The Trespass (6 page)

He pointed to the buildings. “Go left.” If he remembered correctly the Plant Sciences lab lay ahead, close to the Pepper Lane entrance. What he needed was in there – if there was time. He heard more shouting from the direction of the bridge. They turned into the Plant Sciences car park and entered the building by the automatic swing doors. The reception desk was empty – good.

“What are we doing in
here?
We’ll be trapped...” Sara caught his sleeve.

“I don’t think so,” Dracup said. “Security has probably done enough to keep him off our scent for a while. And I need to do this now.”

“Do what?”

“Come on.” He let Sara tag along as they passed the noticeboard, which was bare save for a large poster advertising Cornwall’s Eden Project. A glance through one of the lab windows revealed several white-coated technicians, doubtless absorbed in some green-fingered research project. He pushed into another corridor. It was along here somewhere. The floor reminded Dracup of hospitals; polished and antiseptic. In fact the whole building smelt sanitized, as if scrubbed hourly by an invisible team of cleaners. They came eventually to an office, deserted but for the hum of photocopiers and faxes. Dracup had the diary out and the photocopier lid open.

“You’re amazing,” Sara said. “I thought you left it at the house.”

“I’m not letting it go that easily. Keep an eye on the corridor.”

Sara stood at the door while Dracup flicked the diary pages over and pressed the button. The copier whirred. The results were barely legible. “Blast. Where’s the contrast button?”

Sara stepped over. “Here. Now try.”

After a few minutes Dracup had half the pages copied. Somewhere in the distance the sound of police sirens rose and fell. The paper ran out, and Sara hissed across the room, “Someone coming.”

One of the lab technicians peered into the room. “Hullo. Can I help?”

“Just borrowing the copier.” Dracup smiled.

“Are you –”

“Dracup – Anthropology. Our machine’s on the blink again.”

“Of course. Carry on.” The technician grinned back.

Sara nodded as the man left the office and walked back along the corridor. As she watched, another man slipped through the double doors at the far end. He was tall and grey haired.

“Simon?”

“What?”

“Someone’s coming.”

Dracup, intent on his task, waited for the next sheet before responding. When he looked up he saw Potzner halfway down the corridor and closing fast.

“Run.” He thrust the papers at Sara, grabbed her hand and bolted out of the office, turning right towards what he hoped was the way to the side entrance – if there
was
a side entrance. Behind him came Potzner’s voice: “Dracup...Wait!”

They sprinted the length of the building, and burst out in front of the large greenhouses to the rear of the Plant Sciences lab. Skirting the car park Dracup got his bearings and turned back onto the internal campus road. He shouted to Sara, “This leads onto Pepper Lane.” He dog-legged past the security box, stole a glance behind and saw Potzner’s elastic frame almost upon her.
Damn
. The man was fast for his age. Sara was mouthing something. He strained to hear what she was saying – her arm was flailing now... a warning? He turned – too late – and saw a car mounting the pavement. He dived to the left but the next second it was on him, catching him a bruising blow on his thigh and lifting him into the air. The world slowed down. He floated towards the ground, twisting his head sideways to avoid contact with the pavement. The dreamlike quality persisted until he landed, shoulder first on the tarmac. A curtain descended. He was vaguely aware of hands in his pockets, probing, pulling. An engine roared, so close it felt like it was in his head.

Then there was blackness.

Dracup was unsure which part of his body hurt the most: his head or his shoulder. He opened his eyes and squinted in the bright light.

“Simon? Thank goodness...”

Sara’s face swam into focus. The curtain twitched and Potzner was at the bedside.

Dracup felt a sudden flare of anger. “I presume you’ve called the dogs off now you’ve got what you wanted.” The effort of speech made him wince.

Potzner studied the bedside cabinet. There was a Tupperware box containing Dracup’s mobile, car keys and wallet. Potzner shook his head. “This wasn’t our doing, Mr Dracup. We were trying to protect you.”

Sara seemed to be in agreement with the American. Dracup searched her face. She was pale, biting her lip. And then he remembered the body on the campus path. To Potzner he said, “You lost a man.”

“Yes.” The American’s expression remained impassive. Only the jaw worked at a slow tempo, masticating the gum with practised automation.

Dracup leaned back on the pillows. His head throbbed with a slow pulse. So Potzner was on his side; that was little consolation now. The theft of the diary had removed the only tangible link to Natasha.

“Fact is, Mr Dracup,” Potzner continued, “it would have been a lot better if you’d just complied with my request and passed the document to me. Safer.”

“That’s helpful.” Dracup’s mouth felt thick and there was a residual taste of antiseptic that made him feel nauseous. “You didn’t tell me there were other interested parties.”

“You handled yourself very well, Professor. But I think it’s time to leave the rest to us.”

Dracup raised an eyebrow. Even that small action sent splinters of pain across his face. “The rest?” Sara was vehemently nodding her agreement. She moved closer and took Dracup’s hand.

“Mr Dracup. I just came to apologize for the inconvenience that’s been caused. I wish you the best for a quick recovery – oh, and you needn’t concern yourself about the incident in the hotel room. The police know nothing.” Potzner turned to leave, one hand on the curtain.

“No.
Wait
.” Dracup reached out to grab Potzner but fell back on the pillow at the jarring pain in his shoulder. He heard his voice shouting, “My daughter is missing! You can’t just walk away –”

Potzner hesitated; he seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know.”

“You’re
sorry?
”

A nurse brushed past him into the ward enclosure. “Right,” she said brightly. “Calm down please, Mr Dracup. Mobile off inside the hospital.” She removed the instrument from Potzner’s gloved hand. “You’ll disturb the whole ward with all that shouting. Everybody out. I have to change Mr Dracup’s dressings.” She bustled off, presumably, Dracup thought, to allow his guests a minute or so to make themselves scarce.

