The Bach Manuscript Read online

  McAllister pulled another crooked smile. ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘Then you and I just might get along,’ Ben said. ‘Mind if I take a look around?’

  ‘Would it stop you if I said yes?’

  ‘No, but it might spoil this nice entente we’re having.’

  Ben walked over to the door of the spare bedroom and peered inside. The large recliner chair in the middle of the room was surrounded by tables and stands on which dozens of plants had stood, before the thieves had raided it. You could see the water marks and rings where the pots had been, and little piles of spilled earth. The room reeked of stale cannabis smoke and compost. The infrared lamp was still burning. Ben noticed the deadbolt that had been fitted to the inside of the door.

  ‘It’s as we found it,’ McAllister said. ‘Cosy little setup yer man had in there, with his comfy chair and more greenery than the botanical gardens. I wouldn’t mind a room like that myself.’

  Ben said nothing and returned to gaze at the wreck of the living room. After that morning’s process of elimination, he was looking at a blank sheet, sucking in every detail to try to make sense of what he was seeing. ‘Looks just the same as it did last night. Nothing’s been touched?’

  ‘Not yet. Forensic examiner got held up. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be gone by then,’ Ben said. ‘So what’s your take?’

  McAllister frowned and pursed his lips as he gravely surveyed the scene. ‘Forget drug deal gone bad. And I don’t think they came here to do murder. Looks to me like an aggravated robbery, pure and simple.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You don’t look convinced.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s quite that straightforward,’ Ben said. ‘Your average burglars wouldn’t be interested in artwork, and there’s no way they’d even try to cart a piano down the stairs even if it was worth a fortune. But that leaves plenty of stuff here they’d have gone for. Like that stereo, for a start. They wouldn’t have trashed it.’ He pointed at the expensive Pioneer sound system that had been hurled to the floor along with the rest of the contents of the bookcase it had been resting on. Nearby, a home cinema unit had been kicked over, along with the super-size flat screen and Blu-ray player that were now lying in a mess of wires.

  ‘I’m with you there,’ McAllister agreed. ‘That’s a grand and a half’s worth of TV they’ve left behind. But I’m thinking, the kind of guy who can afford to live in a place like this and lets the birds crap all over his Aston Martin has money to burn. He could have had piles of cash lying around, for all we know. Or a bunch of jewels and gold watches. Maybe they just filled their pockets and ignored the rest of it.’

  ‘I was here just a few hours before it happened. I didn’t see money lying around. Nick wasn’t that ostentatious. He only let the birds crap on the car because he wasn’t into the wealthy lifestyle thing. In any case, he was a classical organist, not a rock star. He was doing okay, but I don’t think he was a millionaire.’

  ‘Then they came for the weed,’ McAllister said. ‘Your friend had a bit of a habit, to say the least. Maybe someone else got wind of the wee forest he’d grown for himself in there. That would explain why they hit this place and not any of the neighbours.’

  ‘I already thought of that,’ Ben said. ‘But if they came for the weed, then why smash the whole place up?’

  McAllister shrugged. ‘Just being bad bastards. I’ve seen it all before, believe me. Got called out to a robbery at a stately home last month. You should’ve seen the mess. What they couldn’t load into their van, they pissed and shat on just for kicks. Takes all sorts.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t buy your theory, Inspector. And I’ll tell you why.’

  Chapter 17

  McAllister was looking at him, frowning and waiting for more. Ben said, ‘Nick played an organ recital at the cathedral last night.’

  ‘We know that. So what?’

  ‘So, his hands were probably hurting afterwards,’ Ben said. ‘It was a worsening problem for him. I think he was more worried about it than he let on. My guess is, he came home and went straight into his smoking room for a joint, because he was in pain. He’d have bolted himself in, because he was obviously cautious that way. Then he relaxed in his chair and must have smoked himself asleep. That’s why he was still dressed when it happened, because he hadn’t gone to bed.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then around four in the morning, the noise of the intruders woke him up and he called me. Still bolted into his smoking room. See the point I’m making?’

  ‘Why does it matter where he called you from?’

