The Bach Manuscript

  When the crusty finally got on a bright green Oxford Bus Company double-decker heading for Cowley and the Blackbird Leys estate further east, Ben hung back and was one of the last passengers to board. He took a seat at the rear of the lower deck, where he could watch all movements onto and off the bus. Then all he had to do was sit back and wait for the right moment to test his theory.

  Cowley Road had changed a lot over the years. Various dives Ben had once frequented and had great affection for, like the iconic Bullingdon Arms pub where Irish ceilidh musicians once gathered for impromptu jam sessions over pints of the best Guinness to be had anywhere outside of Dublin, were gone, now replaced by slick, plastic wine bars. The old Penultimate Picture Palace was no longer, either, which saddened him. But he had things other than reminiscences on his mind.

  As he gazed out of the window Ben ran back through the clues once more. At the time he’d noticed certain small things yesterday, he’d dismissed them as unimportant. The fact that the crusty had apparently been so quick to recognise Nick on the bus, and that Nick had seemed uncomfortable about being recognised, and then his slight hesitation when Ben had asked him about it later on, had seemed like nothing. Ben hadn’t been surprised to find illegal pills and magic mushrooms in the crusty’s pockets, either. Nor had he made anything much of Nick’s reference to his ‘medication’.

  But since last night, all those apparently disconnected elements were coming together in a way that made Ben see the whole picture very differently. If Nick was growing weed, he’d have to have got the seeds from somewhere. Nowadays it was possible to obtain cannabis seeds online with virtually total freedom, but maybe a man like Nick Hawthorne wasn’t worldly enough to know that. Or maybe he was worried about dodgy internet purchases being traced back to him. For the sake of privacy, a cautious fellow with too much to lose might have preferred a face-to-face cash transaction. Which would by necessity have brought him into contact with members of the city’s soft-crime elements. Ben was now almost convinced that Nick had been buying dope from the crusty. That was how they knew each other. That was what Nick was trying to hide, in his cautious way.

  The problem was when soft crime unexpectedly hardened. You never really knew who you were dealing with, or what they might be capable of. A guy with a pocket full of harmless-enough seeds could turn into a guy waggling a knife in your face. Or, under certain circumstances, a guy who might get together with a bunch of like-minded cronies and decide to throw you out of a window.

  The question was, what circumstances? Ben didn’t know. He was working on an incomplete theory. But he would soon find out if it was right or wrong.

  When the crusty disembarked a few minutes later, Ben got off and tailed him down the street. A hundred yards further on, the crusty paused at the entrance to a shabby alleyway between an Asian grocer’s shop and a takeout pizza place, glanced furtively around without noticing Ben following him, and darted out of sight.

  Ben quickened his step to catch up and saw his target entering the doorway of a flat down the alley. The door wasn’t locked, and the crusty walked in without a key. It was either his place, or he was visiting. Either way was fine by Ben. He counted down thirty seconds to let the crusty get well inside the place, then slipped silently after him. The doorway the crusty had gone through was all peeling and scabby. Someone had stencilled graffiti on it, with a picture of a petrol bomb and a slogan that said KEEP WARM – BURN OUT THE RICH. A little way beyond the doorway, the alley opened up into a patch of wasteland used as a dumping ground for local traders. An old shed stood derelict among knee-high weeds, next to a skip overflowing with garbage and a row of council wheelie bins.

  Ben retraced his steps back to the door, eased it open a crack and then entered the flat, as quiet as a breath of air. The interior was even dingier than the exterior, and smelled strongly of damp carpets, cheap cooking, body odour and the smoke from illicit substances. The crusty had gone clumping up a flight of stairs to what Ben presumed was a bedroom. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Ben listened and heard voices. Five minutes passed, then he heard the creak of the bedroom door opening and withdrew out of sight as the crusty re-emerged and came clumping back downstairs, counting out a rumpled sheaf of cash and shoving it in his pocket.

  That’s what a drug deal looks like, Forbes, Ben thought.

