The Bach Manuscript

Chapter 14

It was ten in the morning when Ben saw the crusty appear from among the crowds and buses on busy Queen Street near Carfax Tower. The guy was doing the circuit, just as Ben expected from what Nick had told him. For an aggressive, intimidatory beggar like this one, the whole central area of Queen Street, Cornmarket, and all the little surrounding lanes and side streets, was a target-rich environment bound to yield decent takings for a dishonest morning’s work. Swaggering cockily about his hunting grounds, the crusty didn’t seem the least bit cowed from his experience just the previous morning.

Some people never learn.

Ben was skilled in the art of one-on-one surveillance, but it didn’t take much skill to follow a target like this one, who lived in his own world and cared about nothing much except where his next free handout was coming from. Nor was there much artistry in the way the crusty went about his business. Ben watched him collar three unsuspecting victims for money, two in Queen Street and a solitary woman he accosted in Shoe Lane. Both of his male targets were smaller than him, which generally applied to most men, and both were younger, underconfident guys who were easy to push around. Ben could have intervened on their behalf, but his strategy was to hold back for now. The time for intervention would come later, once Ben had him in a less public place.

When the crusty finally got on a bright green Oxford Bus Company double-decker heading for Cowley and the Blackbird Leys estate further east, Ben hung back and was one of the last passengers to board. He took a seat at the rear of the lower deck, where he could watch all movements onto and off the bus. Then all he had to do was sit back and wait for the right moment to test his theory.

Cowley Road had changed a lot over the years. Various dives Ben had once frequented and had great affection for, like the iconic Bullingdon Arms pub where Irish ceilidh musicians once gathered for impromptu jam sessions over pints of the best Guinness to be had anywhere outside of Dublin, were gone, now replaced by slick, plastic wine bars. The old Penultimate Picture Palace was no longer, either, which saddened him. But he had things other than reminiscences on his mind.

As he gazed out of the window Ben ran back through the clues once more. At the time he’d noticed certain small things yesterday, he’d dismissed them as unimportant. The fact that the crusty had apparently been so quick to recognise Nick on the bus, and that Nick had seemed uncomfortable about being recognised, and then his slight hesitation when Ben had asked him about it later on, had seemed like nothing. Ben hadn’t been surprised to find illegal pills and magic mushrooms in the crusty’s pockets, either. Nor had he made anything much of Nick’s reference to his ‘medication’.

But since last night, all those apparently disconnected elements were coming together in a way that made Ben see the whole picture very differently. If Nick was growing weed, he’d have to have got the seeds from somewhere. Nowadays it was possible to obtain cannabis seeds online with virtually total freedom, but maybe a man like Nick Hawthorne wasn’t worldly enough to know that. Or maybe he was worried about dodgy internet purchases being traced back to him. For the sake of privacy, a cautious fellow with too much to lose might have preferred a face-to-face cash transaction. Which would by necessity have brought him into contact with members of the city’s soft-crime elements. Ben was now almost convinced that Nick had been buying dope from the crusty. That was how they knew each other. That was what Nick was trying to hide, in his cautious way.

The problem was when soft crime unexpectedly hardened. You never really knew who you were dealing with, or what they might be capable of. A guy with a pocket full of harmless-enough seeds could turn into a guy waggling a knife in your face. Or, under certain circumstances, a guy who might get together with a bunch of like-minded cronies and decide to throw you out of a window.

The question was, what circumstances? Ben didn’t know. He was working on an incomplete theory. But he would soon find out if it was right or wrong.

When the crusty disembarked a few minutes later, Ben got off and tailed him down the street. A hundred yards further on, the crusty paused at the entrance to a shabby alleyway between an Asian grocer’s shop and a takeout pizza place, glanced furtively around without noticing Ben following him, and darted out of sight.

Ben quickened his step to catch up and saw his target entering the doorway of a flat down the alley. The door wasn’t locked, and the crusty walked in without a key. It was either his place, or he was visiting. Either way was fine by Ben. He counted down thirty seconds to let the crusty get well inside the place, then slipped silently after him. The doorway the crusty had gone through was all peeling and scabby. Someone had stencilled graffiti on it, with a picture of a petrol bomb and a slogan that said KEEP WARM — BURN OUT THE RICH. A little way beyond the doorway, the alley opened up into a patch of wasteland used as a dumping ground for local traders. An old shed stood derelict among knee-high weeds, next to a skip overflowing with garbage and a row of council wheelie bins.

Ben retraced his steps back to the door, eased it open a crack and then entered the flat, as quiet as a breath of air. The interior was even dingier than the exterior, and smelled strongly of damp carpets, cheap cooking, body odour and the smoke from illicit substances. The crusty had gone clumping up a flight of stairs to what Ben presumed was a bedroom. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Ben listened and heard voices. Five minutes passed, then he heard the creak of the bedroom door opening and withdrew out of sight as the crusty re-emerged and came clumping back downstairs, counting out a rumpled sheaf of cash and shoving it in his pocket.

That’s what a drug deal looks like, Forbes, Ben thought.

The crusty stepped back out into the empty alleyway. He lingered a moment near the doorway to take out a baccy tin and light a roll-up kept inside it, then turned to start heading back towards the street. Ten to eleven in the morning. Another busy day ahead.

But his schedule was about to be disrupted.