The Trespass(14)

“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?”