The Trespass (16 page)

Moran nodded and scribbled in his notebook.

“So. Have you made any progress?” Dracup folded his arms and assessed the policeman. He imagined the incident room in the town centre. A noticeboard, heavy with pins. Photographs of Natasha, Yvonne, Malcolm, himself. A semicircle of earnest faces listening to the briefing.
It’s a marital. Ex-husband’s a boffin up at the Uni; wife’s got an occasional live-in. Check ’em all out. I’ll take Dracup.

Moran sighed. “We have reason to believe that a couple – a young couple – abducted Natasha. No clear witnesses. Just a part-time cleaner who reckons they were foreign – if it was them.”

“That’s it?”

“Could be illegals. We’ve no confirmed sightings at any airports or ports.”

“You think they’ll try to leave the country?” Dracup splashed tea on his wrist and swore.

“It’s a possibility. I’d get some water on that sharpish.”

Dracup ran his wrist under the tap. “No confirmed sightings, you said. How about unconfirmed?”

Moran gave an appreciative nod. “I was told you were on the ball.” He looked for a suitable place to park his teacup, settling on the windowsill. “French coastguard chased a suspicious fishing boat near Calais. They couldn’t get to it in time, but they did see two adults and a child disembark. The child had long curly hair. Dark. Female.”

Dracup’s heart did the cardiac equivalent of a back flip. It must be her. She was alive. “When was this?”

“Three days ago. Gendarmes drew a blank on further sightings.”

Dracup grabbed the policeman’s lapels. “You have to find her. You’ve got to get after them. I want – I –” He was suddenly aware that he was shaking Moran from side to side. He stepped back, hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I –”

Moran straightened his tie. “That’s all right, Professor. I

understand.”

Dracup moistened his lips. His hands were trembling. With an effort he said, “Do you think it was her?”

Moran shrugged. “Could be something; could be nothing. I have an Interpol contact. She’s getting back to me. When I hear, you’ll hear.” He approached Dracup directly and looked at him inquisitively. “I understand that you were attacked in the University grounds recently. What was all that about?”

Dracup shrugged. “Just an opportunist – I caught him trying to break into a friend’s house.”

“But you ran away. Why was that? If he was just a burglar –”

“He seemed violent. I thought it best to get my friend to safety.”

“Uni security reckons he was armed. There were shots fired.”

“I don’t remember – I had an accident shortly after – it was careless. I wasn’t thinking.”

“According to the security guard at the Pepper Lane entrance, the car drove straight at you.”

Dracup ran his hands through his hair then opened his arms in a gesture of appeal. “I really can’t remember much about it. A break-in – he thought we had money, probably – maybe he had an accomplice –”

“Sounds very organised for a common or garden burglary.”

Dracup shrugged. His explanation sounded weak. For a brief moment he contemplated telling Moran the truth. But the police and the CIA? The truth would provoke a parade of red tape, misunderstanding, conflict of interest –

“Anyone try to contact you? Make any demands?”

“No.” Dracup shook his head. If only they had – it would be a link, it would be
something
–

“What about your friend?”

Dracup felt his hackles rise. “What about her?”

“How long have you known her?”

“About nine months or so. We met at the University. She’s a mature student.”

“I know. Smart girl too, by all accounts.”

“Yes. She is.” Dracup felt tiredness ambush him in its usual underhand way. He suddenly felt bone weary.
Does everybody know everything about me?
He walked behind the kitchen bar and put the mugs in the sink with a clatter.

“We wanted a word with her as well – just to be on the safe side.”

“With Sara? Why on earth? She’s nothing –”

“That’s what we thought, but we haven’t been able to get hold of her either. Thought she must be with you.”

Dracup couldn’t think straight anymore. “Well, she was. I mean, she had to come back for some emergency. Something to do with her landlady – wretched woman’s a pain. Hang on – I’ll give her a call.” He wiped his hands on the tea towel.

“I wouldn’t bother – there’s no one there.”

Dracup stopped in mid-wipe. “What do you mean?”

“What I said. We’ve been round there this morning. The house is empty. No one home.”

“Well, she’s probably at a friend’s – she has a friend up by the University – she cat-sits for her occasionally. That’s where we –”

“Mr Dracup, when I mean there’s no one there, I mean the house is empty bar the furniture. No personal possessions. Nothing. It’s bare.”

Dracup grabbed his mobile and punched in the familiar sequence. Three pips.
This number has not been recognised.
He looked at Moran in bewilderment, hoping the DCI could impart some further explanation. “I don’t understand.”

Moran gave him a sympathetic smile. “Looks like you’ve been had, Professor. Don’t feel too bad about it. Happens to us all.”

Dracup made for the door, but Moran caught his arm. “One more thing, Professor. Don’t leave the country, will you? I might need another word.”

Dracup shook him off angrily and unhooked his keys from the niche by the front door. “You have my number.”

Moran called after him. “If you hear from your friend I want to know about it.”

Dracup arrived at Sara’s front door. He rang the bell. Nothing. He tried to remember anything she had said in Scotland, some hint that she was in trouble, or… the thought jarred his brain like a runaway truck… perhaps
they
had followed her at the airport, and then... His imagination rampaged out of control. He cupped his hands around his face and squinted into the front room. There was no sign of life. No coffee cups left half finished on the table. No magazines scattered untidily by the sofa. No flowers graced the sideboard. She always had flowers. He dialled the landline. He dialled the mobile again. Nothing. He walked down the lane to the campus, past the spot where the agent had lain white-faced in the moonlight, skull perforated by the killer’s bullet. One of Potzner’s. Another disappearing body. They were good at clearing up behind them – the CIA and
them
, whoever
they
were.

