The Trespass Page 3

  Heavy rain welcomed him to the Midlands, and by the time he had eased the car onto the M40 it was a driving torrent. He leaned forward and tried to focus through the relentless sheets of spray. Brake lights blinked sporadically in the blackness. He felt himself slide occasionally into a half slumber, shocking himself awake as the car drifted onto the hard shoulder, once even into the other lane. His mind flitted from one thing to the next in rapid, uncontrolled succession. Natasha. Sara, dark hair and deep brown eyes. Potzner: I’ll let you sleep on it, okay? A dead man. The solicitor’s office. The diary.

  Dracup brought himself back to the M40 with a jerk. What was the time? Nearly eight thirty. Come on Yvonne. Please. He thumbed the speed dial again then nearly veered off the road as Yvonne’s voice responded after two rings. “Hello?”

  “Yvonne. It’s Simon.”

  “Simon. It’s a bit early – I’ve only just –”

  “Just listen. Is Natasha all right?”

  “What do you mean, is she all right? Why shouldn’t she be?”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. Well, she was when I last saw her.”

  Dracup’s heart missed a beat. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

  “She’s at a sleepover. With Maisie. She told you about it last week.”

  “Right. Call Maisie’s mother. Now.”

  “Simon. You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  “Just do it.” Dracup saw a police car in his rear view mirror. He checked his speed: ninety-five. Not good. He squeezed the footbrake and held his breath. The police car cruised past in the middle lane.

  “Jane’s dropping both girls at school this morning. They’ve probably left by now.”

  Dracup kept his voice even with an effort. “Call me as soon as you’ve spoken to her. Without fail. Then get over to the school and bring Natasha home.”

  “Simon – what –?”

  “Just do it, Yvonne. Please.” He put the phone on the passenger seat and concentrated on the motorway. He had just entered the Oxford ring road system when his mobile rang. He swallowed hard. Yvonne’s voice came over the speaker, the words he had dreaded to hear. Her voice was quiet, almost matter of fact. Dracup could hear the effects of shock in the evenly spaced syllables. “She’s not there Simon. She’s not at school.”

  “Are you sure?” A silly thing to say, he thought. Of course she’s sure...

  Yvonne spoke again, the words now a series of blurted sobs. “Jane saw them into the playground. Maisie was there for assembly. Natasha wasn’t. She’s missing.”

  The young woman pushed a lock of damp hair from her forehead. The sea spray made it thick and unmanageable, coating every fibre with a sticky layer of salt. She looked ahead and saw the bleak shape of the coast through a fine mist of rain. The wind blew the moisture into her face with a sensation like tiny, stinging tendrils. She gave a cluck of exasperation and backtracked across the deck to the cabin. The little one, Natasha, was sitting, half asleep, on the most comfortable seat. The child looked drawn and pale, but she was safe. And that’s how Ruth intended to keep her. She would look after her as her own and not even Kadesh would be able to interfere. Not if she had any say in the matter. Although she considered the abduction a harsh judgement, she understood Kadesh’s motives and trusted his decisions; they all did. So far he had not let them down. He was sitting next to the pilot, talking in a low voice and glancing occasionally in her direction to check that nothing had altered, that she was in her proper place. How strong he looked. How self-assured, even though he must be hurting inside. She smiled at him, lifted her chin a fraction to acknowledge his attention. How could he think she would leave him? Where would she go, if not with him?

  The girl moaned and Ruth bent to stroke her hair. A pretty little thing. Her child would be like that, dark and pretty. The boat bobbed and heaved in the tide swell of approaching land but the girl did not stir again. Now she was fast asleep. They slipped past the harbour and dropped anchor. Ruth waded to the shore, relishing the sensation of sand beneath the bare soles of her feet. The cove was quiet and unspoiled. It reminded her of home and made her long for the heat and the dust and the coolness of the deep, empty spaces. Not long now, not long.

  Chapter 3

  The door opened as he reached for the bell. Yvonne’s tear-smeared face destroyed all remaining hope. A bespectacled man hovered at her shoulder: Malcolm. “What’s happened?” Dracup demanded. “Have they found her?”

