The Trespass (19 page)

Dracup gritted his teeth at the pain and hauled the bicycle upright. He pushed away and pedalled hard along the terraced street, turning right into the Oxford Road. A bus was disgorging passengers on the other side. If the timing was right... Dracup threw the bike down and ran into the traffic. He made it across. There was one passenger ahead in the queue, fumbling for money. The runner appeared, looked right and left. Dracup searched his pockets desperately for change.

“Where to, mate?” the driver asked him with bored indifference. Dracup found two coins in his pocket. The bandana man was crossing the road, a slalom virtuoso between taxis and cars. “Anywhere.” Dracup thrust the money into the machine. The doors hissed. The bus shook as a fist banged the rear end. Some of the passengers muttered in alarm. The bus moved away; slowly, too slowly. Dracup saw him at the door, eyes like coals, but he was slipping back now, losing the race against the horsepower of the Reading Transport bus. “Sorry mate,” the bus driver shouted, “you won’t get me to stop like that.” He looked at Dracup and laughed, a friendly, easy sound.

“You’ll have to get off at Purley,” the driver told him. “I’ll give you a shout, all right?”

“Yes. All right.” When the bus had pushed on half a mile or so he fished in his pocket for his mobile. He dialled a number.

“Charles? Look, I’m in a spot of bother. Can you pick me up? I’m sorry to – you have? That’s excellent.” He listened to Charles describing the agenda for tomorrow’s flight. He’d been lucky. Their slot was booked for 10 a.m. “Where? Hang on.” Dracup peered out of the window. “Purley – Oxford Road – on the way to Pangbourne, you know? Twenty minutes? Make it fifteen and hopefully I’ll still be here. I’ll explain when I see you. Thanks, Charles. Bye.”

Dracup fell back into his seat. Traffic was moving swiftly and he thanked whatever life-preserving force was looking out for him that this wasn’t happening in rush hour. The bus rumbled on.

He disembarked at Purley and waited an anxious five minutes until eventually Charles pulled smoothly alongside.

Charles leaned out of the window and grinned. “Hop in, old boy.”

Dracup eased his aching body into the front seat of Sturrock’s Citroën. Bach was playing softly on the stereo and Charles as usual seemed on top form.

“This is all very exciting, Si. What’s the scam?”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

Sturrock’s face assumed a concerned expression. “Well, in the light of what you told me earlier, I’m hardly surprised. But are you absolutely sure? You’ve been under a lot of stress –”

“I saw his eyes, Charles…” Dracup realized that Charles intended to retrace the bus route back into town. “I’d rather go in the other direction if that’s all right with you. He may still be on the Oxford Road – or heading this way.” Dracup recalled the impact of the fist, how it had shaken the bus.

“No problem – we’ll go via the motorway.” Sturrock U-turned the Citroën and headed out through Purley Beeches to Pangbourne.

Dracup shifted uncomfortably in his seat, massaged his leg.

“Are you hurt?” Sturrock shot him an enquiring look.

“It’s nothing. Fell over a bicycle.”

“Trouble with you, Simon, is you’re not fit. Got to keep the joints active when you get to our age.” Sturrock turned briefly to gauge Dracup’s reaction.

“Charles, I’m not in the mood.”

Sturrock’s face fell. “Sorry. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Dracup almost laughed at Sturrock’s deflated expression. He felt as if he’d just reprimanded a precocious schoolboy. He leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to bark, Charles. My nerves are a bit frayed.”

Sturrock stole another glance at Dracup. “Quite understandable. Stiff drink and an early night in order, I’d say. You can have a shakedown on the sofa.”

Dracup grunted. “No luxury spared, eh?”

Dracup held up finger and thumb in response to Sturrock’s refill enquiry, and resisted the urge to down the shot in one. Charles had a fire burning in the hearth and a reflective glint in his eye as he replaced the brandy on the mantelpiece and stood with his back to the flames, rubbing his hands in anticipation of conversation. But Dracup was exhausted. He no longer felt confident about his deductions, nor his African plan. In the homely surroundings of Charles’ digs it all seemed preposterous, a desperate shot in the dark.

“Any better?” Sturrock prompted. “Bit of colour coming back, I’d say.”

“I’m knackered, Charles. I can’t think straight. It all seems – quite mad to me.”

“You didn’t sound mad earlier on. And you have the evidence.”

“Had. Potzner and co have it now.”

“You said you had a copy –”

Dracup looked at Sturrock’s earnest face. His eyes shone like an excited child’s.

“Of the sketch? Yes, I have a copy.”

“May I see it?”

Dracup reached into his jacket pocket and produced the set of folded A4 sheets.

Sturrock spread them out on the table and adjusted his glasses. “Hm. There’s something about this that rings a distant bell. But I’m damned if I can think what it is.” Sturrock sat back and perused his wall-to-wall bookshelves. “Sceptre of Noah you say, sceptre of Noah...” He tutted and scanned along the dusty shelves with a long forefinger. “Nope. Can’t think where I’ve seen that reference.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Dracup frowned. “Staff of Moses, maybe.”

