Dafydd, his eyes popping in his head, tried to nod.
Milan relaxed his grip just enough to allow him to speak.
“Let me go,” he wheezed. “I’ll fucking kill you, I swear it.”
“You’re not making a very convincing case,” said Milan.
“Go easy, Milan,” cautioned von Ritter. “You’ll mark him. Don’t lay yourself open to another charge.”
Milan kept his grasp loose, but firm enough to neutralise any threat from Dafydd.
“Look,” said Dafydd hoarsely. “It’s not even up to me, is it? Nowadays they don’t need the victim’s consent to pursue a case of assault. If they see that an assault’s taken place, they’ll investigate, regardless of the victim’s wishes.”
“So you can’t drop the charge?” Karl-Heinz knitted his brow, looking at Milan with some perturbation.
“What’s done is done,” said Dafydd. “I’ll resign from the orchestra, okay? I’ll do that. If the conductor wants me gone, there’s no point staying. But I can’t do anything about the police.”
Milan let go of Dafydd and stood straight, folding his arms. “Yes, you can,” he said.
“What?” asked both Dafydd and Karl-Heinz simultaneously.
“You can tell them you lied. It was me who assaulted you.”
“Milan.” Karl-Heinz shook his head. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Why is it stupid? The police need somebody to charge—we can’t let them charge Vanessa. I’ll go there and say it was me that hit him.”
“That’s not true, though,” objected Karl-Heinz. “That’s a crime too, isn’t it? Perverting justice?”
“Well, you know me. I like to pervert.” Milan, clearly enraptured with the idea, strode off towards the door.
Karl-Heinz considered following him, lunging for his arm.
“Milan, stop! Think about this,” pleaded Karl-Heinz. “You can’t afford this kind of publicity either. You’re about to launch a stellar solo career. Don’t put a cloud over yourself. There’s another way to deal with this.”
Milan paused at the door, eyes flashing.
“I can’t think of one, can you?”
Karl-Heinz was silent. Dafydd simply stared, his fingertip pressed to his wound.
“No. Right. Well, I’m going to the police, then.”
“Now?”
“Why not now?”
Milan stalked through the door, slamming it behind him.
Karl-Heinz and Dafydd exchanged disbelieving stares.
“All this drama over a scratch,” sighed Karl-Heinz. He thought for a moment. “Okay, get dressed,” he said. “Come with me. You’re going to tell them that, in the confusion of the moment, you couldn’t tell who hit you—it might have been Milan, or it might have been Vanessa. Perhaps it was even me. I’ll put my name in the mix. It can’t hurt, can it?”
“It won’t look good to the Trustees.”
“No. No, you’re right. Perhaps I won’t do that, then. But you can tell them you didn’t see who threw the punch. You can do that, yes?”
“Why should I? Why shouldn’t Vanessa pay for what she’s done?”