Christine shone a torch around. A spare set of spectacles sat on an empty shelf. Some textbooks were haphazardly scattered on a desktop thick with dust. The police had taken almost everything.
Christine knelt down, then sighed again. ‘They took the bloody locker.’
‘Really?’
‘It was hidden down here. By the little fridge. It’s gone.’
Rob felt a keen disappointment. ‘So that’s that?’ It was a wasted journey.
Christine looked deeply sad. ‘Come on’, she said. ’Let’s go before someone sees us. We’ve already broken into a murder scene.’
Rob picked up the tyre jack. Again, as he walked to the car, past the shadowy pits, he felt that strange urge to go and touch the stones. To lie down next to them.
Christine opened the driver’s door of the Land Rover. The interior light came on. Simultaneously, Rob opened the back doors to stow the jack. And immediately he saw it: the light was glinting on a shiny little notebook. Nestling on the back seat; black but expensive looking. He picked it up. Opening the cover, he saw the name Franz Breitner-in small, neat handwriting.
Rob paced around the car and leaned in through the passenger door to show Christine his find.
‘Jesus!’ she cried. ‘That’s it! That’s Franz’s notebook! That’s what I was after. That’s where he wrote…everything.’
Rob handed it over. Her face intent, Christine flicked through the pages, muttering: ‘He wrote it all in here. I’d see him doing it. Secretly. This was his big secret. Well done!’
Rob climbed into the passenger seat. ‘But what’s it doing in your car?’ As soon as he asked thequestion he felt a little stupid. The answer was obvious. It must have fallen out of Franz’s pocket when Christine was driving him to hospital. Either that, or Franz knew he was dying, as he lay bleeding on the backseat, and took it out of his pocket and left it there. Deliberately. Knowing that Christine would find it.
Rob shook his head. He was turning into a conspiracy theorist. He had to get a grip. Reaching left, he slammed his door, making the car rattle.
‘Whoops,’ said Christine.
‘Sorry.’
‘Something fell.’
‘What?’
‘When you slammed the car door. Something fell out of the notebook.’
Christine was scrabbling on the floor of the foot well, running her hands this way and that beneath the pedals. Then she sat back, holding something in her fingers.
It was a dry stalk of grass. Rob stared at it. ‘Why on earth would Franz preserve that?’
But Christine was gazing at the grass. Intently.
15
Christine drove even faster than usual back into town. On the outskirts, where the scruffy desert bumped into the first grey concrete apartment blocks, they saw a feeble attempt at a roadside café, with white plastic tables arrayed outside, and a few truck drivers drinking beer. The drivers were drinking with guilty expressions.
‘Beer?’ said Rob.
Christine glanced across. ‘Good idea.’
She turned right and parked. The drivers stared over, as Christine climbed from the car and threaded her way to a table.
It was a warm evening; insects and flies were whirling around the bare bulbs strung outside the cafe. Rob ordered two Efes beers. They talked about Gobekli. Every so often a huge truck would thunder down the road, lights blazing, en route to Damascus or Riyadh or Beirut, drowning out their conversation and making the light bulbs shiver and kick. Christine flicked through the pagesof the notebook. She was rapt, almost feverish. Rob sipped his warm beer from his scratchy glass and let her do her thing.
Now she was flicking this way and that. Unhappily. At length she chucked the book onto the table, and sighed. ‘I don’t know…It’s a mess.’
Rob set down his beer. ‘Sorry?’
‘It’s chaotic.’ She tutted. ‘Which is strange. Because Franz was not messy. He was scrupulous. ’Teutonic efficiency’ he would call it. He was rigorous and exact. Always…always…’ Her brown eyes
Christine knelt down, then sighed again. ‘They took the bloody locker.’
‘Really?’
‘It was hidden down here. By the little fridge. It’s gone.’
Rob felt a keen disappointment. ‘So that’s that?’ It was a wasted journey.
Christine looked deeply sad. ‘Come on’, she said. ’Let’s go before someone sees us. We’ve already broken into a murder scene.’
Rob picked up the tyre jack. Again, as he walked to the car, past the shadowy pits, he felt that strange urge to go and touch the stones. To lie down next to them.
Christine opened the driver’s door of the Land Rover. The interior light came on. Simultaneously, Rob opened the back doors to stow the jack. And immediately he saw it: the light was glinting on a shiny little notebook. Nestling on the back seat; black but expensive looking. He picked it up. Opening the cover, he saw the name Franz Breitner-in small, neat handwriting.
Rob paced around the car and leaned in through the passenger door to show Christine his find.
‘Jesus!’ she cried. ‘That’s it! That’s Franz’s notebook! That’s what I was after. That’s where he wrote…everything.’
Rob handed it over. Her face intent, Christine flicked through the pages, muttering: ‘He wrote it all in here. I’d see him doing it. Secretly. This was his big secret. Well done!’
Rob climbed into the passenger seat. ‘But what’s it doing in your car?’ As soon as he asked thequestion he felt a little stupid. The answer was obvious. It must have fallen out of Franz’s pocket when Christine was driving him to hospital. Either that, or Franz knew he was dying, as he lay bleeding on the backseat, and took it out of his pocket and left it there. Deliberately. Knowing that Christine would find it.
Rob shook his head. He was turning into a conspiracy theorist. He had to get a grip. Reaching left, he slammed his door, making the car rattle.
‘Whoops,’ said Christine.
‘Sorry.’
‘Something fell.’
‘What?’
‘When you slammed the car door. Something fell out of the notebook.’
Christine was scrabbling on the floor of the foot well, running her hands this way and that beneath the pedals. Then she sat back, holding something in her fingers.
It was a dry stalk of grass. Rob stared at it. ‘Why on earth would Franz preserve that?’
But Christine was gazing at the grass. Intently.
15
Christine drove even faster than usual back into town. On the outskirts, where the scruffy desert bumped into the first grey concrete apartment blocks, they saw a feeble attempt at a roadside café, with white plastic tables arrayed outside, and a few truck drivers drinking beer. The drivers were drinking with guilty expressions.
‘Beer?’ said Rob.
Christine glanced across. ‘Good idea.’
She turned right and parked. The drivers stared over, as Christine climbed from the car and threaded her way to a table.
It was a warm evening; insects and flies were whirling around the bare bulbs strung outside the cafe. Rob ordered two Efes beers. They talked about Gobekli. Every so often a huge truck would thunder down the road, lights blazing, en route to Damascus or Riyadh or Beirut, drowning out their conversation and making the light bulbs shiver and kick. Christine flicked through the pagesof the notebook. She was rapt, almost feverish. Rob sipped his warm beer from his scratchy glass and let her do her thing.
Now she was flicking this way and that. Unhappily. At length she chucked the book onto the table, and sighed. ‘I don’t know…It’s a mess.’
Rob set down his beer. ‘Sorry?’
‘It’s chaotic.’ She tutted. ‘Which is strange. Because Franz was not messy. He was scrupulous. ’Teutonic efficiency’ he would call it. He was rigorous and exact. Always…always…’ Her brown eyes
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