The Trespass(89)
Moran was almost breathing down his neck. “Mr Dracup. I’m waiting.”
“Okay. I believe my daughter was abducted by a group of religious terrorists to exact a form of revenge on my family for something that happened more than eighty years ago. Charles was helping me and I suppose they got to him – to cover their tracks.”
Moran reappeared and took the seat opposite Dracup’s desk. The DCI steepled his hands and leaned his sharp chin on the temporary structure. He wasn’t laughing. Dracup glanced at Phelps. Neither was he. They know more than they’re letting on.
“I come from Southern Ireland, Mr Dracup. I’m no stranger to religious terrorism.” Moran sighed. “Let’s apply a little lubrication, Professor, mm? D’you have a coffee machine?”
“End of the corridor. Turn left.”
“Good. Phelps?”
Phelps’ expression implied a degree of reluctance, but he shrugged and left the room. Moran clicked the tape off. “Now listen, Mr Dracup. I know you were in France at the time Sturrock was murdered. We checked out the flight logs with local airfields. I also know the CIA is into this in a big way, but murders and abductions in the Royal County are my affair, not theirs. If you want me on your side you’d better start talking – and if I like what I hear I might be able to exclude you from our enquiries.”
“Have you read Charles’ last email to me? It’s a pretty good summary.”
“I have indeed. And there are many who would dismiss his conclusions as fanciful gobbledegook.”
Dracup laughed, a harsh sound in the enclosed space. “Yes. And I’m one of them.”
Moran sat back in his chair. “Are you?” He paused as if deciding whether or not to verbalize his train of thought. “I come from a country steeped in religion, Mr Dracup. I was expected to enter the priesthood after I left school. I even attended theological college.”
“Oh? So what happened?”
“Life happened, Mr Dracup. You know how it is. You grow up; you have a head full of ideals. Then you slowly begin to realize what a chaotic world this really is. People die. You can’t find any answers or make any sense out of it. Ambitions are frustrated. You get older. Eventually, God dies as well.”
“You lost your faith.”
“Faith is a hard thing to maintain when you’ve seen what I’ve seen back home; the ruined lives, the widowed mothers, the fatherless children. I’ve seen some pretty unpleasant things in my time as a policeman. It doesn’t help.”
Dracup detected some seed of hope in Moran’s eyes. Almost a hunger.
The DCI was leaning forward now. “Tell me about the diary. And the inscriptions on this thing you found.”
Dracup told him. There was little to gain by feigning ignorance, and something in the policeman’s manner suggested a willingness to suspend disbelief in the improbable. Dracup was having trouble doing just that himself, but the evidence, he conceded, was pointing him inexorably in the same direction. He produced the flash card. They viewed the photographs in silence.
“Well, like I said, it’s all gobbledegook to me,” Moran said. “You say this is the key to your daughter’s location?”
“I believe so, yes. If it’s translated along with Alpha’s cuneiform. And that requires expertise.”
“And no doubt the CIA have an expert to hand?”
“Yes. Potzner had the first part of the stanza translated pretty quickly.” Dracup wondered if the Thames Valley had a cuneiform expert on permanent standby. It didn’t seem likely.
Moran paced the room. “This Potzner character. You think he had anything to do with Sturrock’s murder?”
Dracup shook his head. “It wouldn’t benefit them. It has to be the Korumak, the same person who was after me. I only know him as Mukannishum.”
“And he followed you to Ethiopia?” Moran listened in ill-concealed amazement as Dracup told him of the rock churches and Mukannishum’s demise in the lion pit.
Moran was shaking his head. “I can’t put any of this in the report.” He leaned over the table. “If you’re spinning me one, Dracup, I’m going to take you to the cleaners. You’ll go down for a long time, trust me.”
“Why would I make it up?” Dracup heard himself yelling. “I’m an anthropologist, not a Hollywood script writer. I just want my daughter back.”
Moran held his hands up. “All right, all right. Calm.” He sat down and folded his arms. “So. I’m chasing shadows. That’s what you’re telling me. The man who killed Sturrock is dead. And his organization, run by some character named Kadesh, are nowhere to be found.”