Sam Bourne - The righteous men

'Excuse me, I have to get past. Please.'

With that, he weaved around Ashley and company, hearing more whooping and calling behind him. 'My friend says you can have her number!'

Will now broke into a run, desperate to catch up. He reached the junction and turned right, scanning the street up and down in search of his quarry. There was a couple making out on a stoop. But no sign of the stalker.

He could see only two non-residential buildings; the man might have fled into either one of them. He certainly could not yet have reached East Broadway or else Will would have caught sight of him. Will slowed down, checking over his shoulder, aware that this was exactly how to walk into an ambush. After fifteen paces, Will gave up: he had clearly lost the man he had needed to follow. He must have escaped into one of these two buildings, on opposite sides of the street.

Will was near enough now to see what they were. One was the Church of the Reborn Jesus, but the other was a synagogue — affiliated to the Hassidim of Crown Heights.

Monday, 12.28 am, Manhattan

Should he try to break into one or both of these places, to find the man he had followed? A true man of action would do just that. But as he was sizing up the first building, a police car sped past, lights flashing. He stepped back. That was all he needed: to be arrested for breaking into a synagogue in the small hours of Monday morning. And on Yom Kippur of all days. What believable grounds for following this man did he even have? He had seen him come out of an apartment building on the Lower East Side. Oh, and he had seen him out of TO's window yesterday. He had seen him commit no crime. As Harden would say, 'You've got a notebook full of nothing.' Nothing except a grim suspicion that was becoming firmer every minute.

He retraced his steps towards the building on Montgomery Street. He and Rabbi Freilich had discussed what he should do in only the sketchiest terms. 'Just call me,' the rabbi had said. 'Even if you're not sure it's him, call.'

'And then what?'

'We'll come and we'll help.'

Will was not quite sure what that meant.

He crossed the street and took a few furtive steps towards the entrance of the tenement. A gleam of light drew his eye to the door-lock: it was not fully shut! The stalker must have left it ajar, perhaps to avoid making even that small noise.

Will creaked it open and slipped inside.

Perez, La Pinez, Abdulla, Bitensky, Wilkins, Gonzales, Yoelson, Alberto. The mailboxes offered no clues.

There was a rickety elevator, but that was no use. He needed to check each floor, every apartment. He ran quietly up the stairs, stopping at each landing: but all he could see were shut doors, shabby doormats, the odd sodden umbrella left outside. Will realized the futility of this expedition. What was he looking for? A plaque announcing, 'Mr Righteous Tzaddik lives here. Available for weddings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs'?

By the third landing, he was poised to call Freilich and press him for more information. Anything else they had which might narrow it down. But the last apartment on the third floor stopped him dead.

The door was open.

Will crept towards it, lightly tapping it with his knuckles as he moved past and inside. 'Hello,' he called out, almost in a whisper. No lights were on, just the silver shadow of the moon, coming through the window that faced the street.

He looked to his left. A galley kitchen, small and made up of 1950s units. Not as some retro fashion statement, but the real thing: a bulky, curved fridge; a stove with oversized knobs.

This was the home, Will concluded, of an old person.

Then he looked to his right. He could see a big radio on a table; a couple of wooden chairs, whose seats were cushioned in thin, fake leather; one was spilling out its stuffing. Then a couch- Will gasped, jumping back. There was a man lying on it, flat on his back. Silhouetted in the light were the bristles on his chin. He had a small, squirrel-like face framed by clunky, chunky spectacles. The rest of him looked shrunken with age, in a too-big cardigan. He seemed to be sleeping.

Will took a step forward, then another one, until he was crouched over him. He placed his hand in front of the man's mouth and waited to feel a breath.

Nothing.

Then Will touched him, placing a hand on his forehead.

Cold. He put a finger on his neck, searching for a pulse. He knew there would be none.

Will moved backwards, as if to take in the enormity of what he could see. As he did, he felt a crunch of glass. He looked down to see that he had just stepped on a syringe.

He was bending down to get a closer look when the room flooded with light.

'Put your hands in the air and turn around. NOW!'

Will did as he was told. He could barely see; he was dazzled by the three or four torches aimed directly at his eyes.

'Step away from the body. That's good. Now walk towards me. SLOWLY!'

His eyes were not yet adjusted but he could make out the small circle dancing before him, right next to the ring of torch light. It was the barrel of a gun — and it was aimed at him.

Monday, 12.51am, Manhattan

In a way, it helped that he was so exhausted. In normal circumstances, his heart would have been banging loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. Instead, his fatigue acted as a kind of defensive shield, slowing down his reactions and even his emotions.

His default mental state had become weary resignation.

He was now in handcuffs in the back of a squad car, jammed up against an officer of the New York Police Department. In front, the radio traffic was constant — and all about him. He was, it was clear, a murder suspect.

The men in the car were giving off an odour that Will recalled from his adolescence: testosterone and adrenalin, the smell of a locker room after a big win. These men were high on success, and he was the prize. They had caught him all but red-handed, looming over his victim, his fingerprints on his neck. The officers in this unit could almost touch the police medals they were bound to receive.

'I did not kill that man,' Will heard himself say. The scene was so absurd, so remote from the rest of his life experience, that the voice sounded disembodied, unconnected. It was like listening to the radio, one of the BBC afternoon dramas his mother was hooked on.

'I know what it looks like, but I assure you that's not what happened.' Suddenly a bolt of inspiration. 'But I could lead you to the man who did do it! I followed him out of that building less than an hour ago. I know where he's hiding! I can even give you a description.'

The officer in the front passenger seat turned around to give Will an ironic smile. Sure you can, son. And I'm gonna pitch for the Yankees next Tuesday.

At the seventh precinct station, Will maintained his defiance.

'I just found that body!' he said, as they led him upstairs.

I'd seen the man leave the building, I followed him and then I went back. I thought he had killed someone and I was right!'

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they sounded ridiculous. The cop who had been guarding Will from the start stared at him contemptuously. 'Will you shut the fuck up?'

For the first time since the police had picked him up, Will began to panic. What the hell was he doing here? He needed to get to Beth. He needed to be out on the streets, in Crown Heights or wherever else, searching for his wife — not chained up as a prisoner of the New York Police Department. He was not even thinking about the prospect of being charged with murder; merely losing vital hours battling the bureaucracy of the New York criminal justice system was nightmarish enough.