  “Where on earth have you been?” Yvonne blurted. “You’d better explain what’s going on.”

  Dracup was shocked at Yvonne’s appearance. He reached for her but the gesture was met by folded arms, a thin, tight mouth.

  “Come in, old chap. That’s the way.” Malcolm extended a white forearm and pointed to the lounge. He pushed his spectacles back to their correct position on the bridge of his long nose and stood awkwardly aside.

  “I know my way around. Thanks.” Something about Malcolm brought out the worst in Dracup. But he supposed that he would feel the same about anyone stepping into his shoes, living with his wife. Ex wife, he reminded himself.

  Malcolm responded with forced levity. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

  Yvonne’s face was pinched with anxiety. “Malcolm. Get some coffee, please.”

  “Will do.”

  Dracup stood by the fireplace. He realized this was the first time he had returned to the house since their divorce. The room had been rearranged; a new regime was in place.

  Yvonne glared at him. “Well? How did you know she was in danger? If this is anything to do with you, I –” Her fists were clenched.

  The suspicion and hostility took him aback. “With me? How can –”

  Malcolm reappeared. “Milk and sugar?” He waited protectively behind Yvonne, resting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes. Two – please.”

  Yvonne blew her nose. “I’m – I’m sorry. Give me a moment.”

  “Take your time,” Dracup said. He softened his voice, hoping to calm her.

  The phone rang and Malcolm rushed to pick it up. Yvonne was on her feet. Dracup’s heart thudded sickly in his chest. Malcolm nodded then covered the receiver with his hand. “Sorry – work call.”

  Yvonne slumped back into her chair.

  Dracup said, “Go on.”

  “Nobody saw her after the whistle went for assembly. She was in the playground, then – she just disappeared. I thought you had planned it – I – oh, I don’t know what I thought.” Yvonne fixed him with an accusing stare. Her eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.

  “I would never do anything like that. Give me some credit.”

  Yvonne looked into her lap where her hands were twisting something around and around: Natasha’s hair band. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They were here an hour ago.”

  He knew that. He had waited until the squad cars had departed. “And?”

  “They were hopeless.”

  From the next room came the sound of muted conversation as Malcolm dispensed advice to his work colleague. Dracup’s mind was in overdrive. Was this Potzner’s doing? Why would the CIA organize a kidnap? If indeed Potzner was CIA. Was it all linked to the diary?

  Yvonne studied his face. “You look awful. What happened in Scotland?” She got out of the chair and came towards him.

  He raised both hands defensively. “I don’t know. I’ve had a strange twenty-four hours. It may be connected – I just don’t know.”

  “Well, what are you going to do? Do something. Anything –” Yvonne was shouting now, pacing the living room. Malcolm reappeared with coffee and an apologetic shrug. He caught and held onto her.

  Dracup didn’t know where to look. But he knew what he had to do. He was on his feet. “I have to go. If you hear anything, call me.”

  He needed support. Advice. He needed Sara.

  He left.

  “Simon – it’ll be
all right.”

  He looked into her eyes, searching for truth, wanting to believe her. Would it? How? Sara had no children. She couldn’t know how this felt.

  Sara squeezed his hand. “Look, Simon. She will be found. You have to hold onto that.”

  The tone of her voice held a conviction that seemed more than a knee-jerk response to grief. But then Sara was a natural optimist and that was the kind of support he needed right now. Dracup cupped her chin. “Yes. I’ll try. Thanks.”

  She reached out and smoothed the frown on his forehead. “I’ll help. I’ll do everything I can. We’ll look at the diary together and we’ll find her. But Simon –”

  “What?”

  Sara looked at him with sympathy. “It may be completely unrelated. You just don’t know –”

  Dracup was shaking his head. “I do know. I found Natasha’s photo in the guy’s pocket. That makes it related. I mean, for God’s sake –” he trailed off abruptly and let his arm drop. “Sorry. I know you don’t like me saying that.”

  Sara laid her cool hand on his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re stressed. I understand.”

  The phone rang. Dracup started, then remembered that Yvonne couldn’t know the number; the house belonged to one of Sara’s University friends.

