The Bach Manuscript. Scott Mariani

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      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 body had fallen from the top-floor window above. It hadn’t hit the pavement, because its drop had been arrested by the spiked iron railing below. A man’s body, fully dressed in beige chinos and a bright blue shirt. Hanging over the railing with his arms and legs dangling limp. A spike protruding either side of his spine. In the amber of the streetlights and swirling blue of the emergency vehicles, the blood that was dripping from the railing and pooling on the ground, running along the cracks between the paving stones and coursing in little rivulets off the edge of the kerb into the gutter, looked oily and colourless.

      It was Nick Hawthorne. His head was hanging at an angle that made his face visible, or what was left of it. From his busted nose and teeth, it looked like the fall wasn’t the first injury he received at the hands of the intruders. He looked as though he’d been in a bare-knuckle prize fight, and lost badly in the first round. One eye was swollen completely shut, the other wide open in a frozen stare of terror.

      When you hit rock bottom, your deepest dread realised, the nightmare come starkly true, that leaves nowhere else to go. Now there was nothing left to be afraid of. Ben closed his eyes for a moment, stilling himself, gathering his strength. Then he reopened them and felt the fear gone, replaced with icy calmness.

      He looked back up at the smashed window above. He could see shapes and shadows moving around up there, which he knew were police officers examining the scene. He couldn’t believe how fast they’d got here.

      He stood behind the paramedics as they struggled to get his body off the railing. If they were in a hurry, it was only to get the mess cleared up, not because their patient was in need of urgent medical assistance. He wasn’t going anywhere but the John Radcliffe mortuary, across the city in Headington.

      ‘Sir?’

      Ben turned. The WPC, her face half blue in the lights, wisps of mousey hair sticking out from under her hat. Jabs of static and voices blurping from her radio. She looked drawn and tight-lipped, as if she wanted to throw up and was fighting to hold it in. Ben wondered if this was her first impaling. Cops had a dirty job and saw some pretty bad things. But they couldn’t begin to imagine some of the things he’d seen.

      ‘Sir, I need you to step back, please.’

      ‘What happened here?’ Ben asked, already building the scenario in his mind. Nick had said there were intruders, plural, in the apartment. It would have taken at least two men to throw him through the window with enough force to shatter it like that. Perhaps three.

      Ben glanced across at the witnesses. The young woman was crying, her male companion awkwardly holding her and patting her back as if to console her, though he looked as shocked as she did. Ben saw two possible options there: either they’d happened on the body after it had already hit the railing, or else maybe they’d seen Nick come out of the window and drop to his death, which would have been twice as horrifying and accounted for the shell-shocked looks on their faces. In that case, they might also have seen the perpetrators running off, which could have happened before, during, or after calling the police.

      If the couple had observed Nick’s killers flee the scene, Ben expected that any moment now the cops would hustle them into a police car and whisk them off to the station to help the cops with their enquiries, on what was going to turn out a long and sleepless night for all concerned.

      ‘I have to ask you to step away, please,’ the female officer repeated more firmly. ‘This is a crime scene.’

      Crime scene. If the cops had thought it was a deliberate suicide or simply a case of some stupid drunk falling out of a window, either way they’d be calling it an accident scene. The fact that they were calling it a crime scene confirmed for Ben that the witness couple must have seen Nick fall and the bad guys make their escape moments later. If the police hadn’t turned up so uncharacteristically damn fast, he might have been able to talk to them himself, and get a description of the attackers. That chance was blown now. Ben was upset about it.

      ‘Okay, officer. I didn’t mean to get in the way.’ Ben stepped back. The female officer gave him a look that said, ‘Don’t go anywhere, we might want to talk to you’ and hurried back to the witnesses.

      Moments later, as Ben had expected, the WPC was joined by another officer who led the witness couple to one of the marked Vectras and took off with the flashing blues lighting up the trees along the street. Ben seemed to have been forgotten about for the moment, which suited him fine. He needed to learn more, which wasn’t going to happen standing out here with the uniforms. If the plainclothes guys were upstairs in Nick’s apartment, that was where Ben needed to be too.

       Chapter 12

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