In the early hours of the morning in Manchester, probably five hundred meters from Maine Road, the streets lay deserted. The soft glow of the moon mingled with the dim light of streetlamps, casting the surroundings in gentle, almost ethereal tones.
Richard slept soundly in his dormitory, lying on his side, cocooned in the heavy, blessed calm of slumber. Suddenly, the shrill ring of his phone on the bedside table pierced the silence.
Startled, he switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the screen. The name on the incoming call was saved in his contacts:
Geoff Thompson
Richard pressed the answer button, holding the phone to his ear, then closed his eyes, hoping to drift back into sleep.
"Mr. Richard, I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour. It's me… Wiseman. I need to discuss something with you in person. I'm right outside your door. I saw the light turn on—I know you're awake…"
Thompson's voice continued, but there was no response.
