The Trespass (3 page)

Dracup shivered. What had happened to them on the mountain? Could it be linked to the missing sarcophagus? Was that what Potzner was after? If so, who did the sarcophagus belong to? And why was it so important? Frustratingly the diary appeared to cover only the first expedition. There was no mention of the mysterious second location. He took a gulp of tonic water. At any rate, he knew what to do next. It was what he always told his students: when in doubt, examine available source material. Reluctantly Dracup fished in the bedside cabinet and found the inevitable Gideon’s Bible. Clearly it had rarely, if ever, been opened. Dracup flicked the pages and found the book of Genesis. Did it mention burials or death on the Ark? What should he look for? Something valuable; a wide remit.

An hour later and none the wiser he placed the Bible next to the diary, leaned over and clicked a button on his console. The electric blinds hissed open and the lights of Aberdeen invaded the room. He was glad of their company.

Dracup snapped awake. His bedside light was off. Something was wrong. He tried to recall the geography of the room. Which way was he facing? He opened his eyes slowly. The room was filled with moonlight; he could pick out every detail. Somewhere in the bowels of the hotel, a door slammed. The moon went behind a cloud and the quality of light deteriorated. A subtle movement, a paler shadow in the darkness, drew his attention. There. By the opposite bedside table, a tall figure leaning in towards him. Dracup was a big man but he could be agile when the occasion demanded and something told him this was such an occasion. He rolled just as a soft
pop
preceded a thump on his pillow where a second before his head had rested. A pungent, burning smell filled his nostrils, but by this stage Dracup was on the floor and groping frantically for a weapon. His brain raced in panic. Come on, he told himself. Think. That’s what you’re good at...

His assailant was doing the obvious thing. All he had to do was walk round the foot of the bed and shoot him. Dracup had nowhere to go. They both knew it. And that made Dracup angry. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized this as a good thing; anger might give him an edge. He heaved the bedside cabinet in front of him before the next shot came. The round tore into the MDF of the cabinet and a splinter glanced off his forearm. He yelled out and reflexively pushed forward, rewarded by the sound of a soft curse as the cabinet connected with the man’s shin. Dracup propelled himself forward in a clumsy rugby tackle, desperately aware of his lack of fitness. He caught the man around the waist but the assassin was strong; he wrenched himself free and aimed a kick at Dracup’s head. The blow caught Dracup on the shoulder and threw him back into the corner. The figure lifted its arm again, lining up with Dracup’s head. Dracup scrabbled around the floor for something solid. There was nothing. Wait. His hands closed around the cool plastic of the control console. It might do. He clicked the button. Please God let it be the right one…

The electric blinds began their automatic sashay, summoned into life by Dracup’s frantic fingers. It was enough. The assassin spun in surprise and Dracup was on him with the full force of his six-foot frame. The impact carried them both to the opposite wall, onto the twisted wrought iron wardrobe handles. The assassin lifted his arm. Dracup remembered his games master’s advice:
If you’re in a fight and he’s bigger than you, a knee in the groin will stand you in good stead.
Dracup brought his knee up between the man’s legs. The shot went wide, cracking against the glass of the picture window. The blinds were almost closed. Dracup kicked out wildly, feeling his strength ebbing away. But it was a lucky kick, catching the intruder’s arm just under the wrist and knocking it upwards. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of his assailant’s chin and continued on its altered trajectory up into his brain. The assassin slipped to the floor, leaving a dark trail against the light wood of the wardrobe, and flopped forward grotesquely onto the carpet.

Dracup remained standing, legs slightly apart, panting like a dog. His arms shook, the tremors quickly spreading to the rest of his body like some fast-acting virus. He sat heavily on the bed. His shoulder throbbed and he felt stickiness on the tips of his enquiring fingers.

Not my blood...

There was an anxious knock at the door. Dracup froze.

Again. “Mr Dracup?”

“Yes?”

“It’s the concierge. Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine. I had a dream, that’s all.” Dracup felt his heart beating wildly.

The footsteps receded. Dracup lay back and listened to his breathing. After a while he retrieved the console and turned on the main light. He looked at the body. A faint mist was rising from the pool forming by the head of the man he had killed. The enormity of the word hit him like a sledgehammer. He swallowed hard and bent down for a closer look.

First thing: it wasn’t the American, Potzner. He hadn’t expected it to be. But had Potzner sent him? This man was olive-skinned – Mediterranean? No, Middle-Eastern by the look of him. Dracup remembered Potzner’s parting words:
Take care.

Second thing: the diary. He made a quick search under the bed. He realized he was holding his breath just as he caught sight of the little book by the bed leg. He retrieved it and breathed again.

Third thing: the body. He reached for the phone, then checked himself. Would they believe him? His mind conjured an image of the police interview, his reaction as they produced false but compelling evidence fabricated by the CIA, heard his protests overruled by stony-faced Scotland Yard officers…

Dracup stumbled into the bathroom and was violently sick. He retched into the bowl until there was nothing left in his stomach. His legs would barely support him as he splashed cold water on his face and examined his forearm. An angry gash, but not too deep. Could have been a lot worse. He realized he was speaking aloud but his voice seemed distant, as if it belonged to somebody else.

He freshened his mouth with toothpaste and sat on the edge of the bed to consider his next move. Police or no police? He looked at the diary; a small thing, nestled in his shaking hands. He squatted down next to the corpse and made himself examine the pockets. He pulled something out. And froze. He was holding a photograph of Natasha in his hand. She was standing outside her school, lunchbox dangling at her side, backpack askew. Smiling.