“Yes, yes. Quite. Let’s have those stanzas – the translation I mean.”

“On that sheet.” Dracup leaned over and slid the paper across the table.

“Now then.” Sturrock squinted.

“
From holy resting place to rest upon the water –

But Noah, the faithful son –

Once more in the earth you will find peace –

From whence you came –

Between the rivers – “

“Right. Well, the first line implies something that was in one place – for a long time, I’d say. And obviously venerated.” Sturrock peered at the verse. “And whatever it was, it went on the Ark.
To rest upon the water
. Yes?”

“Yes. I suppose so.” Dracup felt his eyes beginning to close. He rubbed them and blinked.

“And when the Ark grounded,
Once more in the earth you will find peace
, and particularly
From whence you came
, both imply a return to the original location.”

“Possibly. I have a problem with that, though.”

“Namely?”

“You global flood people would accept that the antediluvian and the post-flood world were – are – very different?”

“Yes.”

“With a considerably altered ecosystem and geological foundation?”

“Highly probably. But that’s not to say
all
areas were altered beyond recognition. Depending on the geology of the location
pre
flood, when the waters eventually receded there may have been little or no change to solid formation land masses, rock strata, whatever.”

“Charles, it’s not my area of expertise.”

“Nor mine, but I’ve read some interesting papers on the subject. Bottom line is, if something had been secreted below ground, provided the geology was sound enough it may still be there today.” Sturrock’s expression changed.

“What?”

“You look absolutely knackered, Si. Early start tomorrow. White Waltham for eight thirty. You need to get some sleep.”

Dracup let out a groan.

“Problem?”

“Yes. I’ve left my suitcase at the hotel.”

“Ah. I’ll pick it up if you like.”

“And risk getting your head blown off? I don’t think so. I have my passport, fortunately.” Dracup patted his pocket. “The clothes are just an inconvenience.”

Sturrock downed his brandy in one. “Right. Perhaps I can lend you some essentials.”

Dracup smiled. “Charles, you’re a good man.”

Sturrock shook his head. “Just helping an old buddy.” He replaced his glass on the table with a deepening frown. “Simon – are you going to be all right?”

Dracup was glad he’d chosen Charles as a confidant; the archaeologist’s concern was almost comical. He shook his head. “Charles, I have absolutely no idea if I’m going to be all right.”

Sturrock fixed Dracup with a mock serious expression. “I have every confidence.” He raised his glass, which he had subtly contrived to refill. “My dear chap. Here’s to Africa.”

It was a bright, sunny morning. White Waltham’s windsock ruffled gently in a cool westerly breeze as Dracup was led reluctantly onto the grass where several aircraft were sitting expectantly, like seagulls waiting for tourists to arrive with ice creams and sandwiches. He watched suspiciously as Sturrock gestured towards the smallest aircraft, which looked to Dracup rather like a grown-up version of the boyhood models he had painstakingly constructed in his bedroom.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What do you mean? She’s a beaut. Perfectly airworthy.”

“But we can’t both fit in there.” Dracup examined the cockpit with a growing sense of alarm.

“Of course we can. It’s only a short flight. You’ll get used to it in no time.”

Dracup carried that thought through the pre-flight preparations. Sturrock chattered excitedly about oil pressure, crosswinds and fuel checks. Dracup’s hands were cold and clammy. He attempted a kind of self-deluding detachment, as if he wasn’t really about to climb into an aerial coffin. Forty-five minutes later Sturrock opened the throttle and they rumbled across the grass to the take-off position. When the ground fell away beneath them, leaving Dracup’s stomach with it, he was beginning to wish he’d risked Moran’s vigilance and gone for the Heathrow option after all.

Africa

“You lost him?” Potzner listened incredulously. “How hard is it to find a University Professor in his home town?”

“I never actually found him, sir. He wasn’t
at
home.” Farrell’s voice crackled defensively.

“And you checked the girlfriend’s?”

“Yessir. Place is empty. She’s AWOL.”

“Think they’re together?”

Farrell clicked his tongue. “Hard to say.”

“He’s onto something.” Potzner jammed the receiver under his chin, grabbed his coat and stuffed his cigarettes into a pocket. “And he doesn’t trust us. Stay where you are – I’m on my way.”

An hour and ten later they were outside Dracup’s flat. His car was parked in its allocated space. Potzner checked it out. A couple of CDs lay on the passenger seat; a few books in the back. Nothing unusual. Farrell took the front steps two at a time and waited at the door. He signalled to Potzner, whose sixth sense was already vibrating like a tuning fork. The door was ajar, a minute crack of darkness. Potzner joined Farrell at the top of the steps, listened briefly at the latch then nodded to Farrell’s unspoken question. He began the time-honoured countdown. On the count of
two
his P-229 was nestled comfortingly in his right hand.
Three
. Farrell’s foot hit the door hard and they spun into the room, crouching, one on either side of the front door.