The Pleasure Quartet (12 page)

‘No,’ Lauralynn said. ‘I think that she’s battling with staying away from going down that road again, and that’s why she’s taking some time out, particularly from music.’

‘Her playing caused this? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?’

‘You’ve heard her music. Felt the extreme level of emotion, the fire that she puts into her bow, how she lets it take over her whole psyche and how that comes through on the recordings. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s true I suppose.’ He had to agree that there was an element of fire in her recordings that intrigued even him – no particular fan of classical music – to the point of a minor obsession.

‘She used to tell me sometimes that she couldn’t separate the two things. Her ability to play like that and her desire for rough sex. I’ve seen her channel it, both, in a positive way. But she needs an outlet. A safe place to let go. She lost her safe place. Now, I think she’s disappeared to try to find that again somehow, and she’s possibly hung up her violin as a way of avoiding temptation. I can’t say, honestly, that I think it’s a bad thing.’

He nodded. The woman that Lauralynn spoke of fascinated him more and more, but he wished that all of this wasn’t so vague. He was a practical kind of person, a doer, and wanted concrete details. The person he had spoken to at her label who had given him Susan’s contact details had mentioned a play that Summer was involved in right before she disappeared, and some controversy surrounding the reviews.

Noah cut in. ‘She was the musical director, I believe, on a theatre piece. I found some sparse reviews online, and heard mention of it through her former record company, but I can’t find any indication of the play’s backers, as if the whole thing was organised by ghosts. Very unusual. Do you know anything about that?’

Viggo waltzed through the doorway and approached them with his customary swagger. His hands were empty.

‘Couldn’t find a thing, sorry mate,’ he said. He refrained from telling Lauralynn ‘I told you so’. ‘That play . . .’ he added. ‘More of an orgy, really. Good fun though.’ His mouth spread into a wide grin which quickly vanished when Lauralynn shot him a ‘shut up’ glare.

‘No, we can’t tell you anything more about the play,’ Lauralynn responded firmly. ‘We were there, sure, but just as ignorant as you of the origins of the whole thing.’

Noah was convinced that she was lying.

Lauralynn made it clear that she had imparted as much information as she was prepared to, and that whatever other knowledge Viggo might possess, she would not allow the rocker to share it.

He thanked them for their time, made his excuses and left, promising to keep in touch with Viggo about any further move he might decide to make to return to the music industry. ‘Any time. Just call me.’

The repercussions of the new information about Summer Zahova, those heavy hints of a world beyond his ken and how little one could fathom of other people, strangers, women beyond the familiar but deceptive veil of normalcy, bothered Noah more than he wished.

He’d attempted in vain to retrieve the link where he had initially located the photographs he now increasingly suspected featured her in some sordid gangbang in a sauna, but it was like hunting for a needle in a haystack, artfully concealed behind the billion layers of porn that populated the interweb. The impact had proven so shuddering he hadn’t had the presence of mind to bookmark it and it now seemed forever lost. Could have been anyone with red hair, he reasoned. A coincidence, surely.

In his mind, he could picture Summer. At odd times of day, waking mid-night, his mouth biting into a sandwich at lunchtime while working at his desk and countersigning contracts, more often caught in daydreaming. Summer in a distant, exotic city, like a ghost passing through a bustling market, her face always studiously out of focus, unseizable, unfocused, walking along a beach, palm trees fluttering in the breeze, fleeing from him around the next corner.

He had printed out all the images he had found of her on Google, and in each photograph he could see something new, something different, as if the essence of Summer Zahova was teasing him, refusing to conform to any expectation, malleable, impossible to pin down.

The constant, her red hair, loose, flowing, wild. Like a stain on snow or a flower obscuring a distant sun. Taking root on a perpetually lit screen across the back of his vision.

Where in the world could she be?

How can one just disappear off the face of the earth, Noah wondered.

Rhonda marched into his office to pick up the paperwork he’d been working on for a few hours now; not his favourite part of the job. She was wearing a pinstriped trouser suit with a white silk blouse, a shiny amber broach pinned to her left lapel. Her light brown hair was tightened into a chignon.