  Sara squeezed his arm. “I’ll get it.”

  He listened to her chatting to her friend. Cats, rent, banality. Outside, the rain teemed relentlessly. Dracup pressed his face up against the window and bunched his hands into fists; he had never felt so helpless.

  Sara’s hand was on his shoulder. “Come and sit down.”

  He took a deep breath. He had to concentrate, not panic like one of his students in a first year exam.

  “Coffee?”

  “Black, please. Thanks.”

  Sara retreated to the kitchen. He pulled the diary from his jacket pocket and opened it at the first page, trying to push away thoughts of Natasha and what might be happening to her. He made himself focus on Theodore’s painstaking lettering. Find out what it means, Dracup, and you’ll find her. Those sketches at the back...

  “That’s it?” Sara placed the coffee on the table.

  Dracup leaned back on the settee. “Yes.”

  “It looks very fragile. May I?”

  Dracup felt very fragile too. “Go ahead. I’ll just use the bathroom if that’s okay.”

  Sara smiled. “Sure.”

  Dracup presented his face to the bathroom mirror. Lack of sleep had infused his eyes with red streaks and his cheeks had a grey, corpse-like pallor. He found some toothpaste to freshen his mouth, then briefly washed and towelled his face before rejoining Sara in the lounge. He watched as her brow knitted in concentration. She was wearing a white blouse, loosely tied at the waist and exposing an area of brown stomach around the umbilicus, as was the fashion these days. She crossed one long leg over the other and turned the fragile page to a new entry. After several minutes she looked up.

  “This diagram – the markings. Aren’t they –?”

  “Cuneiform. Yes, I’m ninety-nine per cent sure.” That much he knew. He also knew an expert would be required to decipher them.

  Sara was watching him carefully. “I’ll get some more coffee. Rest your eyes for a few minutes. You’ll feel better.”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll try.” He closed his eyes; as exhaustion overwhelmed him he remembered the first time he had seen that expression, the look that had intrigued and drawn him to Sara at that first lecture. He could picture the scene clearly. He had been outlining the basic concepts of Physical Anthropology…

  “…integration of four fundamental concepts is necessary to an appreciation of the nature and importance of physical anthropology: firstly the chemistry of life; secondly evolution as process; thirdly, the interdependence of participants in a global ecosystem; and fourthly, the role of culture in human adaptation...”

  And there was Sara. Front row of the theatre, hanging on his every word as he summarized…

  “…and so our past and future are necessarily shaped by forces that operate on a scale and time frame outside of our limited human experience. But in spite of this, we are beginning to understand our world and the physical universe beyond it through the window of science…”

  And her hand was raised. So pretty.

  “Yes – the lady in the front row?”

  “Does that mean that anthropologists reject religion on the grounds that superstition is unscientific?”

  “Good question. But rejection is too strong a word. Religion has its place, but not as part of a scientific discipline. Let me give you an example. All of us do things every day that fall into the category of superstition. For instance, one could choose – desire – to influence a future event by an appeal to a deity or to some vague concept of an external force – in other words, fall back on religion. Now, the cynic might define superstition as a correlation that is spurious or demonstrably false, but on a cold morning even the scientifically minded have been known to invoke magic and superstition as they attempt to start their cars.”

  A ripple of amusement ran through the theatre. Sara’s voice again; confident, probing:

  “But you said we are shaped by forces that operate on a scale and time frame outside of our limited human experience. If our experience is as limited as you suggest, it would be wrong to sideline religion as unscientific unless it can be scientifically proven to be false.”

  “I take it you are referring to the concept of the existence of a real deity?”

  She had shrugged, a graceful, dismissive movement.

  “If deity exists, then by its very nature it would be the ultimate scientist.”

  After the lecture, they had met for coffee. After a week they had met for lunch...

  “Hey.”

  Dracup jerked awake. Reality hit him like a blow to the head.

  “Are you okay?” Sara’s face gave away her concern.

