Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  Mrs Flynn inserted two new cartridges and closed the action. “Why? What would I want with money?”

  Jag’s mouth opened and closed. He had no answer to a question that, to him, seemed nonsensical. “What then? What can I give you? Anything–”

  Mrs Flynn raised the gun a second time and Jag screamed. She waited for him to run out of breath and said quietly in the resultant pause: “You can give me your life.”

  And then she squeezed the trigger.

  Mrs Flynn looked down at Jag’s twitching body. There was a great deal of blood. He hadn’t died straight away, like his brother had. Maybe she hadn’t hit any vital organs. No matter. He would die soon. A sudden weariness overcame her and she sank into a nearby chair. The carpet was covered with blood and torn bank notes. The siren she had heard earlier was outside now, very close, but her fingers were crochet-nimble and she had the gun reloaded very quickly.

  As the front door crashed open she placed the stock of the gun on the floor in front of her and the barrel in her mouth. She allowed herself one last thought, one last recollection – her baby girl, her Sharron, taking her first steps at the farm. The toddler’s innocent face looked up at her and smiled, full of simple, guileless trust. With that image firmly in her mind Mrs Flynn hooked her thumb around the trigger and pressed it down.

  Moran gritted his teeth as he stepped over Atul’s body. The house smelled of blood and cordite. He heard Charlie gag behind him and then a covert, rustling movement in the lounge. His heart raced. For a brief moment optimism blossomed, but before he could reach the lounge a shotgun blast ripped his hope away.

  Moran entered the room cautiously. Flakes of wallpaper and plaster were dropping from the ceiling like bloodied butterflies. Mrs Flynn – at least he had to make the assumption it was Mrs Flynn – was sitting in one of the carvers, a shotgun propped against her thigh. Most of her head was missing, but he was able to recognise the dress she had worn at the farm interview. The clumps of hair adhering to the wallpaper also aided his identification; Mrs Flynn had worn her grey hair proudly and long, even in late middle age, foregoing the usual temptation to colour and perm. Traditional country stock, the Flynns. No frills – just honest, hardworking people who’d taken one wrong turn, and then another, and another after that, through life’s deceitful and perplexing maze.

  Charlie was at his side, pale but composed. “Shall I call the SOCOs, guv?”

  Moran looked down at Jag Ranandan’s ruined body. It was justice, he supposed, of a kind. Maybe the only kind Jag Ranandan and his ilk could understand. He nodded.

  “Yes. Better had, DI Pepper.” Then he turned and limped out of the house without another word.

  The sun was still shining. The hum of rush hour traffic drifted over from the motorway junction. Life went on, as it always would. Moran smelled the fragrance of flowers on the light evening breeze and noticed that the garden two doors away was resplendent with colourful blooms. Shona liked flowers; freesias were one of her favourites, he recalled. He made a mental note to pop into the florist on his way to the RBH. Or maybe, he reflected, it would be wiser to give the visit a miss altogether.

  Moran sat on the garden wall and listened to the sound of the world passing by. The clear atmosphere magnified each individual noise; cars, voices, the erratic drone of a dragonfly buzzing through the suburban flora. Moran closed his eyes and allowed the sun to bathe his upturned face. If only, he thought wistfully, if only the warmth could slip under his skin, penetrate his soul, revive his wounded spirit.

  If only. If only...

  DCI Brendan Moran also appears in

  ‘The Trespass’

  Read on to sample the prologue & first chapter

  Prologue

  Smithsonian Institution expedition, March 1920

  Location: classified

  He placed his hands gently upon the stone, probing and pressing. It would open, given the correct sequence. And he knew the sequence; he’d worked it out. The question was, should he use this knowledge?

  “Come on, Theo. Quit stalling.”

