He opted for a conciliatory starting point. “How’s Malcolm?”
“Fine. Busy as usual.”
“Has he been able to take any time off?”
Yvonne studied the flower arrangement on the side table. “A little — but the client needs him on site, you know.”
“I think you need someone on site too.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m all right.”
He shook his head. “You’re not.” He hated seeing her looking so crushed. “Look, I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you enough to keep you going. Enough to help.”
“Fire away. I’m listening.”
And she did, stopping him occasionally for clarification, asking him about Sara, which she understandably found difficult, soliciting his opinion about the French sighting. He covered everything apart from Sara’s sudden disappearance, found himself at the end of his update and waited for her reaction.
“And you’re going to Africa — against police orders.”
“I have to. I really believe that I can find her.”
Yvonne rubbed her temple with a surprisingly steady hand. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a TV drama.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Natasha’s alive. I know she is.”
“So do I.” He saw the first signs of emotion, a betraying tear angrily wiped away.
Yvonne took a deep breath. “Sorry. What do they want, Simon? They haven’t asked you for anything. It’s not blackmail — I don’t understand.”
“I think they want to punish me.”
“For Theodore? For stealing… whatever it was he stole?”
“Yes. Potzner will do anything to get this thing back. It’s critical for the CIA. That’s why I don’t want him along — he’ll go in like Bush and Iraq. His priorities are different.”
“I just hope you know what you’re doing. What am I supposed to tell that weasel of an inspector? That you’ve gone chasing after some archaeological trinket like England’s answer to Indiana Jones?”
Dracup dug into his coat pocket. “Look. This is Theodore’s summary — an explanation of what I found in Aberdeen. It clearly indicates Lalibela as the location of the missing part of the crest — the headpiece of Noah’s sceptre. The section I found is marked Alpha, and the African section —“ he passed the tablet to Yvonne for inspection, “—according to Theodore, is marked Omega. If I can find it, all I need to do is record the cuneiform and we’ll have the whole stanza. And it will tell us where she’s been taken. I’m convinced.”
“And then what? You just walk in and collect her?” Yvonne held the tablet gingerly, as if afraid to touch it.
Dracup bit his lip. “Something like that, yes.”
There was a long silence, then, “Simon—” Yvonne hesitated, frowning.
“What?”
“I’m sorry about the way things have been — between us. I never meant to cause you any difficulties — it’s just, I don’t know. Things have changed.”
Dracup nodded. “Inevitably. We’ve both moved on. We did the right thing.”
“Did we? Or did we lose sight of what we had?”
“Probably. We were under permanent stress.”
“Self-imposed.”
“Yes, but we both had our minds set on what we wanted.”
“But it’s not wrong, is it, to want a family?”
“No, of course not. But everything has its price.”
“It’s so unfair. Some people have it so easy. They pop them out like peas. They never think about it. They don’t realise how hard it is for some—”
“Life’s not fair, is it?” Dracup spoke softly. “But we did something right, didn’t we? Something went right for us in the end.”
“But not now — now that—” Yvonne had reached the end of her emotional resources. The sobs came, wracking and desperate; the sound of a mother whose child has been taken away.
Dracup swallowed, teetering on the edge himself. He sat on the arm of her chair and put a steadying hand on her shoulder, but even this small intimacy felt unnatural. She was not his property any more. Not his to comfort. The shock of touching her, even a slight physical contact, made him realise how far apart they had grown.
Her sobs reduced in volume, just the shoulders moving involuntarily. “I’ll be all right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. You’ll feel better for it.” He moved away towards the fireplace. A photograph of Yvonne, Malcolm and Natasha nestled amongst the bric-a-brac of the mantelpiece. They looked happy, sitting together on some summer beach, eating ice creams. Natasha had a blob of ice cream on her nose and Yvonne was pointing to it, laughing. Dracup felt a sudden surge of anger and possessiveness. He wondered who had taken the photograph. Just a passer-by? Or one of their close circle of friends from which he was, of course, excluded?
Yvonne finished blowing her nose. “You’ll never get out of the country. Moran will be watching you.”
“He won’t be watching in the right place,” Dracup said. “If he asks, tell him I’ll be back. I’m not running.”
“I know that.”
“It’s the only thing to do. You have to trust me.”
Yvonne looked at him carefully. “You know, Simon, I do. I really think I do.”
A confirmed bachelor and familiar figure around the University, the archaeologist Charles Sturrock lived in a comfortable set of rooms in the original gatehouse building. He was a man of slight physique with a pair of finely-balanced spectacles perched on a permanently knitted brow. The overall effect was one of studious detachment from the world, but the man was an enthusiasm powerhouse when it came to pet subjects and hobbies. This had its pros and cons, as Dracup knew from past experience. Once the chocks of restraint had been kicked away there was no stopping Charles; it was a question of carefully managing the direction of the conversation, steering it onto a more relevant and productive flight path.
Sturrock’s study was the physical representation of his mental processes and the antithesis of Dracup’s ordered domain. Papers littered the desk, bits and pieces of rock, an old skull, a set of ritual daggers from Nepal, reference books acting as elevated resting places for several days’ intake of coffee. The walls of the room were covered with charts, pictures, noticeboards festooned with yellowed scraps of paper and long-forgotten reminders. Dracup couldn’t fathom how Sturrock could spend his days in such energetic turmoil yet still achieve consistently spectacular results from his students. But the answer was simple. Sturrock’s enthusiasm was infectious. He grabbed life with both hands and wrung every shred of enjoyment out of it. A happy by-product of this enthusiasm was that it always cheered Dracup enormously to spend time in the archaeologist’s company. Whatever Dracup’s mood at the outset, he always took his leave with a foolish smile plastered across his face. Not today though, Dracup thought as the housekeeper showed him in. Not ever unless he got this right.
Sturrock looked up from his collection of ephemera and smiled broadly. “Simon! Splendid! Come in! Ready for that trouncing yet? I played a scorcher the other day — won it with a lob to die for. You’re in serious trouble this term, laddie.”
“I think the big match will have to wait for a bit, Charles.” Dracup, fearing a major digression, let his expression bring Sturrock’s concentration into focus.
“Serious, eh? Righto, what’s all this about a trip to France, then? Got some floozy tucked away? Bet she’s not as cracking as that corker you’ve been escorting recently.”
Dracup sighed. “No, nothing like that, Charles. Listen, I’d better give you a rundown on the situation. It’s not good.”