The door opened as he reached for the bell. Yvonne’s tear-smeared face destroyed all remaining hope. A bespectacled man hovered at her shoulder: Malcolm. “What’s happened?” Dracup demanded. “Have they found her?”
“Where on earth have you been?” Yvonne blurted. “You’d better explain what’s going on.”
Dracup was shocked at Yvonne’s appearance. He reached for her but the gesture was met by folded arms, a thin, tight mouth.
“Come in, old chap. That’s the way.” Malcolm extended a white forearm and pointed to the lounge. He pushed his spectacles back to their correct position on the bridge of his long nose and stood awkwardly aside.
“I know my way around. Thanks.” Something about Malcolm brought out the worst in Dracup. But he supposed that he would feel the same about anyone stepping into his shoes, living with his wife. Ex wife, he reminded himself.
Malcolm responded with forced levity. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”
Yvonne’s face was pinched with anxiety. “Malcolm. Get some coffee, please.”
“Will do.”
Dracup stood by the fireplace. He realized this was the first time he had returned to the house since their divorce. The room had been rearranged; a new regime was in place.
Yvonne glared at him. “Well? How did you know she was in danger? If this is anything to do with you, I—” Her fists were clenched.
The suspicion and hostility took him aback. “With me? How can—”
Malcolm reappeared. “Milk and sugar?” He waited protectively behind Yvonne, resting a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Yes. Two — please.”
Yvonne blew her nose. “I’m — I’m sorry. Give me a moment.”
“Take your time,” Dracup said. He softened his voice, hoping to calm her.
The phone rang and Malcolm rushed to pick it up. Yvonne was on her feet. Dracup’s heart thudded sickly in his chest. Malcolm nodded then covered the receiver with his hand. “Sorry — work call.”
Yvonne slumped back into her chair.
Dracup said, “Go on.”
“Nobody saw her after the whistle went for assembly. She was in the playground, then — she just disappeared. I thought you had planned it — I — oh, I don’t know what I thought.” Yvonne fixed him with an accusing stare. Her eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.
“I would never do anything like that. Give me some credit.”
Yvonne looked into her lap where her hands were twisting something around and around: Natasha’s hair band. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“What about the police?”
“They were here an hour ago.”
He knew that. He had waited until the squad cars had departed. “And?”
“They were hopeless.”
From the next room came the sound of muted conversation as Malcolm dispensed advice to his work colleague. Dracup’s mind was in overdrive. Was this Potzner’s doing? Why would the CIA organize a kidnap? If indeed Potzner was CIA. Was it all linked to the diary?
Yvonne studied his face. “You look awful. What happened in Scotland?” She got out of the chair and came towards him.
He raised both hands defensively. “I don’t know. I’ve had a strange twenty-four hours. It may be connected — I just don’t know.”
“Well, what are you going to do? Do something. Anything—” Yvonne was shouting now, pacing the living room. Malcolm reappeared with coffee and an apologetic shrug. He caught and held onto her.
Dracup didn’t know where to look. But he knew what he had to do. He was on his feet. “I have to go. If you hear anything, call me.”
He needed support. Advice. He needed Sara.
He left.
“Simon — it’ll be all right.”
He looked into her eyes, searching for truth, wanting to believe her. Would it? How? Sara had no children. She couldn’t know how this felt.
Sara squeezed his hand. “Look, Simon. She will be found. You have to hold onto that.”
The tone of her voice held a conviction that seemed more than a knee-jerk response to grief. But then Sara was a natural optimist and that was the kind of support he needed right now. Dracup cupped her chin. “Yes. I’ll try. Thanks.”
She reached out and smoothed the frown on his forehead. “I’ll help. I’ll do everything I can. We’ll look at the diary together and we’ll find her. But Simon—”
“What?”
Sara looked at him with sympathy. “It may be completely unrelated. You just don’t know—”
Dracup was shaking his head. “I do know. I found Natasha’s photo in the guy’s pocket. That makes it related. I mean, for God’s sake—” he trailed off abruptly and let his arm drop. “Sorry. I know you don’t like me saying that.”
Sara laid her cool hand on his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re stressed. I understand.”
The phone rang. Dracup started, then remembered that Yvonne couldn’t know the number; the house belonged to one of Sara’s University friends.
Sara squeezed his arm. “I’ll get it.”
He listened to her chatting to her friend. Cats, rent, banality. Outside, the rain teemed relentlessly. Dracup pressed his face up against the window and bunched his hands into fists; he had never felt so helpless.
Sara’s hand was on his shoulder. “Come and sit down.”
He took a deep breath. He had to concentrate, not panic like one of his students in a first year exam.
“Coffee?”
“Black, please. Thanks.”
Sara retreated to the kitchen. He pulled the diary from his jacket pocket and opened it at the first page, trying to push away thoughts of Natasha and what might be happening to her. He made himself focus on Theodore’s painstaking lettering. Find out what it means, Dracup, and you’ll find her. Those sketches at the back…
“That’s it?” Sara placed the coffee on the table.
Dracup leaned back on the settee. “Yes.”
“It looks very fragile. May I?”
Dracup felt very fragile too. “Go ahead. I’ll just use the bathroom if that’s okay.”
Sara smiled. “Sure.”
Dracup presented his face to the bathroom mirror. Lack of sleep had infused his eyes with red streaks and his cheeks had a grey, corpse-like pallor. He found some toothpaste to freshen his mouth, then briefly washed and towelled his face before rejoining Sara in the lounge. He watched as her brow knitted in concentration. She was wearing a white blouse, loosely tied at the waist and exposing an area of brown stomach around the umbilicus, as was the fashion these days. She crossed one long leg over the other and turned the fragile page to a new entry. After several minutes she looked up.
“This diagram — the markings. Aren’t they —?”
“Cuneiform. Yes, I’m ninety-nine per cent sure.” That much he knew. He also knew an expert would be required to decipher them.
Sara was watching him carefully. “I’ll get some more coffee. Rest your eyes for a few minutes. You’ll feel better.”
“Yes, all right. I’ll try.” He closed his eyes; as exhaustion overwhelmed him he remembered the first time he had seen that expression, the look that had intrigued and drawn him to Sara at that first lecture. He could picture the scene clearly. He had been outlining the basic concepts of Physical Anthropology…
“…integration of four fundamental concepts is necessary to an appreciation of the nature and importance of physical anthropology: firstly the chemistry of life; secondly evolution as process; thirdly, the interdependence of participants in a global ecosystem; and fourthly, the role of culture in human adaptation…”
And there was Sara. Front row of the theatre, hanging on his every word as he summarized…