The Trespass(38)

“And did he?”

“Yes – and he found Mummy’s necklace too, so she wasn’t cross any more. She said he was single-minded. And they laughed a lot.” Natasha bit her lip. “I remember because they didn’t used to do that much.”

Jassim nodded attentively. “Adults sometimes behave in ways that are hard to understand. But there is usually a reason. When you are older you will know what I mean. Now then –” he stood up and clapped his hands. “Would you like to see some paintings?”

“Yes. All right.”

“You don’t sound very sure,” Ruth chided. “These are no ordinary paintings.”

“They are very old.” Jassim frowned. “Some say even older than me.”

Natasha giggled, and Ruth forced a smile for the child’s sake.

“Come, child,” Jassim said. “I will show you.” To Ruth he said, “You can collect these later. Leave them where they are.” He waved at the water jars. “No –one is going to touch them. We’re all friends here.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows, but Jassim met her gaze and held it. His eyes said, Nothing has changed. We just carry on as before. She sighed, took Natasha’s hand and together they followed Jassim’s tall figure as he threaded his way confidently along the ancient passageways of their home.





Chapter 13





Dracup pulled into Forest Avenue and eased the car alongside number 185. His back ached and he wanted to inspect the wax tablet. Not with Farrell around, though. Farrell said, “Douse the lights and get down.”

“What?”

“Do it, now.”

Dracup complied. He half slid onto the floor and compressed his body under the steering column. He knew better than to question Farrell. Someone was onto them. He heard an engine purr alongside, a car door close softly. Dracup held his breath and thanked God that the street lights cast his own vehicle in shadow.

“Keep still,” Farrell hissed.

Footsteps alongside. A hesitation. Then receding up the path to his aunt’s flat.

Dracup eased his head up. He caught a glimpse of a tall figure silhouetted against the light woodwork of the gate. Very tall.

Farrell nudged him again. “Get down, Professor.”

He’d left the light on in the hallway. That was good. Whoever it was thought they were inside.

“On my say so, start her up and get going,” Farrell told him.

“Which direction?”

“Forward would be good.”

How many? Dracup wondered. One in the garden, one maybe in the other car. He thought quickly. “Where’s their car?”

“Directly in front,” Farrell said. “So keep out of sight.”

The agent raised his head a fraction. “Another one coming out. Get ready.”

Dracup tensed his body. His heart was doing a drum solo.

“On three. One. Two. Three.”

Dracup was in the seat, hand fumbling for the ignition. Farrell reached over and flicked the lights on. The engine roared. Dracup pumped the accelerator and the car hurtled forward. He caught a glimpse of a young man in the headlights, bearded, dark skinned, hands thrown up to protect his eyes. Then they were past him and careering down the road.

Farrell was fiddling with something. Dracup looked over and moistened his lips. He saw the magazine, the neat clip of bullets as Farrell loaded the automatic and turned around in his seat. “Okay. Next right.”

Dracup hauled the wheel, glanced in his mirror. “Where to?”

“I’ll tell you in a while. Just drive.”

The wheel was slick with sweat. Dracup drove on.





They turned into a nondescript street on the other side of Aberdeen. There was nothing to distinguish one house from the next. A line of terraces. Anonymous.

“Nice place you have here, Farrell,” Dracup said as the agent turned the key and the tatty door swung open.

“It’s safe. No, not the hall lights.” Farrell held up his hand. “Kitchen’s in there.”

Dracup laid his wrapped bundle carefully on the kitchen table and sat down. He noticed his hands were trembling. A yellowed cottage clock tacked to the wall told him it was 5.14, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He unravelled the cloth, exposing the base metal underneath. The smooth locking groove ran the length of the broader upright, confirmation that another, matching piece existed. Dracup ran his fingers over the mottled surface. It was exquisite in design and pattern, true to his grandfather’s sketch and more; an artist, however talented, could not hope to capture the intricacy and beauty of the object lying before him. He wondered if modern technology could replicate such workmanship.

As if echoing his own thoughts Farrell let out a soft whistle. “She sure is a beauty.” He placed his automatic on the table. “Not surprising they want to get hold of it.”