  He felt a prod in his lower back. Theodore swallowed hard. He had no choice. That had always been the case. No choice. Let posterity remember that, if nothing else. He turned his attention to the task, fingers moving over the smooth surface. And then a rolling of tumblers, the wall folding away. He heard the American’s gasp of surprise and a collective intake of breath from those following. Theodore mopped his brow and squinted into the opening. He’d been expecting wonders, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

  Before them was a chamber, empty except for a raised platform upon which rested a large sarcophagus, an object of such beauty he could only stare in awe.

  “I said move it, Theo. What are you waiting for?”

  Theodore advanced reluctantly, his heartbeat a pounding ostinato against his ribs. Torchlight flickered as they jostled him forward. No choice. I have no choice. He stumbled and put a hand out to save himself, grasping the corner of the dais. It was cold to his touch and he pulled his hand away with a gasp. It made him feel – unholy.

  “Okay, let’s get it open.”

  He was pushed roughly aside, and stepped back in trepidation. This is wrong. This is not for us to see...

  But the others were heaving at the heavy lid, crowbars grappling for purchase. Slowly it lifted, then fell to the floor with a crash that shook the chamber from top to bottom. Theodore covered his ears and muttered a prayer. Forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing…

  An abrupt silence descended. Heads craned, peering into the sarcophagus. Theodore found himself drawn by a terrible fascination. For a moment he saw nothing, a swirl of colour, then his eyes were brought sharply into focus and he fell back with a cry of astonishment, covering his face in anguish. It’s true. I was right…With this thought came a renewed conviction. I can’t let them do this – they don’t understand… He felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket, then he was pointing it, the muzzle wavering in his sweat-slicked grip. He heard himself call a warning. A hand reached from behind and grabbed his wrist. The gun exploded towards the chamber roof sending a splinter of rock skittering. He lashed out with a kick but a grip of steel encircled him, pinning his arms. He felt the needle slide into his flesh and he was falling, spinning in slow motion towards the floor. There was no pain but he heard a distant groan; with a shock he realized it was his voice. I must stop them… He tried to crawl but bizarre shapes zipped and twirled across his peripheral vision, diving and swooping at him like gulls. He covered his eyes with one hand and groped forward like a blind man in a storm. He felt a boot crunch against his ribs and heard sibilant, chattering laughter. He ignored it all. With his remaining strength he reached out towards the sarcophagus, felt its cool surface under his fingertips and was comforted. As darkness descended he thought he saw angels surrounding the dais, enfolding it with their powerful, protective wings.

  Chapter 1

  Simon Dracup’s head ached as he walked briskly along the hotel corridor. Surely it couldn’t be true? Perhaps his grandfather had invented the whole thing. But why do that? It had to be genuine. He tutted with irritation. No point in speculating now – he needed to study the diary in depth before he jumped to any conclusions. The phone was ringing as he swiped the key card over the lock and pushed impatiently into his room. He threw his overcoat onto the bed and made a grab for the beeping instrument.

  “Dracup.”

  A woman’s voice said, “Where have you been?”

  Dracup felt his hackles rising. His ex-wife’s directness still rankled. “Give me a moment.” He thumbed the phone onto speaker and shrugged off his jacket. The diary was still in his inside pocket. He fished it out and placed it carefully on the bedside cabinet. Unremarkable in appearance, but the contents, if factual, were no less than mind-blowing.

  “Are you there?” Yvonne’s voice barked through the speaker. “Are you coming on Saturday? What do I tell Natasha?”

  “If you’d l
et me –”

  “She has to have continuity. She’s only eight years old and it’s been difficult enough with –”

  “Now listen,” he heard himself shouting; Yvonne never failed to light his touchpaper. “I will be there at 9 a.m. That’s nine in the morning. I will return her at 4 p.m., afternoon, GMT, okay?”

  “There’s no need to shout, Simon. I can hear you perfectly well.” Yvonne’s voice spoke evenly across the miles.

  “Tell Natasha I love her. I’ll be there.” He felt his eyes prickle and bit his lip angrily. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. She gets on so well with Malcolm. They’re real buddies.”

  “That’s great.” He gritted his teeth. “I’m her buddy too. And I’m also her daddy.”

