The Bach Manuscript. Scott Mariani
almost wanted to sob with relief when he heard Ben’s voice in his ear before the second ring. Four in the morning, but he sounded wide awake and alert. Like a kick-ass justice-dealing machine ready to spring into action.
Nick cupped his hand over the phone and spoke in a raspy, urgent whisper. ‘Ben, it’s me, Nick. Listen—’
‘Why are you whispering? What’s up?’
‘I need your help, right now,’ Nick croaked. ‘There are intruders in my apartment.’
Ben Hope wasn’t one to waste time on idle chat. ‘Call 999. Stay safe. On my way.’
‘I can’t call the pol—’ Nick began to explain, but then the line went dead. He stood up, still clutching the phone, listening through the door and realising that something was different. He could no longer hear the intruders. He stalked closer to the door and pressed his ear against it.
Dead silence.
Had they gone? They must have.
A moment earlier, that would have been the most wonderful relief in the world. Now, Nick was almost disappointed that he wouldn’t get to see Ben Hope kicking their sorry arses after all.
He slowly, tentatively, unbolted the door and eased it open a crack. Still not a breath of sound or movement from out there. The worst of the danger seemed to have passed, but all the same his heart was fluttering with mixed dread and fury at the thought of what evidence of horrible damage he was about to find in his home.
Nick stepped nervously out into the pitch-dark hallway and turned towards the living room at the top of the passage, where he could see a faint rectangular outline of light around the edges of the door. His legs felt shaky under him. He reached out a hand to find the light switch.
Then a powerful grip clamped hold of his arm and he cried out in terror as he felt himself being jerked forward off his feet. As he fell, something hard and solid hit him a brutal blow to the face and he felt his nose break.
The light came on. Nick was on the floor, groaning, blood bubbling from his broken nose. He peered through a veil of pain, craned his neck upwards to look at the trio of men standing over him and looking down at him as if he was a dog turd they’d stepped in. The one who had kneed him in the face reached down and grabbed a fistful of Nick’s hair, making him cry out again as he forced him to stagger upright. The man pressed the web of his hand against Nick’s throat and pinned him against the wall.
Helpless and unable to speak or move, Nick stared at his trio of attackers. Big, hard-looking men, all wearing dark clothes. They had broad shoulders and angular, ruddy faces, and eyes that gazed back at him without any trace of compassion. As though he was just an object to them, not even human. To Nick, that was the most terrifying thing of all.
One of them shouldered past, yanked open the spare bedroom door and peered through, flashing a small torch around the inside. He grinned.
‘Like I said, boys. It’s a fuckin’ greenhouse in here.’ Speaking English now, thick with the accent of the language Nick had heard them talking in before. Eastern European, but he still couldn’t place it.
Such things were the least of Nick Hawthorne’s worries now. The man pinning him by the throat drew back his other hand in a clenched fist.
Nick saw little after that. The punches kept coming, hard and violent. He felt his teeth break, with a horrible crack that filled his head. Then he was back down on the floor, heavy kicks striking at his stomach and sides and groin and legs, with nothing he could do except curl up and try to protect himself and hope it would be over soon.
One of the thugs said something that Nick couldn’t have understood, even in English. Then he felt the pincer grips seize him by the arms, and his body being lifted off the floor. They half-carried him into the living room, dragging his limp feet along the floor. He was groaning and half blind with pain, and only caught a fleeting glimpse of the wreckage of the room. Why were they doing this to him? He didn’t understand. He didn’t deserve this.
‘No,’ he tried to plead. But all that came out from his shattered lips was a bubbling moan.
They dragged him towards the window.
Ben had wanted to ask why Nick couldn’t call the police, but there was no time to lose over questions. He hurriedly pulled on his jeans and boots, put his leather jacket on over the dark T-shirt he’d been sleeping in, and left Old Library at a sprint.
The BMW was in the college car park to the rear of Meadow Buildings, across the quad and through a gated arch. Ben threw himself behind the wheel, and moments later the snarl of his exhausts broke the serenity of the silent meadow.
He skidded out of the college grounds and sped up St Aldate’s. One-way systems and pedestrianised zones weren’t a priority for him, and nor were speed limits as he hustled northwards through the night. Oxford never quite sleeps, but at four in the morning its centre comes closer to being deserted than most modern cities. He hit seventy miles an hour on Cornmarket, and eighty on Banbury Road, before he had to brake to avoid running down a bunch of drunks clowning around in the middle of the street. Moments later, he was roaring into the tranquil part of north Oxford where Nick lived.
Only to find that it was no longer so tranquil. And that he wasn’t the first emergency responder to arrive on the scene.
The houses and trees of Nick’s street were lit by the swirl of blue from the squad of vehicles that half blocked the road. Ben kerbed the BMW opposite and got out. The other side of the street he could see the door to Nick’s place hanging open, police hovering outside like guards. The top-floor windows were lit, and more lights were coming on in neighbouring houses all around as residents woke up to the goings-on. An old man stood framed in his doorway on Ben’s side of the street, wrapped in a dressing gown and squinting across at the police cars and the glare of blue lights. He looked confused and distressed. ‘What’s going on?’
Ben made no reply. A short distance away, a female uniformed officer was taking what looked like a witness statement from a young man and woman in their early twenties who stood huddled and pale at the side of the pavement. They were dressed as though they’d been to a party. Passers-by, rather than neighbours. The guy was clutching a phone at his side. Ben thought he must have been the one who called 999, if Nick hadn’t.
Closer to the apartment entrance, Nick’s Aston Martin was boxed in by a chequered Thames Valley Police Vauxhall Vectra and two unmarked detective cars. One was a Plain Jane Mondeo and the other was some kind of seventies’ American muscle car as wide as a river cruiser, blue lights twinkling from behind its grille. As incongruous as it was, Ben gave it only a glance. A chill gripped his insides as he saw the paramedic unit clustered near the entrance to Nick’s building.
They’d backed their ambulance up close, but they hadn’t gone inside, because their focus was down here at street level. Emergency medical equipment was spread out over the pavement, which was strewn with shards of broken glass. Glancing up at the shattered pane of the top-floor window of Nick’s apartment, Ben understood where the glass had come from. But the paramedics had their backs to him, blocking out what they were doing. He needed to see, even if he didn’t want to.
He hovered impatiently as a second police Vectra came screeching onto the scene and then ran across the street for a better look, his heart thumping. The WPC spotted him and left her witnesses for a moment to step towards him with her arms spread to ward him away, but he pushed by her. A cold, sour wave of fear washed through him.
He knew. Even before he got a clear view of what the paramedics were working on, he knew.
Then he saw it. The chill gripped his guts and his vision seemed to telescope into a tunnel, while the sounds of radios and frantic activity were muted in his ears and nothing existed except Ben and the grim sight in front of him.
The