But don’t let me stop you.’

‘How’s work?’ Her unease was obvious. They were both as stiff-backed as guests at a state dinner. And Judy’s presence didn’t help.

‘Hectic, as usual. Yours?’

‘Much the same. You look tired.’

‘Do I? It must be all the clubbing.’

He wasn’t going to ask how her personal life was going. All too painfully he was minded of the tall guy he’d seen her with at the concert, the one he had dubbed the dog’s dinner.

‘I got your message about Vienna,’ he prompted her.

‘Oh, yes. Vienna,’ she said with obvious relief. ‘The little shrine of flowers by the canal. I’ve been thinking about them. The woman who died was Japanese, you discovered?’

‘Yes, and we thought she committed suicide, but we now believe she was murdered.’

‘Like the woman found in Bath?’

‘Strangled, yes. That’s the theory.’

‘Don’t you know for certain?’

‘The body was returned to Japan and cremated. Our suspicions are based on circumstantial evidence, a growing amount of it.’

‘You sound confident.’

‘I am. She’d been working as a prostitute in Tokyo. Then she turned up in Vienna at one of the Staccati concerts. We reckon she was employed by the Japanese mafia.’

‘Doing what — apart from the obvious?’

‘Basically, spying. One of the quartet — the one who later went missing — was dealing in netsuke made from mammoth ivory. It got up the noses of the mob because they wanted the monopoly on the netsuke trade. So they ordered Emi to find out more.’

‘Who was the dealer?’

‘The violist. Not the one we heard at Corsham. He’s new. This was a man called Harry Cornell.’

‘And he was in Vienna?’

‘In two thousand and eight, when all this happened.’

‘Did he murder her?’

‘It looks a strong bet.’

‘Was he a Brit?’

Diamond nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Let me tell you about the flowers. Do you remember the bunch I found lying on the pavement and pushed back into the wall?’

‘The lilies.’

‘We called them lilies and it’s true they are a variety of lily. There was no message with them that I could see. Most of the dead flowers were bunches of carnations, some with cards attached, with Japanese writing. I assume they were put there by Japanese people who knew the woman.’

‘I expect so.’

‘The Japanese like carnations. But I was more interested in the living flowers, the long-stemmed ones we called lilies. Do you remember them, with the pinkish-white star shapes and long yellow-tipped stamens?’

‘Just about,’ he said.

She opened a book that she’d marked with a Post-it note and handed it across the desk. ‘They were asphodels.’

He remembered them now. ‘I wouldn’t have known. Is it important?’

‘I don’t know. You must decide. They have a strong association with death. In Greek mythology, the underworld, where dead souls went, had asphodel meadows. The best place to find yourself in was the Elysian fields, where the blessed went. The asphodel meadows were a stage lower, for indifferent and ordinary souls. You’d probably sinned a bit if you ended up there.’

‘Just a bit?’

‘Let’s say you weren’t considered a total write-off.’

‘I think I know where the write-offs went.’

‘Happily it doesn’t concern us.’

‘Yet.’

She conjured up a smile. ‘Speak for yourself. Do you know about the language of the flowers?’

‘I’ve heard there is one,’ he said. ‘All Greek to me.’

‘No, this isn’t Greek. This is English. The asphodel has a meaning all its own, a precise message that hasn’t changed in two hundred years. You’ll find it in pre-Victorian books and even today on the internet. It’s this: “My regret follows you to the grave”.’

He needed a moment to take it in. ‘Strange. Like a message to a dead person?’

‘All the main flowers have significance according to this system and most of the sentiments are pretty bland, like snowdrops meaning hope, campanulas gratitude.’

‘Roses for love?’

‘Red roses. But this one is specific. It may be pure chance that someone settled on asphodels, but if they were using the language of the flowers intentionally, they were making a statement that was very suitable for a shrine.’

‘ “My regret follows you to the grave.” Are you thinking this could have been left by the murderer?’

‘That’s why I phoned you. It sounds like someone with a guilty conscience.’

‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘But let’s not forget all the carnations already left there by Japanese friends or family. They knew Emi back in Japan and wanted to pay respect while they were in Vienna.’

‘So you’re thinking friends or family must have left the asphodels?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I would,’ Paloma said, ‘except that the Japanese have their own language of the flowers and it doesn’t include the asphodel. This is a peculiarly British thing.’

‘I get it now,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking some Brit must have left them because of what they’re supposed to mean. Harry?’

