The Trespass (5 page)

“
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 freedom. 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.

Potzner drew heavily on the Winston. The images were always the same. For years they had replayed in the space created by the constant waiting his job demanded. “No.” He spoke aloud and the sound of his voice alarmed him. “
Please
leave me alone.” But he knew the scene had to play to its conclusion. He closed his eyes and let it roll. Barnes, next to him, his mouth wide, pointing, encouraging the men to keep pushing on, stepping over the bodies. And then the muffled
thump
alongside, the surprise to find himself on his back. No pain. A glance to the left and the shock of Barnes’ sightless eyes staring back, a faint smile on his lips. Then hands on his shoulder, gently lifting him, the vibration of the chopper and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. It could have been yesterday, but it was
way
back – 9th February, 1969, Chu Pa region; America was out of her depth in the jungles of Vietnam and he was on his way home to Abigail.

They had visited Barnes’ widow as soon as his leg would bear his weight again. He could still remember her pale face, the wringing of her slender hands as they sat in the family room of the Kentucky farmhouse he’d heard so much about. They’d promised to keep in touch, but then life moved on. He sometimes wondered about her, if she’d found someone else to fill the emptiness. He hoped so. Life
had
to carry on; those who survived owed it to the dead to live for them. That’s what Barnes would have wanted. Handsome, happy-go-lucky Joseph Barnes. His friend. There one moment; gone the next.

Potzner fingered the window button and flicked out his stub. The smoke cleared and he sighed, a deep, soul-weary sigh. Death had always stalked him. It had been his closest companion in ‘nam, and an ever-present buddy since he had joined the company. Thing was, it was part of the job. That was fine. He could accept that. But it had no place coming home with him. It had no right to enter
his
front door. But, dear God, it
had
. He could feel its presence, hovering, waiting, biding its time. Abigail knew, of course. The doctor had been direct. They had held hands as the sentence had been pronounced. He was a young guy, the neurologist. Looked a bit like Woody Allen. They had laughed about that afterwards.
Laughed
. Anyway, Woody had a good manner, was sympathetic, pulled no punches. As a straight talker himself, Potzner appreciated that. Three, perhaps five years, at the most. Abigail’s hand had tightened on his as they left the hospital and walked out into the sunshine. Traffic crawled past; lunchtime shoppers hurried this way and that, glancing anxiously at their watches. How much time before they had to be back at the office? How much time?

From that point onwards, his and Abigail’s time had become dislocated from the rest of the world. The people striding along the sidewalks lived in some parallel universe, where normality smoothed the path ahead. What had they in common? They had sat in silence in the park for a long time, just looking, just being alive. She caught his eye and he remembered thinking,
I have never seen her look so beautiful. I will always remember this moment.
“I’ll retire early,” he told her. “We’ll travel, be with each other.” She shook her head. “No Jim, you must carry on. You love your job. I want everything to be normal, as it was before today.” She smiled, pressing her finger to his lips to seal the protest. “I need it to be that way.”

That was three years ago, and the clock was ticking. Should he phone her now? He knew she hated the fuss. Most days were all right. But the bad days... days in a darkened room where her helpless body would be fed with chemicals, nourished through sterilized tubing. Such days came twice, perhaps three times a week now. And he yearned for her, yet could not bear to be there to see her suffering. He would be with her now, had not hope arrived six months ago in a form more unexpected than anything he could have imagined.

Potzner caught a slight movement in the window of the house – semi-detached, the Brits called them – and snapped into alert mode. The girl, Sara Benham, drawing the curtain. Looked like the lovers were in for the night. He scanned the sidewalk, their side, then paid special attention to the hedgerow on his left that separated the road from the University grounds. He could just see the grey expanse of water beyond the hedge, the lake that sat between the halls of residence on this, the north side of the campus. He was parked in the driveway of the old gatehouse and had a clear view of the red-bricked houses slightly up the hill on the corner. Dusk was rapidly falling and Potzner’s sense of unease increased with the diminishing light. Surely soon? He knew they wouldn’t wait long after the bungled attempt at the diary. He patted his coat pocket reflexively, drawing comfort from the contours of the snub-nosed Sig Sauer P229. He was sure he’d need it before the night was out, and that it wouldn’t be the last time it would see action on this operation. If he could just wing one of them, just one… then he’d make them talk. Hell, he wouldn’t even
need
the diary then.

A few cars swished past the University perimeter, windshield wipers flicking in the worsening drizzle.
Great
. As if it wasn’t cold and miserable enough already. He glanced at his watch; 17:15. Check-in time. “Campus one?” His earpiece responded immediately: “In position.” Potzner grunted. “Okay, stand by. Two?” A brief pause, then: “Likewise.” Satisfied, he settled back and prepared for a long wait. No sweat, though. Waiting was his speciality.

Dracup faced the intruder, heart pounding in his chest. Then he realized he was still holding the struggling cat in his arms. He launched the animal, a black tangle of extended claws, directly at the figure in the balaclava, then ducked and propelled himself back through the kitchen door, colliding with Sara as she entered the kitchen carrying a tray of plates and glasses. One word came out:
Run
. He caught her arm and dragged her through to the lounge into the hallway.

“What....”

“Just
run
.”

Dracup had the front door open and they skidded down the short drive, turning towards the University campus.

“Simon!”

Dracup glanced back. “Save your breath – and
don’t run straight
.”

They crossed the road at speed. As they drew level with the gatehouse a parked car flicked on its headlights. Dracup weaved parallel to the vehicle and made for the path by the lake.

“Which way?”

“To the right.” Dracup felt the first reaction of his lungs to the unaccustomed strain. His heart thudded and a burning finger moved across his abdomen. The path clung to the lakeside and they pounded down its length, darkness closing around them as the canopy of trees thickened above.

Dracup fumbled for his mobile and punched in a number.

“What are you doing?” Sara gasped as they approached a narrow wooden bridge.

“University security. Come on – this way.” His legs were leaden and it was all he could do to spit out a request when the security desk finally picked up.

“There’s an armed intruder in the campus – approaching from the North East entrance – crossing the lake...”

“What? Who is this?”

“Dracup – Anthropology.”

“Professor Dracup?”

“Yes – get a move on, for heaven’s sake.”

“Are you sure –”

“Of course I’m – look, just get out here now, would you?”

“On our way, sir. I’ll call the police.”

“Good idea...”

Dracup pocketed the phone and concentrated on his breathing. He could see the homely lights of the University building ahead.

Sara, slightly ahead, stumbled over a shape on the path. And screamed.

Dracup looked down as he passed the spot. A man was lying across the path, his face illuminated by moonlight. A neat hole had been punched in his forehead and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the stars. The crew cut and suit connected him inevitably with Potzner. “Keep going. Across the grass and head left.” He calculated their position and risked a glance behind. A figure emerged from the shadow of the trees by the bridge, stopped momentarily then caught sight of them as they hurried across the open space. Then two others came into view, running towards the bridge. The figure hesitated. Dracup heard a shout. Thank God. Security had taken him seriously.

“Simon! Come on.” Sara waited, hands on hips several metres ahead.