Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“The Bechstein grand,” the porter said, pulling a face.

Bernie pulled a face as well. The Bechstein grand was evidently bad news.

The van driver and one other man came to the back and nodded to the others and said something about the traffic. They seemed to know each other, which was not good news for Bernie. He sidled to the back and waited with arms folded while they unlocked and opened up. What a relief it was to see a large case the shape of a harp lashed to the side of the van.

First he made a show of assisting with the grand piano, a heavy brute. It had to be wheeled with great care onto the lift mechanism. When it was at ground level, the Albert Hall team took over.

Bernie was left with the Gentle and Good men. “I’ll take the harp,” he said with authority. He’d noticed a set of wheels on the case. It would be just a matter of trundling it across the street to his own van. He stepped up and started unbuckling the straps.

“You want help?” the driver said.

“No, mate. I can handle this.”

“We don’t want an accident. You know who it belongs to?”

“Tell me then,” Bernie said, giving his main attention to the straps.

“Igor Gurney.”

“Ah.” Bernie hadn’t thought of the harp as belonging to anyone. He’d assumed it was owned by the Royal Philharmonic. On reflection, it was obvious that musicians liked to use their own instruments. He said, “He needn’t worry. It’s in good hands.” He tilted it away from the side of the van and let the wheels take the weight. It was mobile. He manoeuvred it onto the lift, took a firm grip and said, “Bombs away.”

The platform descended. Bernie wheeled the harp off. Now all he had to do was cross the street with it. “Want me to sign for this?”

The driver had his clipboard in his hand. “What?”

“The harp. I’m supposed to be taking it to the Festival Hall.”

“I was told it was wanted here.”

“Yes, but tonight he’s giving a recital at the South Bank.”

“You’d better sign for it, then.”

Bernie signed the name of his ex-wife’s current partner. Then, trying not to show undue haste, he steered the precious Horngacher across the street and opened the back of his Transit. It took quite an effort to hoist the thing inside. He attached the straps and bunched the foam rubber against the sides. When the job was done he stepped out and glanced across the street. The first of the porters was just coming through the archway. Bernie got in and started up. Mission almost accomplished.

He didn’t put his foot down as he made his getaway along Kensington Gore Road. He drove with a care for the instrument. And he didn’t want to get stopped for exceeding the limit.

On the radio they were doing commercials. Then the news. It crossed Bernie’s mind that his daring heist might make the news bulletins later in the day.

The voice on the radio said, “And now a piece we should play more often, because I think you’ll agree it touches the heart — the Mozart Concerto for Flute and Harp. This is a live recording made at the proms last year and featuring Jane Stine as the solo flautist and Igor Gurney, the blind harpist, with the Hall Orchestra.”

Igor Gurney, the blind harpist.

Bernie’s hands gripped the wheel. God help us, he thought, I’ve stolen a blind man’s harp. What kind of monster am I?

He’d felt a twinge of conscience earlier, when he was told the harp belonged to a musician, and not the orchestra. To learn that the man was blind made him groan out loud. He pictured Igor Gurney with his white stick shuffling to the place where the Horngacher was supposed to be and finding nothing, his hands plucking at air.

He could also picture Sly Small sitting in his Surrey mansion waiting for the harp to be delivered, idly turning the cylinder of his revolver.

The soul-stirring notes of the concerto filled the van. Mozart and Igor Gurney were making a joint appeal. Get this, Bernie. Robbing a blind man of his harp is as low as you can get.

Bernie had done bad things in his life, like break-ins and hijacks. He’d stolen cars, shoplifted, cheated at cards and conned a few mugs out of a few grand. Until this point in his life he’d never wilfully hurt a handicapped person. There were limits, things even a hardened criminal hesitated to do.

I won’t be able to live with myself, he thought.

Sucks to Sly Small. At the next turn he veered left, down Palace Gate. Shaking, sick with fear, he turned left again and worked his way though the streets towards Prince Consort Road and the Albert Hall.

The men were still unloading. His parking spot had gone, so he drew in beside the Gentle and Good van.

“You’re back, then?” the driver said without any suggestion of blame. “Is something up?”

“Someone got their dates wrong,” Bernie said. “Good thing I phoned ahead.” He did this kind of deception well. People always believed him. “It’s to go inside with the other instruments.” He got out and unstrapped and lifted the Horngacher from the rear of the Transit. There was an immediate sense of relief. For once in his life he had done the decent thing. “Listen, I’d better find somewhere to park,” he told the driver.

“No problem,” the driver said. “I’ll get one of your mates to wheel it in.”

Bernie got in and drove away. The glow of virtue lasted about five seconds, until Sly Small reared up in his thoughts. What on earth could he do now? Go into hiding? Seek another identity? Verdi’s Requiem was playing on the radio. He switched it off.

The solution came to him as he was waiting at a red light in Kensington High Street. Sly Small had spoken of a second Horngacher in some museum in Winchester. He glanced at the time. Winchester was a couple of hours’ drive from here, straight down the M3. He could be there by four. He’d have no qualms about lifting a Horngacher belonging to a pesky museum. A harp shouldn’t be gathering dust. It should be out there being played by some up-and-coming musician like Rocky Small. This would be an act of liberation.

Bernie put his foot down and headed for Winchester.

The signs for the Museum of Music came up on the outskirts of the city. The building, in its own grounds off Worthy Road, was a modern glass and concrete structure that looked pretty secure to Bernie’s expert eye. Hadn’t Sly likened it to Fort Knox? No matter. Bernie had devised a plan on the way down.

“We’re closing at five,” the young woman at the turnstile said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave it for another day? There’s so much to see.”

“I’ll have a quick trot round and get a sense of what’s here,” Bernie told her. “Is there a guidebook?”

She gave him a plan and he made a beeline for the harp section on the second floor. It was well stocked. They were Irish, Welsh, Grecian, Gothic and early American. He studied the labels of the larger harps. There was a Wurlitzer, an Erard and a Venus Paragon. They all looked pretty similar to Bernie’s untutored eye. Where was the flaming Horngacher?

No need to panic, he told himself. Maybe they kept it in some other part of the museum. He looked at his watch. Four-thirty already. He studied the plan again. Somewhere on the ground floor was a display described as The Layout of a Symphony Orchestra. They had harps in symphony orchestras, didn’t they? Bernie hurried downstairs.

At the far end of the building he found a large semi-circular area set out with music stands and the various instruments beside them. The harp was on a raised part at the rear left. He moved closer. A beautiful thing six feet high with gold leaf gilding. But was it the Horngacher?

He studied the label and groaned out loud. “ Obermeyer harp, made in Starnberg, Austria, about 1977 .”