The Trespass(86)

“Next corner – it’s a tight one. Pull into the side and let me out. Then keep going.” He pressed a twenty-pound note into the driver’s raised hand. “Don’t get caught.”

“No problem, sir. Thank you kindly.”

The cab screeched to a halt. Dracup grabbed his bag and flung himself out. With a melodramatic whirl of rubber the minicab disappeared around the bend. Dracup sank into the shadows. Thirty seconds later the BMW hurtled into view, this time accompanied by a squad car, siren blaring like a demented operatic. Dracup hopped over the campus perimeter fence. It was dusk and the grounds were quiet. He leaned against the fence and wondered what to do. Images of Sara came back to him, the night they had fled from the assassin. The dead man lying by the bridge, pale-faced in the moonlight. Dracup took a deep breath and strode on. The gatehouse was only a minute or so away. He fretted that Moran would appear before they had a chance to examine Bek’s photos. He skirted the lake and crunched up the few metres of gravel before Charles’ gatehouse came into view. It, too was in darkness. Dracup was unperturbed. His friend could be anywhere on campus – it was not unusual for Charles to be seen pottering around the various faculty buildings well into the evening. Dracup resolved to wait.

He approached the door and stopped, shocked into indecision. The porch was protected by a blue-chequered ‘Police – keep out’ tape, and standing nonchalantly a few metres away by the road was a young, bored-looking constable. Dracup retreated into the bushes. Oh no, not Charles. He thought rapidly. Check the back, Dracup, you idiot. Risky with the police presence, but he had to see for himself. He cautiously circled the gatehouse and, when he was satisfied the rear was unguarded, walked quickly to the back entrance and tried the door handle. Locked. He moved stealthily along to the casement window. The small window at the top was open. He inserted a hand and slid the brass handle upwards. He paused and listened. A car rumbled past. He heard a faint whistling. The policeman, bored out of his mind. Quietly, Dracup, quietly... He inserted the tips of his fingers and pulled slowly. The window opened. He went in.





The house felt cold. Dracup picked his way through the bedroom and into the hall. Charles’ study door lay before him. He peered through the hall window and checked the policeman’s position. He was sitting on the wall with a notebook balanced on his lap, writing or doodling; it was hard to say. Dracup tiptoed into the study. He waited until his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. He ran a finger along the desk. It came away covered in a powdery substance, like talcum powder. Forensics. Oh Charles, Charles. What happened to you? What happened here?

He slid his hands across the bare desk. Nothing. All of Charles’ chaotic correspondence had gone. Probably in a polythene bag in Moran’s office. Dracup staggered out of the office and back to the window he had left ajar. The cool air helped, but it was several minutes before he was able to climb out and retrieve his bag. He walked along the familiar path and found a bench. He heard Charles’ voice in his head, as clear as a bell: I’ll pop something in the old electro-post if I think it’s worthwhile. Dracup got to his feet and strode resolutely towards the main University buildings.





His office was another world, one he had left behind. There was his inkstand. There was the pile of unmarked essays, the old jacket draped across his chair. And his PC – an ancient machine he’d constantly berated IT resources to replace. He sat heavily in the chair and switched it on. He emptied his pockets onto the desk as the PC booted. Mobile, airline ticket, passport. Camera. Dracup slid the memory card out and placed it carefully in his top pocket. The PC presented his desktop and he logged into hotmail. Dracup groaned. You have 507 new messages. He scrolled impatiently through the junk mail, deleting offers of Viagra and hot dates in his area with resolute clicks of the mouse. And then he found it. Sturrock, Charles. Received: 4 Oct. Subject: As discussed. Dracup hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys. Was that a noise in the corridor? He went to the door and looked out. There was no one. He sat down and opened the email.





My dear Simon





I hardly know where to start this communication. I would recommend you make yourself comfortable, pour a stiff drink and prepare for my unusual, but I have to say logical, conclusions.





Dracup shook his head. Charles was Charles, even via email; abbreviation would never have occurred to him. His smile faded as he remembered the dark gatehouse, the emptiness. He could be just visiting friends. Dracup ran a trembling hand through his hair. He caught himself in the mirror and groaned at the sight. Sunburned, haggard. He took a deep breath and read on.