The Trespass(95)

Dracup felt numb. Iraq is a war zone. They took my daughter into a war zone. . .

“And something else –” Fish attempted to control his accelerating excitement. “The gate of God – p-probably refers to Babylon. The derivation is B-Babil.”

“Appropriately so,” Gembala muttered under his breath.

Fish looked to be in danger of hyperventilation. “Well, don’t you see the metaphorical implication?” he stuttered.

The gathering waited patiently for enlightenment.

“Beyond the gate of God. Outside God’s gate,” Fish repeated slowly, as if teaching a class of very small children. “Adam was what? Banished from God’s presence.”

Potzner banged the map with his fist. “That’s enough for me. Fish – I need detailed maps. Colonel Gembala – tell your fly guys we’ll be joining them in ten. Dracup – you come with me.”

Dracup was thinking hard. What would they do with him? A back seat, Gembala had said. Now that his hope had been rekindled he was terrified they might leave him behind. Forty-eight hours, the text message had read. Dracup did some swift calculations. Iraq was at least six hours by air. That was all right; there was still time. Somehow he had to contact Moran. He felt in his pockets for inspiration; his mobile had been confiscated, but he still had his fountain pen.





In the corridor they passed the sandwich lady on her way out. As he passed the trolley Dracup said, “A moment, please?” Potzner turned impatiently. Dracup held a five-pound note, which he pressed into the woman’s hand. He quickly picked a cheese and tomato roll from the unsold items on her tray.

“Still hungry, Prof?” Farrell grinned. “I sure could do with a hot dinner. Reckon there’ll be something on the transport, if it makes you feel any better.”

They exited the building through a set of double doors and into a waiting jeep. It started to rain as they crossed the tarmac. Dracup heard the whine of jet engines before the winking red lights of the military transport plane appeared through the darkness. A door opened in the fuselage and a set of steps hydraulically extended to the tarmac.

“After you, Prof,” Farrell invited Dracup with an outstretched arm.

Dracup followed Potzner up the steps into the aircraft. He turned and took a last look at the cool, English night. He took a deep breath, allowing the air to completely fill his lungs. Then he went inside.





Pam Dellow guided the Dellow’s Delicious Deli van out of the airbase main gate. The sentry grinned and saluted. She gave him her usual cheery wave. Inside her heart was fluttering wildly. She glanced over to the seat beside her to make sure the piece of paper was still there. The man who had given it to her along with the five-pound note had also given her a long, lingering look. It was a long time since Pam had been the subject of such attention – especially from a good-looking bloke like that. A good-looking clever bloke – the American had called him ‘Prof’. But as she bumped along the country lanes towards her home village she reluctantly conceded that it was probably a look of trust, rather than lust. She shrugged and gave a deep sigh. Oh, well. It was a nice thought anyway, Pam. He needed her to deliver the note. But what did it mean? She picked it up and risked another look as she waited to join the traffic on the main road. It didn’t make much sense:





DCI Moran, Thames Valley Police

Baghdad

Dracup





Pam shook her head in puzzlement. The van’s clock told her it was just past midnight. An expression her teenage daughter used came into her head: Whatever. She would call DCI Moran when she got home. The police, like her, were used to working all hours.





Chapter 33





Yvonne Dracup carefully unpacked her shopping and made a cup of coffee. She looked at the packet of cigarettes she had bought but couldn’t bring herself to open. Cigarettes? She was changing. Something was happening to her. She took a sip and scalded her tongue, pushed the kitchen chair back angrily and began to put the washing up away. First the glasses, then the plates, then the cutlery. Forks to the left, knives to the right. She picked up a large Royal Doulton bowl and flung it to the tiled floor. It exploded with a terrifying noise. A shard of pottery nicked her bare foot and drew blood. She stood in the wreckage, hands at her sides, and sobbed. She heard her voice rising in a loud howl: “Why?”

The house was silent around her, unresponsive. Her breath was coming in uneven gulps. I can’t do this anymore. No human being should have to bear this. She looked at the knife block with its gleaming array of serrated steel. Her skin was so pale, so fragile. She selected a short filleting knife and pressed the blade experimentally against her wrist. It wouldn’t hurt much; just a little sting, then a long, long sleep. She increased the pressure, fascinated by the way the blood fled from the indentation as if anticipating an unnatural exit from her flesh.