Oh God. No.

The telephone shook in his hands. His fingers were jabbing Yvonne’s number. He waited. Nothing.
Come on
. The ring tone went on and on. Then he remembered Yvonne’s habit of turning down the ring volume at night.
Please. Please pick up.

Five minutes later he slammed the phone into its cradle. He glanced at the digital clock: 02:25. Dracup took a deep breath and got hold of the corpse’s shoulders. The body was heavy. It took him five minutes of heaving and sweating to get it into the bathroom. He closed the door, fished another miniature of Johnnie Walker from the minibar and downed it in one. No police; no time. A handful of tissues took care of the bloodstained furniture. He stuffed his belongings into a suitcase and looked into the corridor. There was no one about. He closed the door behind him and headed for the fire escape.

The receptionist looked up and smiled coquettishly. “Why, hello again Mr Potzner.”

Potzner returned her smile. Hell, she was pretty enough. “Morning. Mr Dracup about?”

Her brow furrowed. “The Professor? Just a moment. I think –” she tapped away at the keyboard. “No, sorry.” She looked up and smiled brightly but Potzner’s face was a mask. “He checked out, I’m afraid.”

“When?”

“Let’s see.” More tapping. Potzner joined in with his fingers on the counter.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the receptionist said. “Computer’s slow this morning.”

Potzner grunted. He’d obviously misread Dracup. Unusual for him.

“He left early, I think,” she said. “I can’t quite make out – ah – sorry, the records just say ‘paid in full’ and ‘no bar bills outstanding’. I can’t tell you any more.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Wait.” Her fingernails clicked and stabbed the ‘Enter’ key conclusively. “‘No newspaper collected’. That’s it.” She shrugged.

“Right.” Potzner made his way across the foyer, which was beginning to fill up with senior citizens. When he judged the receptionist’s attention fully diverted he slipped up the staircase to the second floor. Pausing outside room 124 he produced a plain card, which he swiped through the entry scanner. The lock clicked. He went in.

The bed was made and the curtains drawn. Everything seemed in order. Room maids had been in already. Bit early though. Then he remembered passing the maid’s trolley in the corridor. They hadn’t got this far yet.
Someone else has cleaned up
. He turned and something caught his eye. High on the window; something not right. He moved in for a closer look. A small crack radiated outwards from a minute hole at the top left hand corner of the window. Potzner zeroed in with a practised analysis. PB 69P. 9x18mm. Upgraded twelve-round magazine – probably. Silenced; for sure. Mind you – he looked out to the car park where a coach was receiving the exodus from the foyer – that may not have been essential given the average age of the clientele here. He shook his head wearily.
We’re all headed that way. Even you, Potzner
. He tried to imagine a pensionable version of himself: cantankerous, hard of hearing, insomniac – Potzner left the room and bounded down the stairs. Surely one of them…

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he hit the car park at a brisk trot, drawing alarmed looks from the queue. The old lady stared at him suspiciously. “Yes? Can I help?”

“Ah, yes ma’am. Maybe you can.” Potzner cleared his throat. “Did you perhaps hear anything unusual during the night?”

She looked at him indignantly. “Not at all. I slept like a baby. Always do. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She presented her back.

“Pardon me?” Potzner felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a smartly dressed pensioner wearing a floral dress and matching hat. Her eyes twinkled like pearls in a sea-worn oyster. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with that lady.” She frowned, knitting her brow with deeper wrinkles. “Very abrupt, don’t you think? I sat next to her on the coach all the way from Cardiff. Hardly got a word out of her. This time –” she stretched up to whisper in Potzner’s ear but, realizing the impossible logistics of scaling such heights, contented herself with a covert hand over one side of her mouth. “This time I’ll be down the other end – you watch me!”

Potzner didn’t doubt it. “And did you hear anything unusual at all last night, ma’am? Any noise?”

“Well, as a matter of fact I did. I don’t sleep as well as I used to, not at all. There was a lot of thumping and banging. Then I’m sure I heard glass breaking. And then – the strangest thing in the middle of the night – somebody came out of the fire escape and down the back stairs. My room overlooks the stairway, you see. I saw him go into the car park and then he was off. Just like that.”

“You say
him
, ma’am – can you be sure it was a man?”

“Oh yes. It was the gentleman I met in the car park yesterday – we’d just arrived, you see. A good looking fellow.”

“Dark curly hair, beard.”

“That’s right!” She glanced around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. “Has he done something wrong?”

Potzner shook his head. “I don’t think so, ma’am. Can you say what time this would have been?”

“It was 2.45 a.m. precisely.” The eyes twinkled again. “I had just finished the Times crossword.”

Potzner raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t do crosswords for Hershey bars. The coach driver had started the engine and only one or two couples remained to board. “You’d better make sure you get a good seat.” He inclined his head towards the coach.

She smiled. “I hope I’ve helped.”

Potzner watched her go and felt a wry smile creep across his face.
Boy, I hope my marbles are in the same place as hers when I get to that age
. He rummaged in his pocket for his car keys. Dracup was probably miles away by now so he didn’t have any time to lose.

Dracup glanced in his mirror. Every car was a potential tail. He dialled Yvonne’s number at ten minute intervals. He phoned the neighbour’s house; Mr and Mrs Foster. They were old. And deaf. No one picked up. He slammed his mobile against the steering wheel. Who else? Come on, Dracup. Think.
Charles
. He rang his friend’s landline. No response. He called the mobile. Voicemail. Dracup screamed in frustration and drove wildly on.

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.