  “Yes, well. You should have thought of that before –”

  There was a soft but clear knock on the door. Dracup swore under his breath. “Just a minute; there’s someone at the door.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  The ambiguity in her tone was not lost on him. “For heaven’s sake, Yvonne –”

  “I’ll see you at nine on Saturday then.” The line went dead.

  The soft tap came again.

  “Yes. All right. Just a second.” Dracup strode to the door and yanked it open. A tall man in a dark suit stood on the threshold. His face was sallow, saddened by drooping eyelids and matching downturn of mouth. In the eyes, however, Dracup discerned a keen intelligence.

  “Mr – Professor – Dracup?”

  “Who wants to know?” Dracup asked, more aggressively than he’d intended.

  The visitor smiled thinly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything? I left my card with reception – James Potzner.”

  Dracup fished the card out of his trouser pocket. It read:

  James Potzner

  US Embassy,

  Grosvenor Square,

  London

  “Well. What do you want?” Even as he phrased the question he knew the answer. It was in the buff envelope on the bedside table: the diary.

  “If I may –” Potzner took a step forward.

  Dracup hesitated. Hold on, he told himself, it might not be anything to do with the diary. Then why this sense of foreboding? Well, if he was right Potzner could at least answer his questions – and he had plenty of those. He stood aside to let the visitor in. “Of course. Be my guest.”

  Potzner entered the room and walked to the large picture window. The lights of Aberdeen winked in the failing light. “You know, you have a great view here.” He admired the scene for a moment, then bent over and flicked a button on the bedside console. The electric blinds folded the view away. “Can’t be too careful.” Potzner offered a smile and lowered himself smoothly onto the two-seater settee.

  Dracup frowned. The diary had been a strange enough addition to his day. And now this stranger settling into his room like an old school friend…

  “You don’t have something to –?” Potzner made the shape of a glass with his hand.

  “Of course. Forgive me. What can I get you?” Dracup fumbled with the cabinet doors under the TV until he found the minibar. “There’s coke, white wine, gin.” He peered at a label. “Scotch–”

  “That’s the one.”

  Dracup poured himself a gin and tonic and sat on the edge of the bed. “So what can I do for you, Mr Potzner?”

  “I’ll give it to you straight, Mr Dracup. You have something we need.” Potzner took a pull at his Scotch.

  Dracup’s heart skipped. “Need? That’s a strong word.”

  “It’s appropriate, Mr Dracup.”

  “Well, go on, I’m listening.”

  “You’ve come to Scotland to hear your aunt’s will. The solicitor gave you a diary this afternoon. It belonged to your grandfather, Theodore. Your aunt kept it a secret for many years. She had it placed under lock and key. Until her death.” Potzner produced a gold cigarette case and offered it to Dracup.

  “No thanks.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Carry on.”

  Potzner thumbed his Zippo and inhaled deeply.

  Dracup watched him suspiciously. “How do you know what I may or may not be doing in Scotland?”

  Potzner sat forward. “Professor; it’s my business to know things.” The American went on. “Your name is Simon Andrew Dracup. You are forty-five years old. You were brought up in India, but relocated to Berkshire when your father was offered a consultant post at the Royal Berkshire Hospital. You wanted to follow him into medicine but your father dissuaded you. Your first girlfriend was Susan, your best friend’s sister. The relationship didn’t last because when you visited you didn’t know if you were there to see your friend or Susan and neither did they. Boy, that was a bummer. She really loved you.