  The crusty stepped back out into the empty alleyway. He lingered a moment near the doorway to take out a baccy tin and light a roll-up kept inside it, then turned to start heading back towards the street. Ten to eleven in the morning. Another busy day ahead.

  But his schedule was about to be disrupted.

  Chapter 15

  Ben was on him in three fast strides and knocked him unconscious with a hard blow to the side of the neck. The crusty went as limp as a scarecrow cut loose from its post. Ben caught him under the arms as he fell, and dragged him back down the alley towards the patch of wasteground.

  It wasn’t a killer blow, by any means. Ben hadn’t intended it to be. You could never judge these things perfectly, but he expected the guy to wake up in about five minutes. It took seven, by which time Ben had already started on the fresh pack of Gauloises he’d bought from Havana House that morning. He was using the illegal flick knife he’d found in the crusty’s pockets to clean under his fingernails.

  Lying on his back against the inside of the derelict old shed, the crusty stirred, then his eyes fluttered half open one after the other and he croaked, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Somewhere none of your pals are going to come and help you,’ Ben told him. ‘It’s just the two of us. Your lucky day.’

  The crusty’s eyes focused, and sudden recognition forced them open wide. ‘Oh, fuck. It’s you.’

  ‘Scared? You should be.’

  The crusty started to struggle in his panic, trying to get up. Ben pushed him back down with his foot. ‘I see you got yourself a new blade. You really shouldn’t go about armed like that. Someone might get hurt.’ He folded the blade shut and slipped the weapon into his own pocket.

  ‘What do you want from me, man?’

  ‘I think you know exactly what I want from you,’ Ben said.

  The crusty gave up trying to struggle. He lay on the filthy, rotted shed floor, breathing hard. ‘Look. Okay. Take my money. Tell Gluebrush I’ll have the rest by Saturday. That’s a fuckin’ promise. Tell’m!’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Do I look like I’m collecting for some loan shark?’

  The crusty’s eyes filled with confusion. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘Wrong again,’ Ben said. ‘You’re going to wish I was a cop. If I’m right about you, you’re cat meat.’

  ‘What the fuck, man?’

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ Ben said. ‘I’m going to ask you questions. Each time, I’ll start counting, one, two, three. If I haven’t had an answer when I get to three, I’ll break something. Fingers, wrists, ankles, nose, teeth, you get the picture. You’re a big guy. Plenty to break. And I’m a very violent person. Once I get started, I can’t stop. We could be here all day. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  The crusty nodded up and down as far as his head could move.

  ‘Here we go, then. First question. What’s your name? One. Two—’

  ‘P-Paul. Paul M-Midworth.’

  ‘Where d’you live, Paul?’

  ‘Rose Hill.’

  Ben took out the grubby, much-thumbed document he’d removed from the crusty’s pocket, the Job Seeker’s Allowance booklet that he used to sign on for his dole money, with his full name and address and social security number written at the top. Paul Midworth, aged thirty-one, did indeed reside in Rose Hill. ‘You passed the first test, Paul. Let’s keep the truth coming. Ready?’

  ‘Yes! What the fuck, man—’

  ‘The guy who was with me on the bus yesterday. Know him?’ Ben started counting. ‘One … Two …’

  ‘What guy?’

  Ben sighed. Then reached down, grabbed Midworth’s wrist and
twisted it almost to the point of breaking. Midworth let out a shriek.

  Ben didn’t let go. ‘It’s going to hurt a lot worse when the bones come ripping right through the flesh. Did you sell him gear?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘How often? When’s the last time?’

  The crusty rolled his eyes in agony up at Ben. ‘I don’t know! Now and then. Not for months. It was just a few fuckin’ seeds, man.’

  ‘Why’d you go after him? Did he owe you money? Flash a little too much cash under your nose, enough to tempt you to go and look for more?’

  ‘I never done anything!’