He stood on the bridge. The lake lay beneath him, scudding clouds reflected on its glassy surface. He leaned on the rail for support. First Natasha, now Sara. He chewed his thumb, checked his mobile again. No new messages. He remembered Potzner’s promise to call when he had an update on the Aberdeen find. They must have made
some
progress. And why had Farrell left him to his own devices? Then he twigged.
They’ve got what they need. I’m no longer useful. Worse. I’m expendable.

Dracup kicked his way through piles of leaves, remonstrating with himself. Who could he trust now? What if Potzner sidelined him and cut to the chase? What would happen to Natasha? And Sara? They were just footnotes in the American’s agenda. But maybe he had an advantage – as long as nothing else pointed Potzner in the same direction – the wax tablet’s mention of Ethiopia. It was down to him to make the most of it. Dracup stretched his legs to a brisk pace. He needed to find out more. And quickly.

The hard disk grunted and rattled as Dracup typed two words into the search engine:
Ethiopia
space
Lal
. He scanned the results: ‘A journey to visit the astonishing religious centres of Ethiopia’,‘Lal Hotel’, ‘Lalibela, Ethiopia’. Dracup chose the third, and sat back to peruse the site:

‘
They say it’s the 8th wonder of the world, the monastic settlement of Lalibela, perched upon a natural 2,600-metre rock terrace surrounded on all sides by rugged and forbidding mountains in the northern extreme of the modern province of Wollo.’

Dracup felt his heart rate increase. Something felt right about this. He read on:

‘–
the passing centuries have reduced Lalibela to a village. From the road below, it remains little more than invisible against a horizon dominated by the 4,200-metre peak of Mount Abuna Joseph. Even close-up it seems wholly unremarkable, but legend has it that God told King Lalibela to build a series of churches. The churches are said to have been built with great speed because angels continued the work at night. Many scoff at such apocryphal folklore.’

Me for one, Dracup thought. But he still felt an intangible excitement as he scanned the website’s summary.

‘
The Lalibela churches, however, silence the most cynical pedants. These towering edifices were hewn out of the solid, red volcanic rock on which they stand. In consequence, they seem to be of superhuman creation – in scale, in workmanship and in concept. Close examination is required to appreciate the full extent of the achievement because, like all mysteries, much effort has been made to cloak their nature. Some lie almost completely hidden in deep trenches, while others stand in open quarried caves. A complex and bewildering labyrinth of tunnels and narrow passageways with offset crypts, grottoes and galleries connects them all – a cool, lichen-enshrouded, subterranean world, shaded and damp, silent but for the faint echoes of distant footfalls as priests and deacons go about their timeless business.’

Dracup clicked on the ‘photographs’ link. The first jpg, captioned ‘Bet Giorgis’, was a church lying in a deep trench and fashioned in the shape of a cross. Theodore had buried the half-sceptre from the Ark deep in the earth. Lalibela in miniature in a Scottish garden. It felt like the right connection; his gut feeling told him the missing section was hidden in Lalibela. If he could find it and translate the cuneiform… The incomplete stanzas ran through his mind:

‘
From whence you came –

Between the rivers –’

But which rivers? His mobile vibrated briefly in his trouser pocket and he started in alarm, fishing for the instrument with shaking hands. He read the text message.
“Simon. I’m so sorry. Don’t try to find me. S.”
Dracup selected the call register icon. Number withheld. He threw the phone down and pushed his chair back. He strode to the window and beat his fists on the stained glass. So she hadn’t been kidnapped. The policeman was right; he’d been taken for a fool. Moran’s cold teacup sat on the sill. Dracup picked it up and flung it at the wall, where it exploded into fine fragments that flew skittering across the floor. Was anyone on his side? He looked for something else to destroy and, finding nothing, turned his anger against the sofa, punching and kicking the thick cushions until exhaustion quietened his whirling limbs.

Some time later he picked up the phone. He dialled a number and waited a few rings. A cultured voice at the other end answered curtly, “Sturrock.”

“Hello Charles. Simon here. Listen. I need a favour.”

Ruth had visited the Cave of Treasures many times but still felt a sense of childish wonder as they entered its vaults. She stole a glance at Natasha and smiled, knowing how the girl would react. There was an atmosphere in this place, something intangible, almost sacred. But that was unsurprising, given its history. Ruth shivered. She could feel the presence of her ancestors, those faithful carriers of the ancient torch whose feet had trodden this same path. Countless generations protecting, overseeing, watching, waiting.

“Mind your step,” Jassim warned. “It’s a little uneven.”

“Where are the paintings?” Natasha craned her neck, struggling to pick out any shape from the rock walls, some contour that suggested premeditated design.

“You’ll see. Just follow and be careful,” Ruth told her.

The roof began to stretch away as they rounded a sharp corner, moving into a wider, danker space. Something flicked down from the heights and fluttered around their heads. Natasha let out a cry of surprise and ducked.

Ruth pulled her close and tucked the girl’s head into her bosom, shielding her. “It’s all right – just bats. They’ll go away in a moment.”

Jassim led them on, using his fly swat to swipe at the diving creatures. “No harm; they’re just curious – like you.”

Natasha gave another exclamation and wiped her mouth. “My fingers – they’re all salty.”

“It’s where you touched the rock – the walls are composed of much salt,” Jassim said. “After the flood the rivers moved. They left behind these tunnels we are walking through.”

Ruth’s gaze traversed the sheer walls to their right where the first of the tombs was visible, cut from the rock like a toothless mouth. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed to the reduced light, others became visible above and below. Every opening was delimited by a frieze of worked stone, each scored by the mason’s artful markings; they were pictures of another age, repositories of ancient lives lived in obedience to their fathers. Ruth watched Natasha. The girl was silent, taking it all in.