‘They were not more than a day old when we found them. They could only have been placed there while we were in Vienna ourselves. If it was Harry, he’d have needed to be in Vienna in July.’

‘That’s not impossible,’ Diamond said. ‘We don’t know where he disappeared to after Budapest. I suppose he could have come through Vienna. He’d need to know the symbolism.’

‘He’s a musician,’ she said. ‘An intelligent, sensitive person, one assumes.’

And not a yob like me, he thought, who couldn’t tell an asphodel from an asparagus. ‘Maybe I underestimate these musicians.’

‘It may be a long shot, Peter, but once I started checking it seemed to make sense. Isn’t there something about murderers returning to the scene of the crime?’

‘That’s a myth. Only if they’re taken there in handcuffs to show where they buried the body.’

‘Have you checked whether any flowers have been left by the Avon in memory of the other girl?’

He shook his head. Checking bunches of flowers wasn’t part of the investigation process.

‘Might be worth your while,’ she said.

‘Possibly.’ He didn’t say it with much conviction.

‘Anyway,’ Paloma said with a trace of annoyance, ‘I decided it was my duty to bring it to your attention.’

Her duty? With that short, uncompromising word the gulf between them had grown into Death Valley. He’d kidded himself this was about something more than obligation. ‘Thanks. You’ve obviously done some homework.’

The disappointment must have been written all over his face. He felt himself reddening.

‘I didn’t phrase that very well,’ she added.

‘That’s okay.’

‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘When I saw you at the concert the other evening I was flabbergasted. I wouldn’t have expected to meet you there in a million years.’

‘There you go.’

‘But now I understand. The link with the Staccati. Peter, I do hope one of them hasn’t killed these women. I can’t believe they’re capable of such dreadful crimes. They’re fabulous musicians. Even you must...’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. That’s so patronising.’

‘True, even so,’ he said. The earlier remark had wounded him more. ‘A lot of what we heard was way above my head. I recognised the “Ritual Fire Dance”.’

‘Enjoyed it?’

‘Always have.’

‘Perhaps we should do another concert some time. Quartet music is an acquired taste.’

It sounded like a peace offering, but he couldn’t tamely accept it. Too much had come between them. The real issue hadn’t been faced. Impulsively, he blurted it out. ‘I’d spoil your enjoyment. You’re better off with someone who knows this stuff, like your latest man.’

At her computer in the background Judy the PA continued to gaze at the screen, but her ears must have been flapping.

Paloma frowned. ‘My what?’

‘Your tall friend in the grey suit.’

‘That was Mike.’

‘Yes, you told me.’

‘My brother Miguel. I must have mentioned him before now. He likes to be known as Mike.’ Now it was her turn to blush. ‘Oh my God, you didn’t really think I was seeing someone else. Peter, I know we had our difference of opinion, but I’m not so angry with you that I’m going out with other men.’

The relief surged through him. He was speechless, far more emotional than he expected.

She filled the silence with more explanation. ‘Mike lives in London. He’s a Beethoven fanatic, and I was offered tickets through my connection with Corsham Court, so I thought of him.’

He blinked and his eyes moistened.

Paloma said, ‘Why don’t I walk downstairs with you? Judy can look after the office.’

They left the PA in charge.

‘This hasn’t been a total waste of your time if it’s cleared up that misunderstanding,’ Paloma said as they went down her grand, crimson-carpeted staircase.

‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘Far from it.’

She linked her hand under his arm. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘You could be onto something with the asphodels.’

‘Stuff the asphodels. I’ve missed you, Peter.’

‘If I’m honest, it hasn’t been much fun for me.’

‘Truce?’ she said when they reached the front door. She offered her lips and they kissed lightly.

‘Truce,’ he said. ‘Sorry — and not just for jumping to the wrong conclusion. Sorry for being an oaf on the towpath that evening.’

‘And I’m sorry for being such a grouch. Can we start over?’

‘That would be good.’

They kissed again and held each other before he got into the car and drove away.

Mrs. Carlyle came to the door of the house in Forester Road. ‘You’re the policeman.’

Diamond didn’t deny it.

‘You want to speak to Mel?’

‘That’s the general idea. Is he out in Sydney Gardens again?’

‘Definitely not. He had a phone call from one of his musical friends and ordered a taxi straight away. He was in a bit of a state if you ask me.’

‘Which friend?’

‘How would I know? But it seemed to be an emergency. Something about a cat.’

‘Cat? She’s the cellist. Has something happened to her?’

‘I couldn’t tell you. Funny name for a cellist.’