The Trespass (15 page)

How many? Dracup wondered. One in the garden, one maybe in the other car. He thought quickly. “Where’s their car?”

“Directly in front,” Farrell said. “So keep out of sight.”

The agent raised his head a fraction. “Another one coming out. Get ready.”

Dracup tensed his body. His heart was doing a drum solo.

“On three. One. Two.
Three
.”

Dracup was in the seat, hand fumbling for the ignition. Farrell reached over and flicked the lights on. The engine roared. Dracup pumped the accelerator and the car hurtled forward. He caught a glimpse of a young man in the headlights, bearded, dark skinned, hands thrown up to protect his eyes. Then they were past him and careering down the road.

Farrell was fiddling with something. Dracup looked over and moistened his lips. He saw the magazine, the neat clip of bullets as Farrell loaded the automatic and turned around in his seat. “Okay. Next right.”

Dracup hauled the wheel, glanced in his mirror. “Where to?”

“I’ll tell you in a while. Just drive.”

The wheel was slick with sweat. Dracup drove on.

They turned into a nondescript street on the other side of Aberdeen. There was nothing to distinguish one house from the next. A line of terraces. Anonymous.

“Nice place you have here, Farrell,” Dracup said as the agent turned the key and the tatty door swung open.

“It’s safe. No, not the hall lights.” Farrell held up his hand. “Kitchen’s in there.”

Dracup laid his wrapped bundle carefully on the kitchen table and sat down. He noticed his hands were trembling. A yellowed cottage clock tacked to the wall told him it was 5.14, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He unravelled the cloth, exposing the base metal underneath. The smooth locking groove ran the length of the broader upright, confirmation that another, matching piece existed. Dracup ran his fingers over the mottled surface. It was exquisite in design and pattern, true to his grandfather’s sketch and more; an artist, however talented, could not hope to capture the intricacy and beauty of the object lying before him. He wondered if modern technology could replicate such workmanship.

As if echoing his own thoughts Farrell let out a soft whistle. “She sure is a beauty.” He placed his automatic on the table. “Not surprising they want to get hold of it.”

Dracup shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re sure they didn’t follow us?”

“Sure as I can be.” The agent shrugged.

Dracup wasn’t convinced by Farrell’s casual attitude. He’d feel safer if they kept moving. “Aren’t you going to keep an eye on the front?”

“Relax, Prof. We’ll get moving shortly. Meantime, you’d best clean yourself up. You don’t want to attract any unwelcome attention if we’re pulled over.”

Dracup looked at his hands. They were thick with dried mud. “The police, you mean? Yes, all right. In a moment.” He picked up the object in one hand and hefted it. It
had
to provide the answers he needed. “Look at the engraving – I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Uh huh. But does it get us any further?”

Dracup felt the weight in his pocket with a slight flux of conscience. He sighed heavily. “It will. It
has
to.”

“How about coffee?”

“Farrell, I could get to like you.”

The American gave Dracup a puzzled look.

“Sorry. British humour.”

Farrell grunted. Dracup slipped off his coat and made for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled out the vibrating instrument and checked the number. Yvonne.

Dracup sat wearily on the toilet and thumbed the answer button. “Hi.”

“Simon? I – I’m sorry. I know it’s the middle of the night.”

“No problem. I was awake anyway.”

“I can’t sleep. I – I just need someone to talk to.”

“Malcolm?”

“Out like a light. He’s very busy at work, you know –”

“I know.”

“Simon? Where are you? The police have been round again. They’ve been asking questions about –” Yvonne hesitated.

“What?”

“About you. They want to know where you are. They think –”

Dracup groaned. “I know what they think. They’ve no leads, so I’m their chief suspect.” There was a moment’s silence, then:

“Yes.”

“Great.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So where
are
you, Simon?”

Dracup let out his breath in a long sigh. “In Aberdeen.”

“Scotland? But you’ve only just –”

“I know. Something came up. I think it may be significant.”

A brief pause, then: “Simon, do you know where she is?”

“Not yet. But I’m getting closer.”

Dracup heard Yvonne catch her breath. He imagined her standing downstairs in the dim light of the standard lamp, Malcolm unconscious upstairs. When she spoke again her voice was even. He wondered what inner strength sustained her when all she could do was wait. And hope.

“Simon. Do you think she’s all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I think she’ll be fine. She’s as tough as old boots.” He gave a short laugh and regretted its hollow sound.

“You don’t think she’s – I mean –”

“No. I don’t.” He reached inside his coat pocket and drew out the wax tablet. It was about the size of an envelope. “Listen. I’m sure I know
what’s
happened. I’m almost sure
why
. The question I’m working on is
where
.”

“It’s to do with your aunt, isn’t it? Her will.”

“Yes. Look, I’m coming back down to Reading tomorrow. I’ll keep you in touch, okay? Everything will be fine.”

“Are you going to talk to the police?”

“I suspect I’ll have no choice in the matter. I don’t want them to think I’m running away.”

“Can’t you tell them what you’ve found? Then they can investigate, you know. They have procedures –”

“Not for this they don’t. Listen, I’m not acting alone. I have help already. The police will just mess things up, complicate everything. It’s complicated enough as it is, believe me.”

“You okay, Mr Dracup?” Farrell’s voice floated through the keyhole.

Dracup covered the phone with his hand. “Fine. On the phone.”

“Okay. No problem. Coffee’s on the table.”

