“I’m probably guilty of all of them,” Robert replies, and he shakes hands with Joona.
“That’s a relief,” jokes Joona. “I’m Joona Linna from the National Criminal Investigation Department.”
“What’s this all about?” Robert is smiling.
“We’re looking into a case of unexpected death. The previous general director of ISP. That’s why I’m chatting with your brother.”
“I know nothing more about Palmcrona than what’s in the papers.”
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll go on back to your colleague,” Axel says, and closes the door behind Joona.
The ceiling of the studio has a steep slope, like an attic roof. A beautifully wrought wooden staircase leads down into the workshop, and the pleasant smell of freshly sawn wood, rosin, and turpentine rises to meet them. Everywhere violins hang in various stages of completion. Other construction gear is neatly collected: carefully chosen woods, scrolls, specialized tools for woodworking, planes as small as wine corks, bent knives, and much more.
“I heard your music through the window,” Joona says.
Robert nods and gestures to a beautiful violin.
“It needed a little adjustment.”
“You made it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unbelievably beautiful.” “Thanks.”
Robert picks up the violin and hands it to Joona. The gleaming instrument is almost weightless. Joona turns it over and takes a deep sniff.
“The lacquer is a secret,” Robert comments. He takes the instrument back and fits it in a case with wine-red lining.
Joona opens his briefcase and pulls out the plastic-encased photo and hands it to Robert.
“That’s Palmcrona,” Robert says.
“Yes, but do you happen to know the people in the background, the musicians?”
Robert looks at the picture again and nods.
“That’s Martin Beaver,” he says as he points. “Kikuei Ikeda… Kazuhide Isomura, and on cello that’s Clive Greensmith.”
“Are these musicians well-known?”
Robert can’t help smiling at the question.
“They’re a legend. This is the Tokyo String Quartet.”
“The Tokyo String Quartet. Does that mean the same four people are in every performance?”
“Yes.”
“Every time?”
“They’ve been together for a long time now. And doing very well.”
“Anything particular or special about this photograph?”
Robert looks at the photograph very carefully.
“No,” he finally says.
“They don’t just play in Tokyo?” Joona asks.
“They play all over the world, but their instruments are owned by a Japanese endowment.”
“Is that common?”
“Yes, especially with certain instruments,” Robert answers. “These, the ones in this picture, are among the most precious instruments in the world.”
“I see.”
“It’s the Paganini Quartet,” Robert adds.
“The Paganini Quartet,” Joona repeats as he stares at the photograph.
The wood gleams and the musicians’ black clothes are reflected in the veneer.
“Stradivarius made them,” Robert explains. “The oldest one is called Desaint, and it’s a violin made in 1680- that’s the one Kikuei is playing. Martin Beaver has the one that Count Cozio di Salabue presented to Paganini himself.”
Robert hesitates, not wanting to bore Joona, but Joona nods for him to continue.
“Eventually all four instruments came into Niccolo Paganini’s possession. I don’t know how much you know about Paganini, but he was a virtuoso violinist and composer-he composed pieces that were considered ridiculous then because people, even musicians, thought they were impossible to play. Until Paganini himself took up the violin. After his death, it took one hundred years before any other violinist could approach his technique and play his pieces… and some of his techniques are still considered impossible. Yes, there are many legends about Paganini and his violin duels.”
The room is silent. Joona takes another look at the photograph and the four men onstage in the background. He thinks about their instruments.
“So the Tokyo String Quartet often uses these particular instruments?”
“Yes. They play them in eight to nine concerts a month.”
“Any ideas about when this photo might have been taken?”
“No more than ten years ago, at least, judging from Martin Beaver’s looks. I’ve met him a few times.”
“Perhaps where they’re playing could give me the time?”
“This is the Alte Oper in Frankfurt.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“I know they play there once a year,” Robert says. “Sometimes twice or three times.”
“Perkele,” Joona mumbles in Finnish.
There must be some way to find out when this photograph was taken so if there’s a hole in Pontus Salman’s story we can find it.
Joona goes to replace the photo in his folder. Penelope is probably the only person who can shed any light on this.
Then he takes another look. He notes the principal violin, the placing of his bow, the elbow high… Joona’s gray eyes look up into Robert’s.
“Do they always play the same pieces on tour?”
“The same ones? No, I mean… they have been through all of Beethoven’s quartets and that alone is a great variety. But they’ve played a number of other pieces as well: Schubert, Bartok. And Brahms, I know that. It’s a long list… Debussy, Dvorak, Haydn, a great deal of Mozart and Ravel and on and on.”
Joona is concentrating on his words and then he stands up to pace the studio before he stops and turns again toward Robert.
“I just thought of something,” Joona says eagerly. “If you blew up this photograph and took a good look at the musicians’ finger placement, their arm placement… would it be possible to determine which piece they’re playing just from this photo?”
Robert opens and shuts his mouth, but then he smiles and picks up the photo again. In the spotlight on the Alte Oper stage, the Tokyo String Quartet members are seen clearly. Clive Greensmith’s narrow face is unusually gentle, and his high forehead is glistening. And Kikuei Ikeda’s little finger is high on the fingerboard, reaching for a high note.
“Sorry, I think that’d be impossible, it could be… any notes at all, but…”
“Say you had a magnifying glass… you can see the fingers, the strings, the necks of the instruments…”
“Sure, theoretically, but-” He sighs and shakes his head.
“Do you know someone who could help me?” Joona asks stubbornly. “A musician or a professor at the Royal College of Music who might be able to analyze this photograph for us?”
“I wish I-”
“It’s not possible, is it?” Joona asks.
“No, seriously, it isn’t,” Robert says, and shrugs. “If not even Axel could figure it out, no one can.”
“Axel? Your brother?”
“Of course. You mean you haven’t shown it to him?”