‘I have a courier waiting in reception. Are the contracts for the option renewals of the Holy Criminals all fully executed? Their management would like to have everything ticked off by the weekend.’

Noah had finally come to a decision to give the Viggo-less band a new contract, in view of Viggo’s hints that he might eventually go back to recording with them, an opportunity he couldn’t afford to ignore.

‘Yes, all done. Have signed my life and the company’s away. In triplicate and again. Not that I always understand all the legalese, but if the contracts boffins are happy, so am I . . .’ He handed the blue and purple folders over to his PA. She turned on her heels and prepared to walk out when she suddenly stopped.

‘Oh . . . by the way . . . you know that violin player you’ve been looking into so much. Summer something . . . There was a small piece in today’s
Metro
about her . . .’

‘Really?’

‘One of her instruments is being auctioned, it seems.’

‘Can I see the newspaper? Do you still have it?’ It was a freebie given out at every Tube station. But Noah normally walked from Maida Vale to Portobello Road or took the bus or a cab if the weather was unfavourable.

‘Of course. Let me put all the contracts in a jiffy bag and I’ll retrieve it from the bin.’

‘I’ll come and get it.’ Noah left his chair.

But the newspaper had little information; barely a few paragraphs. A violin known as the ‘Christiansen’ was being auctioned tomorrow. Once owned by famed classical ace Summer Zahova, it had a fabled history, it appeared, and had once been featured heavily in a bestselling novel he hadn’t heard of.

He rang Susan.

‘Did you know about this?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed.

‘Why didn’t you bother to inform me?’

‘I didn’t think it would interest you. She’s not planning to return to performing, you know . . .’

‘She’s been in touch with you? Since we met?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is she?’

‘No idea,’ the agent answered. ‘She sent me an email and we arranged to Skype. She gave me access to her things in storage and requested I put the violin on sale and then transfer the proceeds to her bank account. She needs the funds, she said. She could have been anywhere in the world.’

Noah’s mind was racing with questions.

‘Did you inform her I was interested in making contact with her?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘She didn’t react, I fear.’ From the tone of the agent’s voice, Noah was convinced she hadn’t even mentioned his enquiry, or at least not with any enthusiasm.

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘I’m afraid not, Noah. Summer is my client and I have to respect her wishes as well as her privacy.’

‘I understand.’

At least he now knew she was still alive.

He fell asleep that night with his headphones still on, Summer’s fiery escapade through Vivaldi’s music echoing through his head. Her violin sounded like the devil’s fiddle, leading him a merry dance.

The walls of the New Bond Street auction house’s main room were wood-panelled in soothing but sturdy shades of light brown and Noah felt out of place.

Sitting at the back, he had to wait for a whole hour until the violin came up. By which time Noah was beginning to wonder why he had even come along. It was just an old instrument Summer had once played. She was not likely to be present, surely? To pass the time, he had begun to read the novel which was said to be about the violin. He’d found a copy online as it was out of print and he’d paid extra for overnight delivery. It made for uncomfortable reading, gave him a sense of unease, its story’s opening pages like an overture to something both horrible and overwhelming, as if, as he rushed along, he was about to meet Summer and her spirit on the page at some stage. He’d not previously heard of the author, who had only written a couple of books and had since passed away.

He had a vague irrational idea he might bid for the instrument, but the opening offer, which came over the internet, was already way beyond what he could have afforded and, within minutes, the violin had reached a price that even a massive mortgage and his income for years to come would never reach.

There were only a handful of bidders, from his perspective at the back of the auction room.

The auction ended. The price reached totally extravagant heights. Even with the likely commission, Summer Zahova would now be able to afford much in the way of luxury wherever she might be, Noah reckoned. He had no idea who had triumphed among the bidders, or if whoever had won was even present.

The auction continued, now focused on furniture and jewellery from a titled estate.

Part of the sparse crowd moved to the front while a few individuals began their retreat towards the door, with no interest in the treasures now featuring in the auction.

