Scott Mariani - The Mozart Conspiracy

‘She’s not a kid,’ Oliver said. ‘She’s serious about what she does. And she was serious about you, too. You broke her heart, Ben. She’s always asking me if I’ve seen you. She wants to know why you walked out on her. What am I supposed to tell her?’

Ben was silent for a while. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and meant it. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her. The truth is, Ol, I think she deserves someone better than me.’

Oliver slurped back more whisky and smacked his lips, then turned to Ben. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about all this,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come with me? Forget about this fighting-for-Queen-and-country crap. Who Dares Wins? Who cares who wins? Even if they do take you in, you won’t even retain rank-you’ll be busted right down to Trooper.’

Ben nodded. ‘I know.’

‘And then what? Get shot to bits in a stupid war that you don’t even understand? Die in some stinking jungle? Your name up on the clock-tower at Hereford for the sake of a bunch of double-dealing suits in Whitehall?’

Ben had no answer to that.

‘Look, man, think about it for a minute. Come back to Builth with me. We’re a good team, you and I. We’ll set up in business together.’

Ben laughed wearily, looking up at the ceiling. ‘Yeah, I can just see that. Doing what?’

‘Details, details. We’ll think of something. Something nice and easy that’ll make us rich and fat. You can get down on your knee and beg Leigh’s forgiveness, then she’ll marry you and we’ll all be happy.’ Oliver smiled.

Ben glanced over at his friend and marvelled at his view of life. It really was as simple as that for Oliver. ‘You think she’d still want me?’ he asked. ‘After what I did?’

‘Ask her yourself.’

Ben raised his head off the bunk. For a few seconds it all seemed to make such perfect sense. He wavered on the brink.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘If I get through tomorrow, I’m going on with it. I want the badge.’

Fifteen years later, Ben Hope stubbed out the Turkish cigarette and looked across the hotel room. Leigh was still fast asleep, with just the occasional flicker of a frown passing over her face that hinted at the unsettled dreams in her mind.

He watched her, and not for the first time he found himself wondering how his life might have been if he’d headed back with Oliver that next morning.

Ben walked into the hotel bar. The place was empty. He leaned against the counter and ran his eye along the row of whisky optics. The barman appeared. Ben produced his flask. ‘Any chance you can refill this for me?’ he asked. He pointed. ‘The Laphroaig.’

When he got back upstairs to the room, Leigh was awake and talking on her phone. She looked tired, still a little groggy from the sedative. As Ben came in and shut the door she was saying thanks for calling and goodbye. She ended the call and tossed the phone down on the bed in front of her.

‘Who was that?’ he asked.

‘Police.’

‘You called them?’

‘They called me.’

‘Was it the same guy who called you at Langton Hall?’

She nodded.

‘What did he want?’

‘Just to know how I was. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything about what happened, OK? And I didn’t mention what’s on there either.’ She pointed over at the laptop on the table.

Ben looked serious. ‘How long were you talking?’

‘Not long. About two or three minutes. Why?’

‘Get your things together. We’ve got to leave.’ He ejected the disc from the laptop, clipped it in its case and put it in his pocket. He quickly packed the computer in its carry-bag, threw the Mozart file into his haversack and used a bathroom towel to wipe down anything they’d touched in the room.

‘What’s wrong? Why do we have to leave so suddenly?’

‘Give me your phone.’

She handed it to him. He turned it off and pocketed it. ‘I’m going to have to dispose of this,’ he said.

‘I need that phone,’ she protested. ‘All my numbers are on it.’

‘You can’t keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain later.’ He led her briskly downstairs and settled the bill in cash, using his false name.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked as he guided her out to the car.

Ben started the green TVR. The throaty exhausts rasped and the wide tyres crunched on the gravel. The big car park had two entrances flanked by neat conifers. About to pull out, he glanced in the mirror.

There were two black Range Rovers behind them. They were identical. Private plates, tinted glass, headlights blazing. They turned into the other entrance in a hurry and pulled up right outside the hotel, one behind the other. All four doors opened simultaneously. Ben framed them in the mirror. He counted six men getting out. All six were serious-looking, professional in their movements.

Time to go. He tried to pull away discreetly, but that was hard to do in an ostentatious sports car like the TVR. The rasp of the engine reached their ears. Heads turned. One of the men pointed. They exchanged signals, then headed back to the Range Rovers.

‘Is this car registered to you?’ he asked quickly.

‘Yes, of course it is. You still haven’t told me what-’

Ben dumped the clutch and the TVR spun its wheels, pressing them back in their seats. He accelerated hard away.

That was twice now. No coincidence. He spoke loudly over the rising pitch of the engine. ‘They’re using your phone to track us, Leigh. They can triangulate the signal to within a few feet.’

She looked horrified. ‘But who? The police?’

‘Maybe the police. Or someone on the outside, someone connected. Someone with access to that kind of information.’

‘Who could that be?’ she asked, turning pale.

Ben said nothing. He pressed the accelerator down a little harder.

The Range Rovers were a hundred yards behind them as Ben turned off the quiet country road and joined the lumbering, dense traffic heading towards the city of Oxford. He managed to put a few vehicles between them, but the steady stream coming the other way made overtaking difficult. He saw a gap and nipped past an Oxford Tube coach, but when he looked in the mirror the first Range Rover had got past it as well. Horns honked in the distance.

Leigh was gripping the edge of her seat. ‘Where are we going?’ she gasped.

‘If we can get into the city we might be able to lose them,’ he said. ‘I know Oxford pretty well.’

By the time they reached Headington Hill on the outskirts of east Oxford the Range Rovers were together again, just a dozen or so cars back. At the bottom of the hill they hit the traffic lights coming into St Clements.

‘There are police cars down there,’ she said, pointing.

Ben had seen them. ‘It’s not for us.’ Part of the road had been cordoned off and there was an ambulance. Traffic was moving at a crawl. The Range Rovers threaded through the tailback as more horns blared.

A policeman stepped into the road four cars ahead of the TVR and signalled to let cars come the other way. Ben twisted in his seat. The Range Rovers were pulling up behind.

‘They’re coming,’ Leigh said. Her eyes were wide.

Ben was thinking fast as he watched the passenger doors of the Range Rovers swing open and three men climb out. Their faces were set as they walked towards the stationary TVR. They were just twenty yards away.

He pulled the car into the side, ripped out the key and threw open his door. ‘Come on.’ He grabbed his haversack and took her wrist, and they ran down the uneven pavement, past shop windows. Paramedics were loading an injured cyclist into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. There was a twisted bicycle in the gutter. They ran on.