The Rainaldi Quartet (20 page)

There was no respectful silence at the end. The applause and shouts of approval erupted before the final chord had died away. Then we were on our feet again, giving her another standing ovation which she acknowledged with a bow and a shy smile of pleasure. If the purpose of music is to make the heart sing, then she had transformed our cardiac organs into a heavenly choir.

‘Do you want to come backstage with me?' I said to Margherita, leaning over to make myself heard above the noise of the applause.

She shook her head. ‘I'd feel an intruder. I'll wait for you outside.'

I knew Sofia would have her family and friends with her, perhaps a few agents too, circling her predatorily. But after our conversation of the afternoon I felt I should congratulate her on her performance.

The door to the green room was open. As I came down the corridor, I could hear Scamozzi's grating metallic voice.

‘… that's something you need to work on,' he was saying.

I paused on the threshold. Sofia was standing in the middle of the room looking tired and crestfallen.

‘… some of the intonation was awry, you should watch that, and your bow arm tightened up near the end of the Saint-Saëns. Little things but they all make a difference…'

Sofia saw me and her face broke into a smile. Scamozzi turned and scowled at me, then swung back to continue his post mortem examination of her recital. I stepped forward, interrupting his flow.

‘Magnificent,' I said. ‘Absolutely magnificent.' I took Sofia's hand. In the process I may have trodden on Scamozzi's foot, but if I did it was purely accidental.

‘That was a triumph,' I continued. ‘You should be very proud.'

‘As for the Wieniawski…' Scamozzi persisted, but Sofia was no longer listening. Somehow our positions had shifted so that Scamozzi was now talking to my back.

‘You are going to go far,' I said warmly. ‘In years to come I will boast that I was at your début recital.'

‘Thank you.'

She was in a daze, lost for words. She would probably remember nothing of this, so overwhelmed was she by the response of the audience and her relief that the recital had gone so flawlessly. By tomorrow it would all seem a wash of smiling faces and murmured goodwill, the details lost in the warm flood of euphoric recall.

Other people were coming into the room now. A cascade of thick black hair brushed past me and I heard a woman's impassioned voice.

‘Sofia, darling. So good, so good. Unbelievable.'

It was Magda Scamozzi, as fulsome in her praise as her husband was reticent. She threw her arms around Sofia and hugged her tight.

‘What can I say?' she said, her Italian coloured with the inflections of Eastern Europe. ‘You are a star in the making. They loved you. Didn't they, Ludovico?'

‘Well, I don't think we should get too carried away…' Scamozzi began, but was cut short by his effusive wife.

‘Nonsense, of course we are going to get carried away. She was perfect, perfect. This is your night, Sofia. You float up into the clouds, enjoy the moment. You are young, full of promise. Wallow in your triumph. You will have many more in the future, but none of them will taste as sweet as this. The champagne, Ludovico. What did I do with the champagne? Ah, there it is. Fetch some glasses, we must celebrate … Ludovico, the glasses.'

Another wave of wellwishers enveloped Sofia. I saw Clara and Giulia. I took Clara's hands in mine. She forced a weak smile. Her eyes were moist. Neither of us said anything. We didn't need to. Our thoughts were the same. She turned away, reaching for her handkerchief. I blinked away my own tears.

‘He should have been here,' Clara said indistinctly.

‘He was here in spirit,' I replied. ‘He always will be.'

She wiped her eyes and nodded. ‘He would have been so happy.'

‘I know.'

‘I mustn't cry. It will upset Sofia. Wasn't she good?'

‘She was superb.' I glanced around. ‘She's waiting for you.'

‘Come and see me, Gianni.'

‘I will.'

I watched her go to her granddaughter and embrace her. I felt out of place. This was a family moment. I paused to compose myself and went back out of the room. Margherita was waiting for me in the courtyard. We walked out through the gates of the Conservatorio.

‘Can I give you a lift home?' I said.

‘Don't worry, I'll get a taxi,' Margherita said. She took a scrap of paper and a pen from her shoulder-bag. ‘Give me your phone number.'

She wrote down my number, then stepped closer.

‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, Gianni. We must do it again.'

She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. I inhaled her perfume, felt the touch of her lips, her body close to mine. Then she was gone, walking away down the street with her shoulder-bag swinging against her hip.

9

If anyone gave the lie to the notion that the English are a cold, reserved race it was Rudy Weigert. Rudy, admittedly, was perhaps not a typical Englishman. Though born in the country, his parents were Austrian Jews who had come to England before the war, and Rudy – in both appearance and temperament – had as many of the Central European characteristics of his ancestors as he did of his birthplace. But nonetheless I still thought of him as an Englishman, and a warmer, more demonstrative and emotionally open man it was difficult to imagine. He was standing now in the doorway of his office, his arms outstretched and a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

‘Gianni! Gianni, my old friend,' he cried. ‘Why didn't you tell me? Come in, come in.'

I stepped over the threshold and felt Rudy's arms embrace me in a welcoming bear hug – if bear is the apposite description for someone of Rudy's diminutive height and gargantuan girth. I am not a particularly tall man, but the top of Rudy's head came to only just above my solar plexus. The wobbling expanse of his stomach between us made me feel as if I were being squeezed against a large balloon filled with warm water.

‘You should have told me you were coming,' Rudy said reproachfully. ‘How long have you been here?'

‘I only flew in this morning. I came straight here from the airport.'

‘It's good to see you. Come and sit down. You'll have a drink, of course.'

Without waiting for a reply, Rudy waddled over to the large cabinet behind his desk and filled – and I mean filled – two glasses with malt whisky. He handed a glass to me and beamed with a real, unconcealed affection.

‘It's been too long, Gianni. You should come more often. Where are you staying? We've always got a bed for you, you know that.'

‘I'm not on my own, Rudy.'

He leered at me. ‘No? You're a dark horse, Gianni. Who is she?'

‘It's not a woman. It's a friend from Cremona.'

‘Well, where is he? I want to meet him.'

‘He's trying to find somewhere to park our car.'

‘Round here? He may be some time. You want a smoke?'

Rudy flipped open a humidor the size of a pirate's chest and extracted a couple of fat Cuban cigars. As a rule, I never smoke, but I'm always prepared to make an exception for one of Rudy's cigars. He gave me a light, then sat down on the sofa at the side of his office, gesturing to me to join him. I squeezed into what little space remained and settled back in the soft cushions.

‘This has really made my day,' Rudy said. ‘You're looking well. It must be all that sunshine and pasta. We're a little short on the sun here, but I'm doing my best with the pasta.'

He patted his stomach fondly and laughed, his face creasing into a squashy sponge of hollows and double chins.

‘Your timing is perfect,' he continued. ‘I've a fiddle you can look at for me. I'd value your opinion on it.'

I was flattered. Rudy was his auction house's principal string instrument expert, a world authority on violins.

‘Of course,' I said. ‘What is it?'

‘Well, it's labelled Nicolò Amati, a good, authentic-looking label too. But I'm not sure. The date on the label is 1631. That makes me wonder.'

Violins from the early 1630s are extremely rare. Very few seem to have been made then, probably because the plague was sweeping across northern Italy. Nicolò Amati's father, Girolamo, himself a fine violin-maker, was killed in the epidemic in 1630 and two years later Maggini succumbed to the same disease. People were more interested in staying alive than buying violins.

‘You think it's a fake?' I said.

‘The violin's undoubtedly old. I think the label's been changed. From the purfling, the roughness of finish on the scroll, I think it may be an Andrea Guarneri, but I'd like your view. I'll show it to you later. How's your whisky?'

‘Big,' I said.

‘The way it should be.' He waved his cigar expansively. ‘You're over for the sales, I assume. Something in the catalogue you've got your eye on?'

‘No, we're on our way to the north. Derbyshire.'

‘Nice. You'll like it up there. Wonderful countryside. Violins?'

‘We're looking at some old letters. Just a sideline we're following up.' I paused. ‘I wanted to ask you a favour, Rudy.'

‘Fire away.'