  “You got straight As at A level and went to Bristol University to escape home, even though Reading offered a better course in Anthropology. You married Yvonne when you were twenty-eight, although you weren’t sure and your friends even less so. Your daughter Natasha was born eight years ago after your wife – sorry, ex-wife – had undergone a prolonged course of fertility treatment. Politically you swing to the left but enjoy a lifestyle that is definitely headed over to the right. Your students respect you and you’re known as a reliable guy. Professionally, you’re a hot potato. Your special interest is physical anthropology and you’ve made many field trips to many different countries. Your marriage ended because of the strain produced by successive failures of IVF, but your subsequent and unexpected love affair with one Sara Benham, a student at the University, has kept you on an even keel. You’re trying to make a go of it, but your ex and her new man are giving you a hard time. And the other side of the coin is tough too because, irrationally for a man of logic, you blame Sara for taking you away from Natasha, so you’re not sure how –”

  Dracup had his hand up. “All right. All right.” Shaken, he took a long swig from his tumbler. Whoever Potzner was, he had all the facts straight. Detailed facts.

  Potzner read his expression. “It’s my job, Mr Dracup. Nothing personal.”

  “Nothing personal? That’s my life.”

  Potzner crossed one long leg over the other and flicked ash into the wastepaper bin. “It all goes in the shredder after you give me the diary. You have my word.”

  Dracup had his doubts but his curiosity was aroused. What else did Potzner know? Why was this so important? He went on the offensive. “So it’s genuine?”

  Potzner raised an eyebrow.

  “What the diary records about Noah’s Ark,” Dracup continued, “or at least the remains of some ancient vessel – that it was discovered in Turkey in 1920.”

  “Yeah,” the American nodded thoughtfully, “the traditional Biblical location.”

  Dracup shrugged. “Mount Ararat? Look, I’ve seen all sorts on the web about possible sites – blurred photos that show boat-shaped anomalies, stories about expeditions that never got off the ground – but my grandfather...” The idea was still preposterous, however he approached it. He frowned. “Theodore was actually there?”

  Potzner got up and walked to the window. He moved the blind aside for a few seconds, then turned and faced Dracup. “Yeah. He was there.”

  Dracup levelled his gaze directly at Potzner. “And how did you keep a discovery of this magnitude under lock and key?”

  For a split second, Potzner looked uncomfortable. “Before my time, Professor. The Department took care of the details.”

  “I see.” Dracup sipped his drink. A cover-up, then. A big one.

  “But the fact is, Professor, your grandfather was part of another expedition – after the one that found the Ark. You might say it was inaugurated as a consequence of the success of the first.”

  Dracup nodded. “Go on.”

  “I’ll tell you as much as I can, Mr Dracup, but in the interest of security – and your own safety –”

  “Oh, please, cut the crap.”

  “Now you’re sounding more stateside than I do
.” Potzner smiled briefly. “Okay. I’ll keep it simple. The Ark of Noah contained a number of –” Potzner searched for the right word, “– interesting finds. One in particular created a big stir. It pointed to another location where cargo from the Ark was apparently taken after it grounded. So, the second expedition followed this up six months later and returned with…” Potzner scratched his blue chin with a long forefinger, “… something priceless; something we have kept securely since it was first brought back to the US.”

  “And my grandfather was part of all this?”

  “Oh yeah. Up to his eyeballs. He was a key member of both expos. It was his expertise – and his colleague’s – that revealed the second location. He was not only a first-rate geologist but also a gifted historian. Seems that brains run in the family, right, Professor? Anyhow, his colleague, guy by the name of Reeves-Churchill, was the archaeologist on both expeditions. We have no record of what happened to him. But as you know, although your grandfather made it back in one piece from both expos he didn’t keep too well after his return to the UK.”

  “That’s an understatement. He was committed in 1921, the year after this diary was completed.” Dracup had picked up the diary from the bedside table, but quickly put it down again with a silent curse. Brilliant, Dracup. Now he knows you’ve got it.

  If Potzner was excited at the sight of the diary, he didn’t show it. He reclaimed his former position on the settee and nodded. “Right. It was tough. A brilliant mind wasted – but it wasn’t all for nothing. Like I said, they found something extraordinary.”

  Something in the American’s tone sent a cold wave down Dracup’s neck. He cleared his throat. “The discovery of the Ark is extraordinary enough, but it might help my understanding if you told me exactly what they found in this… other location.”