Ben stepped quietly across the polished mosaic floor, took a seat near the entrance and watched and listened from a distance. He tried to imagine himself standing there in the pulpit, wearing the dog collar and that earnest expression, conducting the service. That was his planned future up there: the role he was supposed to be preparing for, something that had been part of his life, on and off, for as long as he could remember.
Sitting here now, it seemed hard to imagine. Hed wanted this thing so much, dreamed of it so often but was it really within his grasp to make it happen?
He stayed a few minutes longer in the cathedral, bathing in the soft light from the stained-glass windows, head bowed, letting the serene atmosphere penetrate deep inside him. Then he very quietly got up and slipped back outside into the sunlit quadrangle.
He turned left and made his way towards the sprawling meadow behind Christ Church. He jogged for half an hour, making himself feel the burn in his calf muscles as he ran along the towpath by the river. Then, satisfied that he wasnt letting himself become too unfit, he jogged back towards the college.
He was so deep in thought as he walked back through the main quad that he didnt see anyone approach.
I was hoping I might bump into you, a voice said.
Ben turned and saw the tall, grey-haired, tweedy figure of Professor Tom Bradbury approaching. He hadnt seen Bradbury since his interview six weeks before with the Faculty Admissions board.
Professor. How are you?
Bradbury smiled. Call me Tom. I think weve known each other long enough for that.
Tom Bradbury and Bens father, Alistair Hope, had been at Cambridge together. The friendship between a devout theology scholar and a law student might have seemed unlikely, but it had lasted many years and only ended when Bens father had died. That had been the year Ben broke off his studies and joined the army. He had few fond memories of that time, but hed always remembered Tom Bradbury even though hed lost contact with him all those years ago. As a teenage student hed come to think of him as an uncle. His presence had always been warm and reassuring, with the aromatic smell of pipe tobacco ingrained in his clothes. His tutorials had been the liveliest of all the classes Ben could remember. His speciality was the Old Testament scripture that was so ancient and dense and obscure that it was hard to bring to life. But Professor Bradbury could do that, and the students had loved him.
I wanted to talk to you, Bradbury said. Are you free tomorrow lunchtime?
I had a date with Descartes, Ben smiled. But lunch with you sounds a lot more appealing.
Wise choice, Bradbury said. Not my favourite philosopher, I have to say. I was thinking you could come over to our place.
Still up in Summertown?
Bradbury nodded. They agreed on a time, and the professor smiled weakly and headed off towards his rooms in Canterbury Quad. Ben watched him walk away. Bradbury was a sprightly, upright sixty-three. He was normally jovial and full of life, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. But today he was different. There was something missing. He looked old and weary, subdued. Was he ill? If that was the case, why invite someone for lunch the next day? Something was wrong.
Chapter Ten
Greece
It was a Buck clasp knife, and the fair-haired man loved to sharpen it. When he was sitting out on the balcony with nothing much else to do except soak up the sun, drink Ouzo and watch over the bitch, he would spend hours carefully whetting the blade with an oiled sharpening stone. He had the edge so perfectly honed that he could lie the knife on its back, edge-up, leave a banknote lying across it overnight, and when he came back in the morning the banknote would have cut itself in half with just its own weight.
He took the knife out of his pocket and clicked the blade open with one hand as he walked slowly up to the bed. Her eyes rolled across to look at him, and she let out a stifled cry of terror behind the gag. Her arms were strapped down to the bare mattress. Her fingers were clawing and straining as she struggled.
He rested on the edge of the bed, leaned across her and let her see the blade up close. He could smell the fear coming from her. Looks sharp, doesnt it? He ran his thumb gently down the cutting edge, splitting the first layer of skin. You have no idea how sharp it is. But maybe youll be finding out pretty soon.
He pressed the flat of the blade against her cheekbone, and she drew in a gasp. Her throat fluttered.
Now, Im going to take this gag off, and youre not going to start screaming again. Youre going to talk to me. Youre going to tell me everything. Because if you dont, Im going to put your eye out. Pop it, just like that.
The dark-haired woman was standing watching from the other side of the bedroom. Her arms were folded and her face was tight. She wanted to intervene, but she checked herself.
The man ripped away the gag. Zoës breath was coming in rapid gasps. She swallowed hard, and gave a whimper of terror as he ran the cold blade lightly down her temple and traced a line around her eye.
I dont remember, she gasped.
Yes, you do. Dont lie to us.
