“Charles, you’re a good friend.”
“Did you ever doubt me?”
Dracup threw his coat on the sofa and went to his desk. He shivered; the apartment was freezing. He fired up his laptop, found the Lalibela URL from the favourites menu and scrolled through the selection of photographs. What would he find? Where would he begin his search? There was nothing recorded on Theodore’s abbreviated time capsule to suggest an exact location for the missing part of the crest. Why hadn’t the old man been more specific? The phone rang.
“Dracup.”
“Mr Dracup — I was expecting a call. Everything okay?”
Dracup had prepared himself for this conversation. Potzner sounded concerned rather than annoyed. That was the balance to be maintained.
“Fine. Any progress from your end?”
“I’m still waiting on our guys. Mike Fish is pretty good but not the fastest thing on two legs.”
“Time’s pressing.”
There was a short silence. “Yeah. I know.”
“I had a visit from the police.”
“Right. That was inevitable. Tell them anything?”
“No. As you said, no point.” Dracup could almost see Potzner leaning back from the desk, Winston in mouth, finger flicking at the Zippo.
“I’m going to send Farrell back to you, just to keep things safe.”
Dracup clenched his fist. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“It’s your lady friend we need to keep an eye on. Farrell tells me she went home on her own.”
“Yes. Some domestic crisis.”
“She okay now?”
“Yes.”
Dracup heard the silence this time; an active, analytical silence.
“All the same. I’m sending him down. He should be with you by — say ten o’clock?”
“If you insist.” Dracup cursed under his breath and looked at his watch. Under two hours. He had to make himself scarce. He scanned Yellow Pages for a hotel list. Five minutes later he was on the road.
Potzner looked across the desk at Farrell.
The agent returned the look. “Well?”
“He’s holding out. He knows something.”
“You sure?”
“I can always tell. Are you sure there was nothing else in that box?”
“Sure as I can be.”
“And you were there when he opened it?”
“Pretty much.”
Potzner shook his head. “That’s not what I expect from you, Farrell.”
The agent chewed his gum sheepishly. “I was watching the house. He called me over when he found it.”
“Or when he wanted you to think he found it, you mean. I’m betting he had time to hide whatever it was he didn’t want you to see. It would only have taken a few seconds.”
“Must have been pretty small then, whatever it was, ’cause we carried the box out of there together.”
“Coat pocket, Farrell. Did you check it back at the Aberdeen flat?”
“Well, not as such. We got back from the dig, hit up the safe house; he was in the bathroom. Then he got a call from his ex.”
“So he was in the john with his coat?”
Farrell smiled awkwardly. “Yeah. I suppose.”
Potzner leaned forward. “Suppose nothing, Farrell. Get your ass down that M4 now.”
Farrell was out of the door in seconds.
Chapter 16
Dracup checked in, left his suitcase in his room and headed back to reception. He had to get out. Do something. He went outside to the Thameside promenade where a group of students were manhandling their boats from water to boathouse. He headed up the riverside towpath. Now he was walking alone, his feet crunching a solitary beat on the gravel.
His attention was drawn by a movement on the towpath. He saw it again. A tall shape moving quickly — no, running — up the path. Just a jogger? Dracup studied the figure; and then knew it was coming for him. He thought quickly. Which way? If he continued along the towpath he would be moving away from the nearest public place into the empty water meadows that stretched up to Mapledurham lock. He began to jog across the meadow towards the main road. The road led to a narrow bridge, then continued onto the Oxford Road. He glanced behind. The gap was closing. He drove his legs harder. Traffic was sparse as Dracup hit the pavement and veered right towards the bridge. He reached the traffic lights with lungs heaving and looked back. The runner burst onto the road, turning towards him. Now Dracup could see his features more clearly. He was unusually tall, wearing patched jeans and a black open-necked shirt. His head was partly obscured by a multi-coloured bandana — the object that had caught Dracup’s attention on the towpath. The face was dark, partially bearded with a long, hooked nose curving down toward the upper lip. Dracup entered the darkness beneath the bridge at a brisk trot. The Oxford Road T-junction lay mockingly distant. Dracup took a deep breath and went for it. He heard the sound of trainers slapping on damp paving, made a half turn but lost his footing, tripped over something on the ground and crashed to the pavement in a tangle of metal and limbs.
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—”