  ‘And all I have to do is believe you. Who are your friends that you took along? Did you pay them, or did they do it just for kicks?’

  ‘I swear, whatever you think I done, man, you’re getting it wrong.’

  ‘Think carefully, Paul. I’m going to rip this arm right out of its joint.’

  ‘Aagh! What’s your problem? I said I didn’t do anything! I SWEAR!’

  ‘Where were you last night, between three-thirty and four in the morning?’

  ‘Home!’

  ‘Alone? Got a girlfriend who can vouch for you?’

  ‘I was alone, man. But I fuckin’ promise you …’ Midworth was crying now. His words trailed off into a pitiful mutter.

  Ben let go of him. ‘Get up. I said get up.’

  Midworth got shakily to his feet. The shed was small and cramped, and there wasn’t much room for two people, especially when one of them was built like an ox. The rotted floor sagged under his weight.

  ‘Here’s your knife,’ Ben said, taking it out. He thumbed the release catch on the handle to pop the blade out with a sharp click, then handed it to Midworth.

  Midworth took the knife, peered at it in his hand and then peered uncertainly back at Ben with pink teary eyes.

  ‘That’s twice I’ve humiliated you,’ Ben said to him. ‘First yesterday on the bus, and again just now. Made you look like the pathetic, snivelling, weak coward that you are. I’ll bet you’d love to get even with me. Teach me that lesson you said I needed. Carve me up good and proper. So here’s your chance. Stick that switchblade in me.’ He touched his chest. ‘Right here.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Ben said. ‘Stick it right in there and give it a good twist. Make me bleed. Cut my heart out. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘You’ll break my arm.’

  ‘No,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll take you apart slowly, piece by piece. But only if you fail. Come on. I know you can do it. A tough guy like you, who carries a knife to show how big he is, likes to shove people around? If you can beat a defenceless guy to a pulp and throw him out of a window, you won’t have a problem.’

  ‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘I’ll make it easy for you. Hands behind my back. Eyes closed.’

  Shaking his head, Midworth backed away as far as the confines of the shed would let him. He dropped the knife. ‘This is a fuckin’ terrible mistake, man.’

  ‘You made it.’

  ‘Let me go. Please.’

  Ben had spent most of his adult life around dangerous men. He’d worked with them, and against them, all over the world, for a lot of years. He’d met few who were as dangerous as he was himself, but many who had come close, and he’d learned to understand exactly what qualities and mindset were needed in that kind of individual. Whether they used their skills for bad, or whether they used them for good as Ben had, what they shared was the ability to cross a line that ordinary people could not cross. It is a hard, hard thing to actively, wilfully, hurt or maim or kill another living human being. That was why murdering psychopaths were mercifully rare, and why brave men who could do whatever it took to serve and protect the innocent were in such short supply and great demand.

  Ben Hope was one of those men. And he could see that Paul Midworth was not one of them. He just didn’t have the makings of a killer.

  Which was good news for the world. But bad news for Ben. Because it meant his theory had been totally, completely wrong, and that now he was going to go right back to the beginning and work this thing out.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing,’ Midworth sobbed. ‘I didn’t hurt nobody. Please, man. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘I do believe you.’

  Midworth fell to his knees on the dingy shed floor, bent over with his head in his hands, and wept like a little boy.

  ‘No more carrying knives,’ Ben said. ‘No more taking money from people. No more dealing drugs. That life is over for you now, Paul. Clean yourself up and get a job. I know where you live and I’ll be watching you.’

  Ben picked up the switchblade, folded it shut and slipped it into his pocket, then left Midworth cringing there in a heap and walked away.

  He walked all the way back to the college, thinking hard. By the time he arrived there, he knew where he had to go next.

  Chapter 16

  On his way into north Oxford, Ben phoned Jeff on the Alpina’s hands-free system to tell him the Hobart meeting had fallen through and that he might be held up in the UK for a couple of days due to a separate matter. Jeff knew Ben too well to ask for details, and Ben knew Jeff too well to offer any, fully aware that both he and Tuesday would drop everything and be there like a shot to help him if they suspected the least hint of trouble.