I swear to you, I dont remember.
One little push of the blade, he said. Thats all it takes, and Im going to watch that pretty little blue eye come spilling out. You ever seen a burst eyeball? Looks like raw egg. He smiled, let the touch of the knife linger on her skin, then drew it away.
She was shuddering with horror. I dont know what to say to you, she sobbed. I dont know.
Cleaver, he said. You remember Mr Cleaver, dont you? You remember what you did to him?
She shook her head violently.
Where is it? he said.
Where is what?
Where is it? he screamed in her face.
I dont fucking know, she screamed back. I dont fucking know what you want from me! Her eyes were desperate, her hair sticking to the tears on her cheeks. Youve got to believe me! I dont know anything! Youve got the wrong person! She began to cry harder. Let me go, she pleaded. Let me go. I wont tell anyone. I promise.
The woman stepped forward and laid a hand on the mans shoulder. We need to talk.
He tensed, still staring at the girl on the bed. Then he sighed, turned away and followed the woman out of the room.
They stepped into the hallway outside the bedroom. The woman shut the door, so that Zoë Bradbury wouldnt hear. This isnt working.
Shes faking it, Kaplan, he whispered furiously.
I dont think you can know that.
Give me half an hour alone with the bitch. Ill get it out of her.
How? By putting her eyes out?
Just let me.
We havent exactly been easy on her. What makes you think you can get it out of her?
I will. Give me more time.
They stepped into the hallway outside the bedroom. The woman shut the door, so that Zoë Bradbury wouldnt hear. This isnt working.
Shes faking it, Kaplan, he whispered furiously.
I dont think you can know that.
Give me half an hour alone with the bitch. Ill get it out of her.
How? By putting her eyes out?
Just let me.
We havent exactly been easy on her. What makes you think you can get it out of her?
I will. Give me more time.
The woman bit her lip, shook her head. She cant stay here. We dont have the facilities. Im getting her out.
Give me ten minutes with her first.
Negative.
Five minutes. Ill make her talk, believe me.
Youre enjoying this too much, Hudson.
Im doing my job.
What if you kill her? Then were all dead.
I wont kill her. I know what Im doing, Kaplan.
She snorted. Do you? Listen to me. I want you to put that knife away. If I see it again Ill put a bullet in your head. Is that completely clear to you?
The man went quiet, staring at her sullenly.
Theyll get it out of her, she said. They have other ways.
Chapter Eleven
The Holywell Music Room, Oxford
That evening
Ben leaned back in the hard seat and watched as the audience trickled into the room. The acoustic amplified every sound, and people kept their voices down. He was in the back row and the place was filling up slowly, but he didnt think the concert was going to draw a big crowd.
Hed spotted the flyer a couple of days before, and he was glad he was here. He wasnt much of a concertgoer, but the idea of an hour of Bartók string quartets appealed to him. It was the kind of edgy music that made a lot of people restless and uncomfortable, but which he liked. It was moody and dark, introspective, a little dissonant, filled with a tension that somehow relaxed him.
The Holywell Music Room was tucked away down a winding side-street not far from the Bodleian Library. It wasnt a big or opulent venue, just a plain simple white room with a low stage at one end and capacity for about a hundred people. The lighting was stark and the stepped banks of seats seemed to be designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. The programme said it was the oldest concert hall in Europe, and that Handel had played there in his time. There was a short blurb about the composer and the music, and a little paragraph on each member of the string quartet. They were all postgraduate music students, teaching and gigging their way through college.
The low stage had four plastic chairs, four music stands. The musicians were due out any second. Maybe theyd hold out a few more minutes, hoping more people would come in. But it didnt look promising.
Ben felt, rather than saw, her walk into the room. He turned, and the first thing he noticed was her smile as she recognised him. The librarian from the Bodleian. Her sandy hair was down over her shoulders, and she was wearing a light jacket that hugged her figure. He laid the programme down on his knee as she came over to him.
Are you on your own? she said softly. Mind if I sit here?
His jacket was folded over the back of the seat next to his. He grabbed it and stuffed it down at his feet. No problem, he said.
She sat, still smiling. She had a little bag, which she set down beside her. I didnt expect to see you here, she whispered. Im Lucy, by the way.
Ben.
It says Benedict on your library card.
Just Ben.
She took off the jacket, and he noticed she was wearing the same crisp white blouse shed been wearing when hed first met her. Been working late? he said.