The Trespass Read Online Free

be. But had Potzner sent him? This man was olive-skinned – Mediterranean? No, Middle-Eastern by the look of him. Dracup remembered Potzner’s parting words: Take care.
    Second thing: the diary. He made a quick search under the bed. He realized he was holding his breath just as he caught sight of the little book by the bed leg. He retrieved it and breathed again.
    Third thing: the body. He reached for the phone, then checked himself. Would they believe him? His mind conjured an image of the police interview, his reaction as they produced false but compelling evidence fabricated by the CIA, heard his protests overruled by stony-faced Scotland Yard officers…
    Dracup stumbled into the bathroom and was violently sick. He retched into the bowl until there was nothing left in his stomach. His legs would barely support him as he splashed cold water on his face and examined his forearm. An angry gash, but not too deep. Could have been a lot worse. He realized he was speaking aloud but his voice seemed distant, as if it belonged to somebody else.
    He freshened his mouth with toothpaste and sat on the edge of the bed to consider his next move. Police or no police? He looked at the diary; a small thing, nestled in his shaking hands. He squatted down next to the corpse and made himself examine the pockets. He pulled something out. And froze. He was holding a photograph of Natasha in his hand. She was standing outside her school, lunchbox dangling at her side, backpack askew. Smiling.
    Oh God. No.
    The telephone shook in his hands. His fingers were jabbing Yvonne’s number. He waited. Nothing. Come on . The ring tone went on and on. Then he remembered Yvonne’s habit of turning down the ring volume at night. Please. Please pick up.
    Five minutes later he slammed the phone into its cradle. He glanced at the digital clock: 02:25. Dracup took a deep breath and got hold of the corpse’s shoulders. The body was heavy. It took him five minutes of heaving and sweating to get it into the bathroom. He closed the door, fished another miniature of Johnnie Walker from the minibar and downed it in one. No police; no time. A handful of tissues took care of the bloodstained furniture. He stuffed his belongings into a suitcase and looked into the corridor. There was no one about. He closed the door behind him and headed for the fire escape.
     
     
     

Chapter 2
     
     
    The receptionist looked up and smiled coquettishly. “Why, hello again Mr Potzner.”
    Potzner returned her smile. Hell, she was pretty enough. “Morning. Mr Dracup about?”
    Her brow furrowed. “The Professor? Just a moment. I think –” she tapped away at the keyboard. “No, sorry.” She looked up and smiled brightly but Potzner’s face was a mask. “He checked out, I’m afraid.”
    “When?”
    “Let’s see.” More tapping. Potzner joined in with his fingers on the counter.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the receptionist said. “Computer’s slow this morning.”
    Potzner grunted. He’d obviously misread Dracup. Unusual for him.
    “He left early, I think,” she said. “I can’t quite make out – ah – sorry, the records just say ‘paid in full’ and ‘no bar bills outstanding’. I can’t tell you any more.”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    “Wait.” Her fingernails clicked and stabbed the ‘Enter’ key conclusively. “‘No newspaper collected’. That’s it.” She shrugged.
    “Right.” Potzner made his way across the foyer, which was beginning to fill up with senior citizens. When he judged the receptionist’s attention fully diverted he slipped up the staircase to the second floor. Pausing outside room 124 he produced a plain card, which he swiped through the entry scanner. The lock clicked. He went in.
    The bed was made and the curtains drawn. Everything seemed in order. Room maids had been in already. Bit early though. Then he remembered passing the maid’s trolley in the corridor. They hadn’t got this far yet. Someone else has cleaned up .