Noah wanted to finish the page of the book he had set aside before the violin had come up for sale before departing.

‘Ah, you know the book, I see . . .’ A man’s voice, educated, basso profundo. Noah looked up.

Charcoal-coloured Savile Row suit, old school tie, in his late sixties, pepper-and-salt hair and carefully trimmed beard. His frail posture sustained by a wooden cane he held for support. Noah’s gaze travelled up and down the stranger’s silhouette; his brogues were polished to within an inch of mirrors.

There was a hint of mirth in the stranger’s eyes.

For a moment, Noah was bemused and then realised that his interlocutor was referring to the book he held in his hands and its relevance to the now completed auction.

‘Yes,’ Noah said.

‘He was her lover, you know . . .’ the man added, almost grinning now.

‘Who?’

‘Dominik, the book’s author. Summer Zahova’s lover.’

This was news to Noah. He knew so little about Summer’s life beyond her musical résumé. There had seemed to be a conspiracy of silence around Summer’s life prior to her absence.

‘You weren’t aware?’

‘No. I only knew about the violin connection.’ Noah was beginning to understand why he was finding the book’s tone and undercurrents so unsettling.

The man extended his hand. He wore thin black leather gloves, which he kept on. ‘I’m Nikolas Mieville.’

‘Noah Ballard. I work in music, albeit in other areas, and only recently came across Summer Zahova. Discovered her past albums by accident – just rather curious.’

‘She was indeed fascinating,’ Mieville remarked.

‘Was?’

‘Retired, it appears.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘So you’re a fan too?’

‘Of the music? Enormously.’ Noah hesitated. ‘But I gather there are interesting secrets surrounding her,’ he added. Mieville appeared to be the sort of man who might know more about the violinist.

‘Absolutely. So many stories . . . You could say she has a strong following. People like me – you? – who follow her with keen interest.’

‘I’m fascinated. By the way, do you know who won the auction for the instrument?’

‘Another rich collector, I think.’

‘Also a fan.’

‘Could well be. The bid came over the telephone.’ Mieville’s grin was beaming. ‘In a hurry? Care for a coffee?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Mieville had a car waiting for him outside with a chauffeur who drove them to a private club in the Mall. He was greeted with reverence by the doorman who almost sneered at Noah’s more casual attire and silently ushered them to a large, sparsely populated reading room whose windows looked out onto Hyde Park.

‘I saw her. Three times,’ Mieville revealed.

‘Tell me?’

‘She was magnificent. The first time was at a concert at Wigmore Hall, in the early days of her career. Just her and a string quartet. That fiery mane of hair, that aggressive stance that was so characteristic of her. The musical choices were safe, but it was obvious she had an inner streak of wonderful madness – the way she launched into the music, as if nothing else mattered. She transported you . . .’

‘You can feel it in the music on the albums,’ Noah agreed. ‘I’m no classical expert, but you can feel she’s . . . different . . . from others. Comes from the gut.’

‘The second time was at a concert hall in Brighton, a huge soulless auditorium on the seafront. A few years later. She’d matured, but what was new was, how can I explain it, the weight of life, experience, that extra layer that now coloured the way she played, the sounds she could extract from her violin. There was still abandon, but also both a form of anger and sadness present. By then, of course, some of the rumours were already circulating. Nothing that could be printed in newspapers, of course, but there could have been no smoke without fire . . .’

‘What sort of stories?’

‘Her private life was something of a mess.’

‘Alcohol? Drugs? I thought that only happened in the world of rock.’

‘Oddly enough, no. Sex. Odd behaviour, in private but also in public. Tales of a red-haired violin player who sounded just like her at rather exclusive gatherings of a strange nature, sex parties. Also another which at first was hard to believe, but reached me from diverse sources, about a woman playing violin in the nude in a remote corner of Hampstead Heath who, according to the reports, bore a strong similarity to Zahova . . .’

Mieville paused, his eyes now distant, as if he was searching his memory.