‘You've got databases you can check, sources of information that aren't available to me. I'm trying to find out something about a Maggini violin – the Snake's Head Maggini. You know the one I mean?'

‘I certainly do. It was one of ours.'

I stared at him. ‘
You
sold it?'

‘Five, six years ago. I remember it well. It was one of the best Magginis we've ever had. There was a lot of interest, I seem to recall, a lot of bidding. I'll check for you.'

Rudy went across to the computer on his desk and tapped a few keys.

‘This is just a summary. I have the full file on paper somewhere. Here we are. Yes, autumn sales, 1998. It went for £120,000. Buyer – your old friend, Vincenzo Serafin.'

I started. ‘Serafin?'

‘You seem surprised.'

‘No … well, maybe a little. But I shouldn't be. I know he goes to auctions for all sorts of clients.'

Rudy came back to the settee. ‘He won't have been bidding on his own account. He'll have had a buyer lined up, a nice little commission arranged for himself.'

‘Oh, he did,' I said. ‘He was buying it for Enrico Forlani.'

Rudy exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke very slowly and raised one of his black caterpillar eyebrows.

‘The
late
Enrico Forlani, you mean. This is starting to sound interesting.'

‘The Maggini disappeared from Forlani's collection after he was killed.'

‘Taken by the killer?'

‘It's possible.'

‘Just the Maggini?'

‘Yes.'

‘Even more interesting. And the rest of the collection? What's happening to that?'

I chuckled. ‘I'm afraid a few other people are ahead of you on that one.'

‘Serafin?'

‘He's certainly keen.'

‘Damn, the little shit.' Rudy pulled a face. ‘A bit unseemly really. Not something a great auction house like ours would do.'

‘No, of course not,' I agreed solemnly.

‘We'd always allow a decent interval to elapse before we made an approach to the family.'

‘How long is a decent interval?'

‘Depends how long the body takes to cool,' Rudy said.

‘Do you remember who else was bidding for the Maggini?' I said.

‘Not on the floor. But I seem to remember there were a number of telephone bidders competing with Serafin.'

‘Will you have any documentation on the phone bidders?'

‘Of course. It might take a bit of digging out, but somewhere we should have a note of the instructions. How long are you going to be in Derbyshire?'

‘I'm not sure. One, two days.'

‘Call back in on your way home. I'll have the information for you then.'

‘I'd like anything else you have on the violin too, if it's not too much trouble. Who was selling it, what its provenance was.'

Rudy gave a nod and sucked on his cigar.

‘You think Forlani was murdered for his Maggini?'

‘I don't know why he was murdered,' I said.

*   *   *

It was late afternoon when we began our ascent into the Pennines. I had visited England many times before – though only London and the south-east – but nothing had prepared me for the strange terrain we now encountered. The valleys and lower slopes of the hills seemed familiar, unthreatening – green meadows enclosed by dry-stone walls, copses of broadleaf trees, a reservoir gleaming in the evening light. But as we climbed the twisting road, the woods and fields gave way to dark swathes of coniferous plantations that seemed entirely alien to the landscape. The light began to change. Black clouds obscured the sun. A fine spray of drizzle spattered the windows of our hired car. Guastafeste turned on the windscreen wipers, then the headlights.

We climbed higher, the plantations far below us now. The road took a sharp turn, the gradient suddenly steeper, then we crested the brow of the hill and levelled out. There before us was a vast expanse of moorland, a sea of undulating heather and peat bog, its shores fringed by stark gritstone escarpments. The cloud was low and unbroken, smothering the horizon in grey mist. I could feel the wind buffeting the sides of the car, feel the damp, menacing atmosphere seeping in through the doors. I'd never seen such a bleak, inhospitable environment.

‘She doesn't live up here, surely,' Guastafeste said. ‘No one can live up here.'

I checked my notes, the directions Mrs Colquhoun had given me on the telephone when I'd rung her from London.

‘It would appear she does,' I said. ‘Look out for a turning to the left.'

The mist was closing in, drifting in skeins across the carriageway, creeping around the sides of the car like some malign spectre. Guastafeste slowed, leaning forward in his seat to get a better view of the road.