The Tooth Tattoo by Peter Lovesey

roof being down. Mel kept the case containing his baby between his knees, deciding this gave more protection in case of a collision. Conversation would have been difficult anyway, and was rendered impossible by rock music at high volume. Doug wasn’t a Radio Three man.
    Somewhere west of Acton they joined the North Circular and stayed with it as far as Friern Barnet, at which point Mel gave up trying to track the route. Soon they were travelling into an area lush with greenery and golf courses. A right turn, a private road, an electronic gate and they moved up a red-tiled drive and stopped outside a residence like the backdrop to a Gainsborough portrait. Mel shed all doubts about the quartet earning six-figure salaries.
    ‘Whose place is this?’ he asked when the engine was switched off.
    ‘Mine, actually. The talent, as I call them, will tell you I’m an extortionist, but that’s their little game. In my position you have to have a reasonable lifestyle or people don’t believe you’re good at what you do.’
    ‘Is this where we’re playing?’ All week he’d pictured four upright chairs in someone’s living room with the other furniture pushed to the walls.
    ‘That’s the plan.’
    ‘Are the others inside?’
    ‘And getting stroppy by now.’ Doug marched to the front door, opened it and shouted, ‘We made it, musos.’
    Mel followed, his knuckles turning white around the handle of his viola case.
    The Georgian front of the house was no preparation for the interior, an open-plan conversion, a monument to the possibilities of the rolled steel joist, with several stone pillars where solid walls once stood. The spaces were defined in a conventional way, dining area, kitchen, office, library and a couple of lounges. At the far end three people waited, already seated with stands in front of them in what was evidently the music space. A fourth chair had been put out for the newcomer. Mel spotted Cat first, not unlike Britannia on an old penny coin, her cello leaning against her thigh. She raised her bow.
    ‘Glad you made it, kiddo.’
    Ivan was opposite her, checking his watch. His weekend casuals were a three-piece suit and striped tie.
    ‘My fault we’re a trifle late,’ Doug said. ‘Couldn’t find the street and ended up on the Hammersmith Flyover.’
    Mel was looking at the one musician he hadn’t already met, a guy more his own age, with brown hair to his shoulders and dressed in a black shirt and red corduroy trousers, but unwilling, it seemed, to make eye contact.
    Doug made the introduction.
    ‘Good to meet you,’ Mel said to Anthony and could have saved his breath. The second violin showed no intention of shaking hands or offering any kind of greeting.
    Now Doug took a step back. ‘I’m going to make myself scarce, people. I’m an unrewarding audience, as you know. Take the hot seat, Mel. They’re on pins to know if you’ll fit in.’
    Thanks for that boost to my confidence, Mel thought.
    Cat called out as Doug was leaving, ‘Keep your thieving hands off the sandwiches, boyo. I’ve counted them.’
    Heart pumping faster at the ordeal to come, Mel removed his viola and bow from the case and joined the quartet.
    ‘You did tell him on the phone it’s Beethoven’s Opus 133?’ Cat said to Ivan.
    Mel’s jaw dropped. ‘I heard 131.’
    ‘Joke,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to me, sunshine. We may be tough nuts, but we’re not asking you to tangle with the
Grosse Fuge
, not before the first break.’
    ‘Can we be serious?’ Ivan said. ‘Mr. Farran is our guest for the afternoon. Let’s treat him with respect.’
    ‘No need for that,’ Mel was quick to tell them. ‘I’d rather be informal.’
    ‘Me, too,’ Cat said. ‘What do you have in mind?’
    ‘I meant –’
    ‘Relax, my pet. You’re one of us.’
    Ivan gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t be premature. Nothing is decided.’ To Mel, he said with a twitch of the lips that was the nearest he would get to cordiality,