‘There are two of any note,’ the man went on. ‘The first is the Beethoven Memorial House, but you are too late for that. It is closed this month. The other is the Pasqualati House where he composed his fourth, fifth and sixth symphonies and the opera Fidelio.’
‘That’ll do us,’ Diamond said. ‘Is it open?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Where exactly is it?’
‘Before you dash off, I think I should inform you that Beethoven didn’t actually live there.’
‘I thought you said he did.’
‘The rooms open to visitors are furnished to look as if Beethoven was the tenant, but in reality his home was in the adjacent flat — which is privately owned and not open to the public.’
It was like being told Orson Welles hadn’t run through the sewers.
‘I give up,’ Diamond said. ‘Where do we go to see something authentic in this city?’
‘Some of the exhibits are authentic. The salt and pepper pots unquestionably belonged to Beethoven.’
‘Big deal,’ Diamond murmured to Paloma.
‘You asked where it is,’ the old man said. ‘You’ll find it west of Freyung. This is an old part of the city. You go up a cobbled lane called Schreyvogelgasse to the Mölker Bastei and the Pasqualati House is there. I’ll show you.’
‘Is it worth it?’ Diamond asked Paloma, but she had already passed their map across.
‘Here.’ A bony finger pinned down the map. ‘At the western margin of the Innere Stadt.’
‘Some way off, then,’ Diamond said. ‘Maybe we should choose another composer’s house.’
‘This is Schreyvogelgasse. As you pass along, you may wish to glance at number eight. The doorway is famous. It’s where Harry Lime first appears in that film, The Third Man.’
Diamond’s eyes widened.
‘It looks as if we’ll be going there after all,’ Paloma said.
In the taxi, Diamond said, ‘I’m beginning to understand. They post little old men all over the city to bring innocent tourists down to earth with a bump.’
‘He was trying to be helpful.’
‘So was the guy on the Ferris wheel. There are some things I’d rather not be helped with.’
‘That’s rich — from a professional detective.’
‘A secret romantic.’
Her eyebrows popped up.
In the cobbled street she told him to stand in the doorway of number eight for a photo.
‘I can’t. It’s so cheesy.’
‘But you want to.’
He didn’t need any more persuading. He took up the pose, even giving his straw hat a rakish tilt.
The Beethoven house pleased Paloma. There was a good atmosphere and enough genuine relics to make the old man’s criticisms unimportant. ‘To think Fidelio was created here,’ she said.
‘Next door.’
‘It doesn’t seem to matter any more. Are you impressed? I’m sure I can feel his presence.’
‘It’s not my strongest suit, classical music,’ he admitted.
‘What is, apart from the Harry Lime Theme?’
‘Queen’s greatest hits, I suppose.’
‘I can see I’ll have to work on you.’
‘You can try. It’s still your day. How shall we spend our last couple of hours here?’
‘Let’s take a look at the Danube. Is it really blue? We haven’t seen it by daylight.’
The nearest bridge wasn’t far from their hotel. They packed, cleared their room, left the cases in a storeroom and strolled down Schwedenplatz.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Diamond said, studying the map. ‘It isn’t actually the Danube.’
‘Get away.’
‘It’s the Danube canal. The river is way off to the north-east.’
‘Second best as usual, then.’
Blue the water was, under a clear sky. They walked to the centre of the bridge and watched the shipping gliding underneath. A breeze ruffled Paloma’s hair.
‘This has been a treat,’ she said, linking her arm with his.
‘All of it?’
‘Every minute, now I look back. We got you out of the CID room for a whole weekend. Go on, admit it, you needed the break.’
‘It’s done me good,’ he said.
‘And all because of that scratch-card. Next time we shouldn’t rely on a piece of luck. I’ll try persuading you to look at a travel brochure.’
‘Don’t push it.’
With more time in hand they bought ice creams and took a walk along the embankment.
‘Look, someone’s dropped some flowers,’ Paloma said as they approached a point where some steps led down to a mooring. A bunch of pinkish-white flowers wrapped in paper was lying on the pavement. When they got closer, they saw more flowers pressed into the lattice mouldings in the wall. Most were dead carnations. ‘It must have fallen out.’ She stooped to lodge the fresh flowers back into a space in the stonework. They were star-shaped with long, yellow-tipped stamens. ‘The scent is powerful. Must be some type of lily. The place has been made into a little shrine. Do you think someone drowned here?’
‘Hard to say,’ he said, wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Where are the little old men of Vienna when we need one?’
‘There’s a card with one of these dead bunches, some kind of message. But it isn’t in German. I think it’s Japanese.’
3
Acton, West London, 2012
Temptation arrives in many forms. For Mel, it was cued by the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, the ringtone on his phone.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr. Farran, the viola player?’ A male voice, educated, middle-aged and as imperious as Sir Thomas Beecham’s in rehearsal.
‘That’s me.’
‘Do you have a moment?’
‘Depends. Are you selling something?’
‘Certainly not. This is a serious call.’
A rap over the knuckles. Mel should have cut the call immediately and saved himself from the wrecking ball that was swinging his way.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘That’s immaterial at this juncture. Call me Ivan, if you wish. I have a proposal massively to your advantage.’
‘You are trying to sell something.’
‘Pay attention, please. This is about your professional career.’
‘As a musician?’
‘Naturally.’
‘A gig?’
A pause. Ivan was plainly unhappy with the expression and considering whether to hang up. ‘More than that, much more — if you’re prepared to cooperate. But this is too important to discuss over the phone. Are you free tomorrow evening?’
‘Free for what?’
‘For a drink and a chance to discuss the opportunity. I’ll send a car at seven thirty.’
‘You know where I live?’
‘This isn’t spur of the moment, Mr. Farran. I’ve heard you play, or I wouldn’t be bothering.’
Let’s admit it — flattery is a sure-fire persuader. ‘Where are we having this drink?’
‘At my club. There’s a dress code, by the way. Lounge suit and tie. You do possess a suit?’
Irritated by the patronising tone, sceptical, yet intrigued, Mel switched off and pocketed the phone. In truth, he was in no position to turn down the invitation. A life in classical music is precarious. His income from orchestral work and teaching was barely a living wage. Yet he was good at what he did. He’d been gifted with perfect pitch and a mother hooked on Mozart. Handed a miniature violin at an age when other kids were learning to tie their shoelaces, he’d mastered the basics within days. He was taught by an elderly Polish maestro and within a year on his advice switched to a miniature viola. Really. They do exist. Violists, the maestro told him, were always in demand, whereas there was a glut of violinists. The old man had been right — to a degree. Mel had never gone for long without ensemble work. He’d survived. However, there wasn’t much prospect of advancement. Solo opportunities with the viola were rare. If he’d excelled at the violin — as everyone suggested he could have done — the repertoire is huge and he could have toughed it out with the army of East Asian players who came along at that time. No use complaining now. He could play both instruments to a good level, but it was the viola he was known for. He’d trained at the Royal College and filled in with some of the great orchestras of Europe. Violists are an endangered species. If he’d known just how endangered, he wouldn’t have listened to Ivan. But he was an innocent. At twenty-nine, he needed an opportunity and this promised to be it.