  ‘It matters, because it means that they were already smashing the place up before they knew about the drugs, because otherwise they’d have kicked the door down and gone straight after them. If they didn’t, it’s because they were looking for something else. Something other than the usual kinds of loot a burglar looks to steal, stuff that’s quick and easy to sell on through their usual channels.’

  McAllister considered it. ‘Okay. Makes sense, so far. Then what were they looking for?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘That’s what I’m missing. Whatever it was, they didn’t touch any of his other stuff. Like a targeted robbery with a specific intention. Which is generally the domain of professional thieves. And that’s where the mystery is here. A contradiction. Pros wouldn’t have turned the place over like a bomb crater. They’d have taken what they came for, in and out. Instead, this bunch must have smelled the dope through the bedroom door and seen an opportunity to score something extra for themselves.’

  McAllister thought about it, and nodded slowly. ‘You’re saying they were working for someone else.’

  ‘That’s the only way this makes any sense,’ Ben said. ‘They were paid to come and take something very specific. The drugs had nothing to do with it. But this was strictly amateur night. Whoever hired these rent-a-thugs didn’t pay a top-dollar price, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So they sniff the dope and they figure out it’s coming from the bedroom,’ McAllister said, walking through the motions. ‘At this point maybe they don’t know anyone’s in there, but they’d soon find out when they discovered the door was bolted shut from inside.’ He stopped at the door and turned to look at Ben. ‘Why didn’t they just kick the door in? There’s not a mark on it.’

  Ben said, ‘Maybe Nick came out before they had a chance to break it down. They grabbed him and started beating him, which is how his face got all battered. Then they dragged him over here to the window, knocking that harpsichord sideways on their way. And flung him through the glass.’

  ‘Bastards. But why kill him?’

  ‘No masks,’ Ben said. ‘Like I said, amateur night. Maybe he saw their faces.’

  ‘In which case they thought they had to rub out the witness.’

  ‘That’s one possible alternative. The other is they killed him just for the hell of it. Like you said, McAllister, bad bastards.’

  ‘All right,’ McAllister said, putting up his hands. ‘It’s a credible enough theory as far as it goes. But until you know exactly what they took, and therefore what someone else instructed them to take, it’s just supposition.’

  Ben paced slowly around the room, scanning every inch. His eye landed on the shattered remains of the toppled glass display cabinet. He sank into a crouch next to it.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ McAllister warned him.

  ‘As if,’ Ben said. He took the switchblade from his pocket, flicked it open and used the long stiletto blade to sift around in the mess of broken glass.

  ‘I’d pull you in for carrying that,’ McAllister said.

  ‘Except you’re not exactly a run-of-the-mill cop.’

  ‘Any other hardware I should know about?’

  ‘No gun,’ Ben said. ‘I told you, I’m a businessman.’

  ‘Right.’

  Ben went on sifting carefully through the broken glass, at the same time recalling t
he things he’d seen inside the display cabinet the day before. Nick’s collection of small alabaster composer busts were lying about among the wreckage. So was the phony lock of Chopin’s hair, the metronome, now smashed with its mechanical innards hanging out, and the various other musical knick-knacks Ben remembered seeing on display.

  All except one.

  ‘Something’s missing here,’ Ben said. ‘His Bach manuscript.’

  ‘His what?’

  Ben rose to his feet, clicked the knife shut and put it away. He turned and pointed at the Bach portrait on the wall. ‘See the sheet of musical notation he’s holding in the picture? It looked like that, except it was several sheets. It was definitely here. And now it’s gone.’

  ‘Would you recognise it? Any identifying marks?’

  ‘Apart from the fact it’s allegedly hundreds of years old and not exactly something you’d see every day, just two. Namely the signature of Johann Sebastian Bach on the front, and a brown stain that covers about quarter of the bottom right-hand corner of the same page.’

  ‘What kind of a brown stain?’

  ‘Nick said it was coffee. Could be mildew. Or something else. It was hard to tell.’

  ‘So where is this thing?’

  ‘You’re the detective. You tell me.’

  McAllister pulled a face. ‘Maybe your friend took it out of there.’

