“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 Niccolò 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, Bartók. And Brahms, I know that. It’s a long list … Debussy, Dvořák, 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?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that why you were talking to him?”
“No, you’re the one who’s the musician,” Joona says, smiling.
“Go talk to him anyway,” Robert says.
“Why should—”
Joona stops short, interrupted by a knock at the door. Saga Bauer steps in. The sunlight shines on her blond hair.
“Is Axel here?” she asks.
“No,” Joona says.
“Another detective inspector?” asks Robert with a big grin.
“Säpo,” Saga answers briskly.
The quiet lasts a moment too long. Robert is taking in Saga with his eyes as if he’s fixated on her overlarge blue eyes and her neat rose mouth.
“I had no idea that Säpo had a division of elves,” he says. He grins wider. Then he tries to become serious. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, but you do look like an elf, or a Bauer fairy-tale princess.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Saga replies drily.
“I’m Robert Riessen,” Robert says as he extends his hand.
“Saga,” she says, and shakes his hand.
70
a feeling
Joona and Saga leave the Riessens’ home and climb into the car. Saga’s telephone vibrates. She looks at the text message and smiles to herself.
“I’m going to have lunch at home,” she says. She blushes.
“What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty,” she replies. “Are you going to keep working?”
“No, I’m going to go to the lunch concert at Södra Theater with a friend.”
“Could you drop me off in Söder then? I live on Bastugatan.”
“I’ll drive you all the way home if you’d like,” he says.
While Joona had been interviewing Robert, Saga had stayed with Axel. He was just starting a description of his UN career when he was interrupted by a call. Axel had looked at the display, excused himself, and left the room. After waiting fifteen minutes, she’d gone to Robert Riessen’s studio. All three of them then looked for Axel before deciding he’d been called away from the house.
“What did you need to talk to Axel’s brother about?”
“I just got a feeling …” Joona begins.
“Oh great,” Saga mutters. “A feeling.”
“You know … we showed the photograph to Pontus Salman,” Joona continued. “He pointed himself out right away and then talked blah, blah, blah to the International Criminal Court’s decision to indict—” He stops talking as his phone rings. He searches for his phone without taking his eyes off the road and answers, “That was fast.”
“The date is confirmed,” Anja Larsson says. “The Tokyo String Quartet played at the Alte Oper in Frankfurt when Pontus Salman was there.”
“I see,” says Joona.
Saga watches as he listens to what Anja is saying, nods, thanks her, and hangs up.
“So Pontus Salman was telling the truth?” asks Saga.
“That we don’t know.”
“But the date is correct?”
“We only know that Pontus Salman went to Frankfurt and that the Tokyo String Quartet played at the Alte Oper
… but Pontus Salman has been to Frankfurt often and the Tokyo String Quartet has also played at the Alte Oper at least once a year.”
“Do you believe he lied about the date even though he knew we’d check it out?”
“No, but … well, I don’t know. As I said, I just had a feeling,” Joona says. “There’s a good reason to lie if he and Carl Palmcrona were discussing business with Agathe al-Haji after the arrest warrant was issued.”
“That would be a criminal offense, against international law. A weapons export directly to the militia in Darfur—”
“We believed Pontus Salman because he seemed so willing to help us, even pointing himself out,” Joona says. “But because he told one truth doesn’t mean that everything he says is true.”
“So that’s your feeling?”
“No, it was something in Salman’s voice … when he said the only strange thing about the picture was that Carl Palmcrona didn’t decline champagne …”
“… since there was nothing to celebrate.” Saga completes the thought.
“That’s how he put it, but my feeling is that there was something to celebrate and they were toasting it with champagne. An agreement—”
“No facts to support what you’ve just said.”
“But think about the picture for a second,” Joona says stubbornly. “There’s an atmosphere in that private box and … look at their faces, they’re very happy about something.”
“Even so, we can’t prove it. We need Penelope Fernandez’s help.”
“What do her doctors have to say?”
“We’ll be able to talk to her soon. But right now, she’s mentally too exhausted.”
“We have no idea what she can tell us,” Joona says.
“No we don’t, but what the hell do we have?”
“We have the photograph,” Joona says. “We have the four musicians in it and perhaps we can tell the piece they were playing by their hand positions.”
“Oh, Joona.” Saga sighs.
“What?” he says, smiling.
“That’s just fucking crazy—I hope you realize that.”
“Robert said that theoretically it might be possible.”
“Let’s just wait until Penelope is a little better.”
“I’ll call,” Joona says. He picks up his phone and calls the police station, requesting a connection to room U 12.
Saga looks at his impassive face.
“My name is Joona Linna and I—”
He stops talking and a large smile spreads across his face.
“Of course I remember you and your red cape,” he says, and listens some more. “Yes, but … I almost believed you were going to suggest hypnosis?”
Saga can hear the doctor’s laughing voice through the phone.
“No, but really—we absolutely, absolutely must talk to her.”
His face takes a serious turn.
“I can understand her feelings, but can’t you change her mind? All right, we’ll just have to figure something else out … Bye.”
He hangs up at the same time he turns onto Bellmansgatan.
“That was Dr. Daniella Richards,” Joona tells Saga.
“What does she say?”
“She feels we can question Penelope in a few days. The big problem is we have to find a different place for her to live—she refuses to stay in that underground room. She says—”
“There’s no more secure place.”
“She refuses,” Joona says simply.
“We’ve got to make it clear how dangerous the situation is.”
“I believe she knows that better than we do.”
