had been shunted so roughly to one side, leaving scuff marks on the polished hardwood floor, that one of its three legs had folded under it and the instrument was listing at an angle like a beached ship.
From where Ben stood hovering near the entrance he could see through the open doorway that led to Nick’s kitchen. Halfway down the passage, the spare bedroom door that had been locked earlier was hanging ajar. There was a glow of red light coming from inside the bedroom. Ben wondered what that was about. A strange yet familiar smell hung inside the apartment, and it seemed to come from that open room. He wondered for a moment what that was about, too, until he realised what it was, and put it together with the red light.
In the middle of the devastation of the living room, two plainclothes detectives and another uniformed officer were clustered together deep in conversation. The older detective was doing most of the talking, which told Ben that he was the superior officer. He was a short, reedy individual with dyed black hair oiled over a balding crown and a moustache that twitched as though it was going to fall off when he talked. From the moment Ben saw him, he had the strangest impression that he’d seen him somewhere before. For the moment he couldn’t pin it down, but it would come to him.
The younger plainclothes guy looked to be maybe a couple of years older than Ben, and a couple of inches taller at around six-one. He was dressed more casually than his superior in jeans and desert boots. He had a craggy, weathered face that looked as if it had been beaten out of Kevlar, and watchful eyes that were locked on the older detective with all the expression of a rough plaster wall, but Ben could tell that he wasn’t impressed with the guy.
None of them noticed Ben’s presence, until he stepped towards them and interrupted their conversation with, ‘So what’s with the incredible response time, guys?’
They all turned around. The one with the craggy face showed no change of expression, but the older detective flushed the colour of liver. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.
‘I might ask you the same question,’ Ben said.
Which might not have been the best way to win the guy’s favour. Ben was still trying to place him. The moustache bristled like a startled cat as the older detective broke away from the group and stepped aggressively towards Ben, puffing himself up to look bigger. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Forbes, Thames Valley Police, and this is a closed crime scene. Who the hell let you in here?’
‘You’d have to ask them.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Ben Hope.’
‘Occupation? Address?’
‘Businessman. I live out of the country. I’m in the UK on a work-related visit.’
‘And you have a reason for being here at four in the morning?’
Ben was getting tired of the rapid-fire interrogation. ‘That’s my friend stuck on the railings down there. All the reason I need, wouldn’t you say?’
‘How do you know the victim?’
‘We were at college together, here in Oxford. Long time ago.’
‘Were you close?’ Forbes asked the question without a trace of sympathy. Ben was definitely not liking him very much.
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. Yesterday morning was the first time I’d seen him in more than twenty years.’
‘So, in fact, you hardly know him at all,’ Forbes said, arching one eyebrow as if Ben had just admitted to a criminal offence. ‘Therefore I repeat, why are you here?’
‘I’m sentimental,’ Ben said. ‘And I don’t like it when people throw innocent folks out of windows. Especially when I was just getting to know them again. That’s why I’m here. What about you?’
Perhaps sensing the rising tension between Ben and his superior, the younger plainclothes guy stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘I’m DI Tom McAllister.’ He spoke with a Northern Irish accent that was only slightly attenuated from however many years he’d been on the Thames Valley force. ‘I was first on the scene, less than five minutes after it happened. By the time I got here it was already too late to do anything for your friend. I’m sorry.’
‘You must live nearby,’ Ben said. ‘It took me less than fifteen to get here from the centre, from when he phoned me.’
McAllister shrugged. He had an open, ruggedly sincere face that Ben liked. Which wasn’t a usual reaction for Ben when dealing with cops.
McAllister replied, ‘I don’t, but I happened to be driving through the area when the radio call came through.’ Ben noticed he was holding a ring of car keys, the old-fashioned one-piece metal kind you could puncture someone’s throat with. The leather key fob medallion featured a fierce-looking fish and bore the emblem BARRACUDA. The American muscle car parked down in the street. Ben thought that maybe if he lived in Oxfordshire and had a big V8 rumbler like that and nothing better to do on a balmy April night, he’d be driving about at four in the morning too.
‘You say he phoned you?’ Forbes asked.
‘Check his phone and you’ll see my number was the last call he made,’ Ben said.
‘And where were you at the time?’
‘At our old college. I’m staying there. You want my room number too?’
‘Just making sure we have our facts straight,’ Forbes said. ‘So you’re in Oxford on business. What kind of business might that be?’
Ben gave one of his standard vague replies. ‘I’m a security consultant.’ It would take ten seconds to look him up and find out about Le Val and his military background. If they poked a little deeper they’d soon hit the brick wall of MoD secrecy concerning the true nature of Ben’s past, and the fun would begin.
‘Security consultant. That covers a lot of ground, doesn’t it?’
Ben looked at Forbes. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Not at this time.’
‘Just as well, because that won’t sit well with me. If you want proof of where I was at the time of the incident, the next thing you’ll want to check is the registration number of the silver Alpina down there in the street, and the footage from the speed cameras I just tripped on my way here. All of which gives me a pretty good alibi, so you needn’t think about giving me any crap.’
‘Nobody’s giving you any crap,’ McAllister put in.
‘No?’ Ben said. ‘I’m only trying to help here. So far I haven’t heard anyone saying much about catching the people who killed my friend.’
McAllister nodded and pulled a grim face, as if he could barely wait to get his hands on them, either. Judging by the guy’s rough, scarred knuckles, Ben would have said McAllister had got into a few scrapes in his time.
‘And what exactly did the victim say to you on the phone?’ Forbes asked.
‘What do you think he said? He was scared, same way you would be if you woke up at four in the morning to find a bunch of intruders smashing up your home. He needed my help to deal with it. I got here too late. End of