“Who was that?” The tone of Yvonne’s voice shifted to one of suspicion.

“A guy I’m working with.”

“Who is he? Not a policeman?”

“Sort of. CIA.”

Another pause as she took the information in. Then: “Oh God, Simon. What is this? What have you got us into?”

Dracup took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow. You should get some sleep,” he added gently.

There was a moment’s silence across the airwaves. He could imagine her smoothing her hair back from her forehead the way she did when she was anxious about something. “Yes. I suppose I should. And you should too.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

Again the silence. Then, “You too – and Simon?”

“Yes?”

“Bring her home, won’t you? Just bring her home.”

The line went dead. Dracup sat for a few minutes, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Then he picked up the tablet and began to read.

Sceptre/Staff of Noah – prob. pt crest? B ref. Staff of A? ? section alpha…

Exp. 1920 Smithsn. Retrieved from remains lge aq. vessel.

Corresp. Ark of Noah. Ararat, Turkey.

Inscr. – cuneiform, refers cargo of ship in cun. vrse.[Part only]

Projectns. Repr. 3 sons Noah –

Shem, Ham, Japheth

Hamitic/Sth, Semitic M. East/Israel, Japheth/Eur.

Loc. Remaining part staff, trad. Ethiop.

Ityopp’is – Cush – sn of Ham – fnded Axum.

Match. crest. Lal.,
Ω
section 1921, TD,GRC. Left in situ.

Formed basis of expo. 1922 C of Tr.

K. zig. – 7 by 7

Dracup’s heart beat faster as he scanned the tight, indented script.
Left in situ
. He replaced the tablet in his pocket and pulled the chain. An image of George Reeves-Churchill came into his head. Perhaps the old man hadn’t been raving after all – what was it he had said?
A shame, shame. What they did. Lali, Lali
. Was this a reference to somewhere in Ethiopia?
Match. crest. Lal., 1921
. He remembered Potzner’s voice on the phone, the incomplete translation:

From whence you came –

Between the rivers –

Dracup ran a basin full of water and washed the mud off his face, then ran the nailbrush across his fingertips.
Keep going, Dracup, you’re one step closer
. He peeled off his wet shirt and lobbed it into the sink. What he needed was a bath and a change of clothes. No time for that. A strip wash would have to do for now.

He exited the bathroom to find Farrell on his haunches, eyes at table height, scrutinising the crest and muttering sounds of admiration. “I’d sure love to know what all this means, Prof – there’s a lot more detail than on the sketch.”

Dracup looked again at the object he had disinterred. There in the top left hand corner was a clear indentation, set apart from the cuneiform:

Α

Alpha. The beginning .He picked up his coffee and took a long swig. “We’ll let your boss take a look,” Dracup said. He waved his empty mug at Farrell. “Better have another of these. We’re heading south.”

Dracup turned the key and simultaneously fished out the free sheet protruding from his letter box. He turned to consign it to the depths of the wheelie bin. A thin, wiry man in a fawn coat stood at the bottom of the steps. He looked familiar.

“Professor Simon Dracup?”

“Yes?”

The man advanced up the steps and waved a wallet at him. Dracup had it before he saw the pass details: the DCI from the TV news report.

“DCI Moran – Thames Valley. Can I have a word?”

Dracup opened the door and stood to one side. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.”

Dracup followed Moran into the flat. It felt cold, unlived in. He found the boiler and turned the heating on. Moran was standing in the centre of the room checking it out, ceiling to floor. He reminded Dracup of a ferret.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Tea, thanks. If you’re making.”

Dracup grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and watched the policeman from the corner of his eye.

“Nice place. Church, was it?”

“Yes. Methodist, I believe.”

“They’re all closing down these days, aren’t they? World’s moving on,” Moran said. “Still, nice conversion. Kept the old stained glass, I see.”

“Yes. It brings an unusual light into the room.”

“Been away?”

“I’ve been in Scotland. My aunt died recently and I’ve had a number of issues to attend to regarding her will.”

“You haven’t contacted us about your daughter.”

“I was hoping to hear something from you.”

“You don’t seem that concerned.”

Dracup turned, kettle in hand. “Of course I’m damned well concerned. My wife has given you all the details.”

“Your ex-wife.”

“Yes. My ex-wife. I spoke to her earlier today and she’d heard nothing from you people at all.”

“We’re making enquiries, Mr Dracup.”

“Well you can forget
this
enquiry. It’s a dead end.”

Moran strolled to the window and looked up at it admiringly. “Do you get on with your ex, Mr Dracup? Any problems regarding access arrangements for your daughter?”

“We get on all right. And no, no problems to speak of.”

“To speak of?”

Dracup handed Moran the tea. “Look, there are obviously frictions. She has a new man. He finds the whole thing difficult. We’ve had our run-ins about access, but nothing to get excited about.”

“Thanks.” Moran sipped his tea. “What about the new man? Stable sort, is he?”

Dracup snorted. “IT nerd. He hasn’t the imagination to be unstable.”

Moran laughed. “I see.”

Dracup shrugged. “I can’t be expected to get on with someone who’s taken my place, can I? Who reckons he knows what’s best for Natasha?”

“I understand. I just wondered if you’d formed an impression, that’s all.”

Dracup sighed. “He’s a hard-working guy. Jewish background, I’d guess. He’s all right. I just haven’t taken to him, I suppose. I can’t really say why.”