71
seven million alternatives
In the Mosebacke Etablissement’s restaurant, Disa and Joona are sitting across from each other. Sunshine fills the room through the enormous windows looking out over Gamla Stan, Skeppsholmen, and the glittering water. They are just finishing a lunch of fried Baltic herring with mashed potatoes garnished with lingonberries. They pour the last of the light beer into their glasses. In the background, on a raised platform, Ronald Brautigam performs on a black grand piano. The violinist, Isabelle van Keulen, is finishing the last stroke of her bow, her right elbow lifted.
The last note of the violin trembles, waiting for the piano, then finishes with a high, shivering sound as the music ends. After the concert, Joona and Disa walk out of the restaurant and onto Mosebacke Square. They pause for a moment, facing each other.
“What’s all this about Paganini?” she asks. She pats Joona’s collar into place. “The last time we were together, you talked about Paganini, too.”
He gently catches her hand.
“I just wanted to see you—”
“Just so we can argue about you not taking your medicine?”
“No,” he says seriously.
“Do you take it, then?”
“I’ll start soon,” he says a bit impatiently.
She says nothing more, meets his eyes for a second, then sighs and suggests they keep walking.
“At any rate, it was a very pleasant concert,” she says. “Somehow I felt the music fit this soft light here, outside. I’d always thought Paganini was … well, you know, like a tightrope walker. Actually, I did have the chance to hear Yngwie Malmsteen play the Caprice no. 5 once at Gröna Lund.”
“Ah, in the days when you and Benjamin Gantenbein were going out.”
“We’ve just become Facebook friends after all these years.”
They walk to Slussen hand in hand and head down Skeppsbron.
“Do you think you could tell what music a violinist is playing just by the finger positions?”
“Without hearing it, you mean?”
“On a photograph.”
“Maybe. Perhaps you might get pretty close … it depends on how well you know the instrument,” she replies.
“How close? How exact?”
“I’ll ask Kaj if you think it’s important,” she says.
“Who’s Kaj?”
“Kaj Samuelsson. He works in the music history department. He was a good friend of my father’s and I used to practice driving with him.”
“Can you phone him now?”
“Sure,” Disa says, and then raises her eyebrows slightly. “You’re not kidding. You really want me to call him this second.”
“Yes,” Joona says.
Disa drops his hand and pulls out her cell phone. She scrolls through her contact list and then calls the professor.
“Hi, Disa here,” she says. “Am I interrupting your lunch?”
Joona can hear the sound of a man’s voice coming from the phone. After a little small talk, Disa says, “By the way, I have a good friend here with some questions for you.”
She laughs at something he says and then she asks directly, “Can you tell which note a violinist is playing … no, not that way … just by looking at the fingers?”
Joona observes Disa who listens, frowning. From Gamla Stan, he can hear the distant strains of march music.
“All right,” Disa says. “You know what, Kaj, I think I’ll just hand you over to him directly.”
She hands the phone to Joona without saying a word.
“Joona Linna,” he says.
“Ah, Disa talks about you a great deal,” says Kaj Samuelsson. He sounds relaxed.
“A violin has only four strings,” Joona begins. “Logically, there are only a limited number of notes that can be played.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“The lowest note is the open G,” Joona continues calmly. “And somewhere there must be the highest note that—”
“Yes, good reasoning,” the professor says. “In 1636, the French scientist Mersenne published the Harmonie universelle. In that work, he posits that the best violinists can play one octave higher than the open string. This means the range can be from G to third E, which gives us altogether thirty-four notes in the chromatic scale.”
“Thirty-four notes,” Joona repeats.
&n
bsp; “But if we go to musicians in the modern era, the range is greater due to new fingerings,” Samuelsson continues. He sounds amused. “And you can begin to count on reaching third A and have a chromatic scale of thirty-nine notes.”
“Keep going,” Joona says, watching Disa, who has gone off to look at some odd, jumbled-looking paintings displayed in a gallery window.
“However, when Richard Strauss expanded Berlioz’s Grand Treatise on Instrumentation and Modern Orchestration from 1904, fourth G became accepted as the highest possible note that could be reached by an orchestra violinist, which means forty-nine notes.”
Kaj Samuelsson laughs to himself at Joona’s impressed silence.
“Actually, we have yet to reach the highest possible note,” the professor explains. “And in addition, we now have flageolets and quarter tones.”
Disa and Joona are now strolling past a newly built replica of a Viking ship docked at Slottskajen as he speaks. They’re nearing Kungsträdgården.
“What about a cello?” Joona asks impatiently.
“Fifty-eight,” Samuelsson replies.
Disa is giving Joona a vexed look and points at an outdoor café.
“My real question is, if you were to look at a photograph of four musicians—two violins, one viola, and one cello—and if the image is clear, would you be able to tell, just from the placement of their fingers on the strings, which piece they’re playing?”
Joona hears Kaj Samuelsson mumbling to himself on the other end.
“There are so many alternatives, thousands …”
Disa shrugs and keeps walking without looking at Joona.
“Seven million combinations,” Kaj says at last.
“Seven million,” Joona repeats.
There’s silence on both ends of the phone.
“Yet on my photograph,” Joona goes on, his voice stubborn, “you can clearly see the fingers and the strings so that many alternatives could be eliminated immediately.”
“I’ll gladly take a look at your photo,” the professor replies. “But I would not be able to guess the notes, it’s just not possible and—”
“But—”
“Imagine, Joona Linna,” the professor continues happily. “Imagine you’ve actually figured out the approximate notes … How will you be able to tell from all the thousands of string quartets out there—Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart—which one is the correct composition?”