When they reached the stream, Ruth found her water jar and allowed Natasha to sit and dip her toes. She watched the child skim a stone, languidly, carelessly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, exercising her new skill with an indifferent movement of her wrist. Ruth knew what she was thinking. The paintings always had that effect. Even now she felt soporific, sluggish; there was the usual reluctance to return her mental faculties to the present.
Jassim took her arm. “Ruth.” His eyes fixed on hers. There was something in his tone. At once she was alert.
“What? What is it?”
Jassim took her hands in his own and held them. It was a gesture of sympathy which, combined with his expression, implied a degree of helplessness, an inability to change something in her favour. “Ruth. Your sister –” He paused briefly then took a decisive breath. “Sara is coming home.”
Chapter 15
Dracup parked the car outside his old house. He had passed another sleepless night, haunted not only by Natasha’s but now by Sara’s disappearance. He had tried to push thoughts of her aside – he needed the thinking space more than anything else – but his emotions refused to be tamed. He pulled himself together with an effort. This wasn’t going to be easy. He checked his appearance in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. It would have to do.
“Hello.” Dracup gave it his best shot, stretching his facial muscles into something he hoped resembled a confident smile.
“Hi.” Yvonne studied his expression briefly. “You’d better come in.”
Dracup stepped into the hall. Strange how a once familiar place could change. It didn’t smell the same. Houses adopted the smell of their occupants but his contribution was long gone, superseded by whatever equivalent Malcolm’s sweat glands were programmed to generate. And there was something else missing; the smell of a child. Toys, paints, Mr Foamy bath bubbles. Yet he could feel Natasha’s presence. Her reading folder lay on the telephone table. A teddy bear sat on the window ledge in silent witness to the household’s youngest member. He accepted Yvonne’s offer of a seat, strangely formal, and watched her arrange herself equally formally in the armchair as if about to embark on a conversation with her financial consultant. She had lost weight and the strain was showing around her eyes, where dark circles had appeared, a foretaste of a future where such marks would be a permanent feature.
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.”