  ‘Or maybe someone else did.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’

  ‘Nick said it was a fake,’ Ben replied. ‘But what if he was just saying that? Or what if he only thought it was? Doesn’t matter. If someone wanted it badly enough to kill for it, they must’ve believed it was genuine.’

  McAllister puffed his cheeks. ‘A music manuscript. Jesus, that’s way out of my area of knowledge.’

  ‘And mine,’ Ben said.

  ‘We’d be talking about a very specialised robbery.’

  ‘But a substantially narrowed list of potential suspects,’ Ben said. He stared at the floor and started chewing his lip.

  McAllister was frowning as if he was highly uncertain about this new theory. ‘What else can you tell me about this manuscript?’

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘Hey. I asked you a question.’

  Ben was silent.

  McAllister stared at him. ‘Hello? Anyone at home?’

  Ben made no reply.

  McAllister’s frown turned to a look of annoyance. ‘Are you going to stand there all day like Mum’s chance?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘If you’re onto something that can help me catch these bastards, I need to know.’

  Ben already knew enough about this Tom McAllister to have worked out he was a pretty shrewd and capable officer. That was why Ben was saying nothing more. Because a smart cop like McAllister had a better chance of catching Nick Hawthorne’s killers than most policemen Ben had known.

  And Ben didn’t want them caught. Not by the police. If that happened, the worst fate that could befall them would be to end up in a nice warm cell with three meals a day, at the expense of law-abiding taxpayers. That was a little more comfort than these men deserved.

  Now it was McAllister’s turn to be silent as he stood watching Ben, as though reading his thoughts. ‘I hope you’re not thinking what I’m thinking you’re thinking.’

  ‘That’s a lot of thinking,’ Ben said. ‘Watch you don’t blow a fuse.’

  ‘You know what I mean. And I know who you are.’

  ‘No,’ Ben replied. ‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’

  ‘I don’t have my head up my arse like Forbsie. I’ve a pretty good idea what a man like you is capable of. And I don’t want trouble. I hate these shites as much as you do. But if we start finding more dead bodies lying around—’

  ‘That’s not what I do,’ Ben said.

  ‘Don’t kid me. I can see it in your eyes. Think I haven’t seen that look before?’

  Ben said, ‘I mean, I wouldn’t leave them lying around. No mess, no trace. They’d disappear, like they never existed. And when I catch them, they’ll wish they never had existed.’

  ‘You’re warned.’

  Ben looked evenly at the cop. ‘So are you, Inspector. Because believe it or not, I like you. You seem like a good guy. So don’t get in the way.’

  McAllister was returning Ben’s steady eye contact as the two of them squared off like opponents before a fight. ‘Get in the way of what?’ he asked.

  ‘Of what happens next,’ Ben said.

  Chapter 18

  Long ago

  ‘Slow down! You’re going to get us killed!’

  The race was lost. The Porsche 928 had run out of acceleration, or the driver out of bottle, and it began to fall back as the nose of the cherry-red Lotus edged past. The overtaking manoeuvre had been just a little hairier than Ben had anticipated, what with the articulated lorry bearing down on him from the opposite direction. Foot hard against the floor, he ducked back into his lane just in time as the lorry blasted past with its driver’s fist jammed angrily on the horn.

  The lorry driver wasn’t the only one annoyed with Ben’s road antics. ‘Ben! That was insane!’ Michaela had to shout to be heard over the yowl of the engine. Maybe she’d have been shouting anyway.

  The classic 1972 Lotus Elan was Simeon Arundel’s. In those days few students had the luxury of possessing their own cars and the spiffy red two-seater had earned Simeon a dashing reputation at college, although in truth he was a very prudent driver and kept to strict limits. By contrast, in the two years since he’d passed his driving test the Lotus was the quickest car Ben had been able to have a go of – it could only do about 120 but handled with verve – and he was enjoying extracting every ounce of its performance. Enjoying it a little too much, from the look on Michaela’s face.

  ‘Did you have to get into a race with that bloody Porsche?’

  ‘The guy was asking for it,’ Ben laughed, glancing at his vanquished enemy shrinking to a dot in the rear-view mirror. ‘We taught him a lesson.’