  Ben wanted to deal with this alone, his way.

  The big black Plymouth Barracuda was parked outside Nick’s place, dwarfing every other vehicle in the street and looking more like a gangster’s ride than a detective inspector’s. No other police cars were in sight, nothing left to mark the crime scene except the police tape cordoning off a section of the iron railings. Ben parked the Alpina across the street and crossed over. As he passed the American car, a ferocious barking erupted inside without warning and he turned to see a large German shepherd dog launching itself at the window to get to him, making the whole car rock on its suspension. Ben paused to admire the dog. It reminded him of his own shepherd, Storm, and for a moment he yearned to be home at Le Val.

  Ben let himself inside the house using his Yale bump key, climbed the stairs to the top floor and limboed between the strands of police tape blocking Nick’s apartment door. Ben walked into the wrecked living room and called out, ‘Hey, McAllister.’

  Tom McAllister appeared from the kitchen, blinking in surprise to see Ben. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Does anybody else in Thames Valley Police drive a Yank tank like that?’ Ben said.

  ‘What powers of observation you have, Mr Hope.’

  ‘They say it’s the ones who blend in that you have to watch out for.’

  ‘That’s just what I want them to think,’ McAllister replied with a crooked smile. ‘Tell you the truth, I won the car in a poker game. I’ve no idea why I keep the damn thing. One day someone’ll do me a favour and pinch it.’

  ‘I don’t think your German shepherd will let that happen.’

  ‘His name’s Radar.’

  ‘Police dog?’

  ‘Was,’ McAllister said. ‘He was too aggressive for the job. Couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad guys half the time.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Ben said, eyeing him.

  ‘You don’t trust the police much, do you?’

  ‘What were you doing in Nick’s kitchen, hunting for leftover tuna sandwiches?’

  ‘No, I was just admiring the nice copper pots the man had. There’s a Mauviel skillet worth half a week’s pay. Had a lot of great recipe books, too.’

  ‘What are you, a frustrated chef or something?’

  ‘In my dreams.’

  ‘Anything would beat working with your idiot of a boss.’

  ‘Forbsie?’ McAllister shrugged. ‘So is that what you came back here for, to tell me what I already know?’

  ‘No, I came back here to figure out what I’m missing,’ Ben said. ‘Something about this situation isn’t making sense to me.’

  ?
??Me neither. But you shouldn’t be here. You may have noticed the tape on your way in. That’s intended to indicate that members of the public – that would be you – are meant to keep out.’

  ‘Must have missed it,’ Ben said. ‘Then again, keeping me out is hard to do.’

  ‘So I noticed. You’re not the kind of fella who’s easily stopped, are you?’

  ‘Is that your intuitive impression?’

  ‘Partly. I also looked you up.’

  ‘Everybody does these days. I must be more interesting than I thought.’

  ‘What was it, SAS?’

  ‘You wouldn’t find that information on my record.’

  ‘Not the records the MoD would allow the likes of me to access, that’s for sure. The ministry got in a right flap when I tried to poke my nose in. Not that I’d have found anything I didn’t already know.’

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘And how would that be?’

  ‘I knew one or two of those fellas in Belfast,’ McAllister said, ‘back at the tail end of the Troubles, before I got out of the place. You’ve got the look. You could grow your hair and beard a yard long and walk around looking like John frigging Lennon and you’d still have it.’

  ‘Didn’t know I was that obvious.’

  ‘Not to Forbsie. But like you said, the man’s an eedjit.’

  Ben sighed. ‘Well, now you know who I am, just don’t call me “Major”, okay? I don’t like it.’

  ‘Oh, I’d never do that,’ McAllister said. ‘I demonstrate a lack of respect for authority. Or so my superiors are always telling me.’

  Ben looked at him. ‘I think you’re the most unusual cop I’ve ever met.’