The hotel’s staff wore expensive uniforms and spoke in the hushed voices of people at a religious service. The moment that Lynley and Isabelle Ardery walked into the place, they were approached by a pleasant concierge who asked if he could be of assistance to them.
They wanted the bar, Ardery told him. She was brisk and official. Where is it? she asked.
The man’s moment of hesitation was something Lynley recognised as an indication of a disapproval that he wouldn’t voice. For all he knew, she was a hotel inspector or someone getting ready to write about the Milestone in one of the myriad guides to London. It would serve everyone’s interests if he cooperated as blandly as possible with only a minuscule display of his judgment of her manners. He said, “Of course, madam,” and he took them personally to the bar, which turned out to be an intimate setting for a colloquy.
Before he left them, Isabelle asked him to fetch the bartender and when that individual arrived, she ordered a vodka and tonic. To Lynley’s carefully expressionless face, she said, “Are you going to tell me about Sir David or not,” which surprised him as he thought she’d likely remark about the drink.
“There’s little to report. He’s interested in filling the position soon. It’s been too long without someone permanently in Webberly’s place. You’ve a good shot at it as-”
“As long as I keep my nose clean, wear tights to the office, don’t ruffle anyone’s feathers, and walk the straight and narrow,” she said. “Which I suppose includes not having a vodka and tonic during working hours, whatever the temperature of the day.”
“I was going to say ‘as far as I can tell,’” he told her. He’d ordered a mineral water for himself.
She narrowed her eyes at him and frowned at the bottle of Pellegrino when it arrived. “You disapprove of me, don’t you?” she said. “Will you tell Sir David?”
“That I disapprove? I don’t, actually.”
“Not even of the fact that I have the occasional drink on duty? I’m not a lush, Thomas.”
“Guv, you’ve no need to explain yourself to me. And as to the rest, I’m not eager to become Hillier’s snout. He knows that.”
“But your opinion counts with him.”
“I can’t think why. If it does now, it never did before.”
The sound of quiet conversation came in their direction, and in a moment two people entered the room. Lynley recognised the cellist at once. His companion was an attractive Asian woman in a smartly tailored suit and stiletto heels that clicked like whip cracks against the floor.
She glanced at Lynley but spoke to Ardery. “Superintendent?” she said. At Ardery’s nod, she introduced herself as Zaynab Bourne. “And this is Mr. Matsumoto,” she told them.
Hiro Matsumoto bent fractionally from the waist although he also extended his hand. He gave a firm handshake and murmured a conventional greeting. He had, Lynley thought, a quite pleasant face. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes appeared kind. For an international celebrity in the world of classical music, he seemed inordinately humble as well, asking politely for a cup of tea. Green tea if they had it, he said. If not, black tea would do. He spoke without an apparent accent. Lynley recalled that he’d been born in Kyoto, but he’d studied and played abroad for many years.
He was appearing now at the Albert Hall, he said. He was in London for only a fortnight, also teaching a master class at the music college. It was purest chance that he’d seen the e-fit-which he called the artist’s rendition-of his brother in the newspaper and also on the television news.
“Please believe me,” Hiro Matsumoto said quietly, “when I assure you that Yukio did not kill this woman the papers are speaking of. He could not have done so.”
“Why?” Ardery said. “He was in the vicinity-we’ve a witness to that-and he seems to have been running from the scene.”
Matsumoto looked pained. “There will be an explanation. Whatever else he might be, whatever else he does, my brother Yukio is not a killer.”
Zaynab Bourne said as if to explain, “Mr. Matsumoto’s younger brother suffers from paranoid schizophrenia, Superintendent. Unfortunately, he won’t take medication. But he’s never been in trouble with the police since he first came to London-if you check your records you’ll find this is true-and he leads a quiet life in general. My client”-with a brief, proprietary touch on Hiro Matsumoto’s arm-“is identifying him so that you can concentrate your efforts elsewhere, where they belong.”
“That may be the case-the schizophrenia bit,” Ardery said, “but as he was seen running from the area of a murder and as some of his clothing appeared to have been removed and was balled up-”
“It’s been hot weather,” the solicitor cut in.
“-he’s going to have to be questioned. So if you know where he is, Mr. Matsumoto, you do need to tell us.”
The cellist hesitated. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it on his glasses. Unshielded by them, his face looked quite young. He was in his late forties, Lynley knew, but he could have passed for a man fifteen years younger.
He said, “First, I must explain to you.”
Ardery looked as if the last thing she wanted was an explanation for anything, but Lynley himself was curious. As secondary officer to Ardery, it wasn’t his place but still he said, “Yes?”
His brother was a gifted musician, Hiro Matsumoto said. They were a musical family, and the three of them-there was also a sister who was a flautist in Philadelphia-had all been given instruments as children. They were expected to learn, to practise long and hard, to play well, and to excel. Towards this end they were educated in music at great cost to their parents and at personal sacrifice of them all.
“Obviously,” he said, “there is not a normal childhood when one has this sort of…focus.” He chose the last word carefully. “In the end, I went to Juilliard, Miyoshi studied in Paris, and Yukio came to London. He was fine at first. There was no indication that anything was wrong. It was only later that the illness appeared. And because of this-because it happened in the midst of his studies-our father believed he was malingering. Out of his depth, perhaps, and unable to admit it or to cope with it. This was not the case, of course. He was seriously ill. But in our culture and in our family-” Matsumoto had continued polishing his glasses as he spoke, but now he paused, put them on, and adjusted them carefully on his nose. “Our father is not a bad man. But his beliefs are firm, and he could not be convinced that Yukio needed more than merely a good talking to. He came here from Kyoto. He made his wishes known to Yukio. He gave him instructions, and he expected them to be followed. Since his instructions had always been obeyed, he thought he’d done enough. And at first it seemed so. Yukio drove himself hard, but the illness…This is not something you can wish away or work away. He had a collapse, he left the college, and he simply disappeared. For ten years he was lost to us. When we located him, we wanted to help him, but he would not be forced. His fears are too great. He distrusts the medicines. He has a terror of hospitals. He manages to survive on his music, and my sister and I do what we can to watch over him when we come to London.”
“And do you now know where he is? Exactly where he is?”
Matsumoto looked to his solicitor. Zaynab Bourne took up the thread of the conversation. “I hope Mr. Matsumoto has made it clear that his brother is ill. He wants an assurance that nothing will be done that might frighten him. He understands that Yukio will need to be questioned, but he insists that your approach be cautious and that any interview be conducted in my presence and in the presence of a mental health professional. He also insists upon your acknowledgement and assurance that, as his brother is someone diagnosed with untreated paranoid schizophrenia, his words-whatever they might be once you speak to him-can hardly be used against him.”