  ‘Fabulous. Now you’ve got that out of your system, can we try and get there in one piece, please?’

  He glanced at her. She really was fuming. ‘Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘I really don’t know. It must have run off with your sense of self-preservation.’

  Ben reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘I forgive you, but just be more careful in future.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What am I saying? You’re Ben Hope.’

  It was a glorious, sunny early October day in Noughth Week before the start of term, and he and Michaela were travelling the sixty miles from Oxford to her parents’ place near Caterham for a party. It would be the first time Ben had met her family. Things were getting serious. Simeon had been only too happy to lend them the car for the occasion.

  Michaela’s father, Magnus Ward, was something in the stock market and her mother Lydia was the senior manager of a private clinic. The wealthy couple lived in a large mock-Tudor home on three acres of landscaped gardens. The semicircular driveway was shaded under a giant willow tree and, by the time Ben and Michaela rolled up, already filling up with cars as other guests began to arrive for the party. The Wards’ social events were legendary, according to Michaela.

  ‘See. I got us here, didn’t I?’ Ben said as he swung into the driveway and slithered to a halt just inches from someone’s Jaguar.

  Michaela had softened a little since his road-racing escapade earlier, but now turned to him with a frown. ‘Promise me you’ll be on your best behaviour, all right?’

  ‘I always am.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  They got out of the car and walked up towards the big house. Lydia Ward was a prim, neat lady with pearls and Margaret Thatcher hair. She greeted her only daughter with a flurry of kisses, then held Michaela’s shoulders and stepped back to scrutinise her as though she hadn’t seen her in months. ‘Are you feeling all right, dear
? You look a little off colour.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ Michaela said, wriggling out of her grip with embarrassment. ‘And this is—’

  ‘Of course. Hello, Benedict, how lovely to meet you at last. We’ve been hearing so much about you.’

  ‘Good to meet you too, Mrs Ward,’ said Ben, giving her his nicest smile. If being on his best behaviour included allowing people to call him Benedict, so be it. He looked down at the small Pekingese dog that had appeared at Mrs Ward’s feet. He was sandy-coloured with a black face and bulging eyes that were fixed upwards, checking Ben out.

  ‘Meet Hamlet,’ Michaela said. Ben crouched down to pet him. Hamlet licked his hand. Mrs Ward looked amazed. ‘He’s normally quite diffident towards strangers.’

  It had been prearranged days earlier that Michaela and Ben would be staying the night. Mrs Ward snatched a moment away from greeting the guests to lead the young couple upstairs and show them their – pointedly plural – rooms. ‘You’ll be sleeping here, Benedict.’ Indicating up a long passage to a door as far away as possible from Michaela’s. ‘Cousin Eddie will be in the room next to yours, dear,’ she said to her daughter. Michaela looked pleased to hear that Cousin Eddie was coming. ‘He’s a golf pro, you know,’ Lydia Ward told Ben, as though Ben was supposed to be impressed. He smiled politely. Best behaviour.

  Back downstairs, Michaela’s father had appeared, smelling of cigars and acting a little vague and distracted as he was expecting some business guests to arrive at any moment. He and Ben shook hands. ‘Good to meet you, Benedict. Heard a lot about you. Care for a drink?’

  ‘Whisky,’ Ben said, and caught Michaela’s warning look. Might have slipped a little there.

  Magnus Ward was thrown for a second. ‘I – uh – I think there might be a bottle of scotch in the study. I’ll fetch it.’

  Soon the event was getting into full swing. The day was so fine that the party spilled out into the gardens behind the house, whose striped lawns stretched for acres to the woodlands in the distance. Thirty or more guests gathered on the poolside terrace, where the caterers had set up a lavish buffet and barbecue. Magnus Ward kept a pretty good wine cellar, too, but Ben was content with his whisky. He carried the bottle with him, in the likelihood of his wanting a refill. After being introduced to about a thousand people whose names he forgot the moment he heard them, he drifted over to the barbecue and helped himself to a chicken drumstick. Michaela homed in on him through the crowd, touched his arm and kissed his cheek and cautioned, ‘Don’t drink too much.’