  “I’m coping.” He wasn’t. He felt awful. His head was pounding with lack of sleep and excess caffeine. He forced himself to his feet and looked out the window. Evening was drawing in. He should phone Yvonne. As he took out his mobile another thought occurred to him. “Does the TV work?”

  “I think so.” Sara looked puzzled.

  “The news.”

  “But it won’t do you any good to see –”

  “I need to know.”

  Sara switched on the TV. Adverts, then the six o’clock headlines. Dracup watched, waiting for the inevitable. He wondered how he’d react as they summarized the killing. A picture of Natasha appeared on the widescreen. It hit him like a physical blow. Sara’s hand was on his arm. A man appeared, a policeman; the caption said: ‘DCI Brendan Moran.’ He was making the usual statement, the one the police used when there was nothing to report. Dracup heard only a few words: ‘Doing all we can’, ‘every hope of a successful outcome.’

  The newscaster handed over to the sports correspondent. Dracup took a deep breath. He hadn’t been ready for that, but obviously a child kidnap would be newsworthy – although a murder in Scotland evidently wasn’t. Surely the body must have been discovered – unless – unless someone had removed it. He turned to Sara but something about her expression made him hesitate. Surely she believed his story?

  “Wait – did you hear something?” Sara held a finger to her lips. “Hey!” She let out an exclamation as the cat sidled into the room and wound itself between her ankles. “Shoo, madam.” She pushed the cat away with her leg. “She made me jump. Could you pop her outside, Simon? She’ll just be a pain if we let her stay.”

  “Sure.” As he scooped the animal up and made for the back door he wondered if Potzner himself had tidied the hotel room or if he’d delegated the responsibility to some minion. Glancing out of the kitchen window he saw that the sky had cleared and a full moon illuminated the garden. Holding the cat precariously in his left hand he twisted the key and nudged the handle down. As if sensing its fate the cat turned in his arms and made a bid for freed
om. He made a successful grab for it, turned and stepped out onto the patio. A man stood in front of him, a dark balaclava obscuring his face. The eyeholes reflected pinpricks of light from the kitchen interior and a duller gleam from something held firmly in his gloved hand. The hand lifted and pointed at Dracup’s head.

  James Potzner was a thorough man. Not that he prided himself on it; it was in his nature. He had always been the last kid out of school because, he reasoned, if his desk was clear and tidy at the last bell it meant that he had more time in the morning to do what he wanted. The other kids got the fallout from the teachers and he got on with the business of – well, whatever business he had to get through that semester. Maybe it was plotting his next fund-raising scheme. Maybe (later in his teens) it was penning a few lines of admiration to his latest object of attraction. He was good with words. He knew that he’d been short-changed a little in the Mr Universe stakes, but he was switched on enough to recognize that the way to a woman’s heart – or wherever it was you wanted to gain access to – was not all achieved by how you looked. Women were emotional creatures. You had to switch into that modus operandi and address them at their own level. It was a system which had borne fruit on many occasions and it was the same system that had won him his greatest treasure: Abigail Eastwood. Way out of his league, she was already a senior to his self-conscious sophomore status, her father a big shot attorney in Philly. But they had connected in a way Potzner could never have anticipated. She seemed to find something in him that had been lacking in her own life, despite the privileges that undoubtedly came with her background. “Just an accident of birth, honey, that’s all. I’m no different to you.” But he knew she was. And he had never stopped counting his blessings since the day she had agreed to step out with him.

  Potzner shifted his leg with an impatient gesture. He contemplated getting out for a stretch but rejected the impulse in favour of a cigarette. The Zippo flared and he pushed back in the seat, wincing at the familiar ache in his calf. The shell that had removed a significant portion of the muscle had killed the man standing next to him, Corporal Barnes. Nice guy. They had spent the night playing cards and smoking. Trying to forget their fear. He had been scared. Real scared. But Barnes had smiled at him: “Ain’t nothing to it, Jim. You see ’em comin’, you let rip. No way any spook’s gonna get past me an’ live to chew rice the next mornin’.” They laughed and the dawn seemed a long way off. When it came and the shadows receded they saw the ridge again, waiting. The attack began as the sun rose and the world lurched into slowmo, like an old silent movie.