Potzner turned to leave. “I’ll see you in my office when you’re feeling better, Professor. In the meantime I suggest you talk to the police about your daughter. And I wouldn’t mention our little chat. Or the diary.” The curtains parted and Potzner was gone.

Dracup felt his anger burning. “Now
wait
a minute –.” But Sara’s hand was on his arm, the nurse poised over him like some starched bird of prey. He listened as the American’s uneven footsteps receded along the ward, then turned his attention to the nurse. “I need to get out of here. I’m not ill. There’s nothing broken. Is there?” He challenged the nurse with a hostile jutting of his chin.

“You have a little concussion and a bruised hip,” the SRN said. “But you’ll live. I presume there’s someone who can keep an eye on you?” She glanced at Sara. “Well, that’s all right then. The doctor will be round shortly. If you behave you’ll probably be discharged this evening.”

“I’m discharging myself when you’ve finished the dressings,” Dracup told her. She opened her mouth to reply but, seeing his expression, thought better of it and turned her attention to the task in hand.

Potzner’s office was a Spartan affair. Dracup slammed the door behind him and pointed a trembling finger at the American. “You’d better start explaining. Right now.”

“Do come in, Professor. Take a seat.” Potzner waved vaguely in the direction of a chair. His attention was occupied by a set of photographs that lay askew on the surface of his desk. The omnipresent Winston was jammed into the corner of his mouth, although it remained unlit in irritated deference to the ‘No Smoking’ signs liberally scattered around the building.

“I’ll stand if that’s all right with you,” Dracup said. “Now talk. What do you know about my daughter’s abduction?”

Potzner shrugged. “Only what you’ve told me. I take it there’s no news?”

Dracup leaned across the desk. “Is there a connection with the people who stole the diary? If there is, I need to know. For pity’s sake, Potzner, there’s a child’s life at stake here –”

Potzner blew out air. “Actually there’s a great deal more at stake, Professor. And yeah, there may well be a connection, but I can’t see a motive.”

Dracup slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t know where to start looking. Turkey? Europe? America? I had the diary. Now it’s gone. I have
nothing
.” He slammed both fists down. The desk shook. He felt an overpowering weakness grip his body, and collapsed into the chair with his head in his hands.

Potzner was unruffled. “I understand your position, Professor. You’re overwrought. You deserve a little enlightenment – strictly off the record, of course. I can’t tell you much, but you’ll recall our conversation in Aberdeen? About the missing artefact?”

“Yes. Go on.”

Potzner gave a little grunt. “I guess
artefact
is a misnomer. Firstly the artefact in question wasn’t man-made, and secondly it’s linked with state-of-the-art research going on back in the US. It
must
be recovered.”

“Research into...?”

“Longevity. The human life span.”

Dracup nodded. Such research had a counterpart in the UK and he had a few contacts working in the field of gerontology.

The American smiled. “I can guess what you’re thinking. No big deal. Everyone’s into it, right?”

Dracup nodded impatiently, searching for relevance. “Yes. I was reading recently that our leading research labs have made some progress –”

“Forget it,” Potzner interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m talking breakthrough here. No theories. This is the real McCoy.”

“In what sense?”

Potzner regarded the grey outlook from the office window. London was at work, traffic was sparse. The only movements in the street below were initiated by the odd passing taxi and the continually slanting rain. “I’m not a scientific person, Mr Dracup. I’m an outdoors man. Always have been.” He carefully replaced the unlit Winston in its packet with an expression of regret. “But I’ve taken a special interest in this research. It’s a subject close to my heart.”

Dracup was fighting a losing battle with his patience. He gripped the chair arms tightly and made himself listen. At least Potzner was communicating.

“You’ll no doubt be aware, Mr Dracup, that there are many theories as to why the body ages as it does,” Potzner continued.

“Well, yes. There’s cell depletion and damage, DNA affecting chromosome degeneration, toxin intake – alcohol and nicotine being prime culprits –” Dracup waved at the red and white packet on the desk.

Potzner was nodding, ignoring the slight. “I’m not surprised you know a little about this, Professor. But let me tell you, our guys in the white coats have long subscribed to the theory that there is some coded obsolescence built into our DNA structure.”

“You mean we are all genetically programmed for the ageing process to kick off at a predetermined time?”

“Exactly. It’s as though each of us comes into the world as a machine that is programmed to self-destruct.”

“Ah. The ticking of the biological clock. Time to have sex, time to have babies, time to buy a pipe and a pair of slippers. Time to pop off.” Dracup shuffled his feet under the desk, fighting the instinct to grab Potzner by the collar and force the truth out of him.

“I’m serious, Professor. When the alarm goes off it sends a signal through our DNA structure to begin the ageing process that ends in death. At that point we become more prone to disease; our bodies lose the elasticity of youth. We take longer to heal. Sometimes, we don’t heal at all.”

Dracup looked into the American’s eyes and wondered what weight of sadness had etched the lines around them. This was personal, no mistaking the signs. A sudden guilt replaced his hostility; he’d trespassed on some deep, emotional property. Strangely it had a calming effect. “All right. I didn’t mean to be flippant. Go on.”

Potzner’s tone became more formal, as if he were quoting from some uncontested results sheet. “Our research reached conclusive status with the most recent experiments performed on the artefact in question.”

“Hang on. Isn’t it time you told me what the artefact actually
is?
”

“Organic tissue. That’s all I can say. The codename for the recovery operation is
Red Earth
. It may be easier if I refer to that name in future.”

“What kind of organic tissue?”

Potzner hesitated and then said, very slowly, “Tissue that is palaeontologically old.”