on them and God knew what else. His beautiful Bosendörfer. Worse still, the irreplaceable Kirckman.
But what could he do? He was completely helpless to prevent the worst from happening. This wasn’t America, where you could come bursting out brandishing a homedefence shotgun and send the bad guys packing, or even give them the blasting they deserved and still be on the right side of the law.
Call the police, quick. Nick fumbled in the darkness for his coat, thrown down on the floor earlier. Finding it, he fished his mobile phone from the pocket. He was poised to start dialling 999 when he stopped.
What are you thinking, you bloody fool?
Here he was standing among enough home-grown cannabis plants to stock a garden centre, and he was about to invite the police into his home. Madness. Not in a thousand years would they believe all this was for his personal use only. He could see the headline in the Oxford Mail: CLASSICAL PERFORMER CHARGED WITH DEALING DRUGS. Reputation in shreds. Career gone. He’d have to sell the apartment. His mother would be scandalised. It was all too awful to contemplate.
Get a grip on yourself, Nick. Do something!
But what?
He could still hear the burglars banging about, and the sound of their voices through the door. One of them was making a joke about something. The other one laughed. They weren’t speaking English. Was it Polish? Romanian?
That was when it suddenly occurred to Nick that the solution to his problem was staring him in the face. He couldn’t call the cops, but he could call someone. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid, like him. Someone who could wade in and handle this situation like swatting a couple of flies. The human equivalent of that home-defence shotgun Nick was so badly lacking right now.
Ben Hope.
Nick fell to his knees on the floor and groped in his coat pockets for the business card Ben had given him earlier that day. He shone the glow of his phone over the back of the card and saw the mobile number handwritten there. He punched in the digits with a trembling finger and clamped the phone to his ear, crouched on the floor of the dark room as though he was saying a prayer of penitence.
Nick 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
