Krysalis: Krysalis by John Tranhaile Page B

servant’s brain began ordering the known evidence. One, Anna knew he was going to be at a residential seminar for a long weekend; two, she had sounded distraught on the phone; three, she sounded as if she had been drinking; four, her suitcase was gone; five, she was gone….
    He consulted his list and decided on a long shot. Cornwall.
    For what seemed ages he listened to the peculiarrasping tone generated by the St. Mary Abbott exchange. At last he abandoned the call. They were probably feeding the pigs, or weaving, or doing whatever communal types did with their days. Besides, Anna had never got on with her daughter. She would hardly have confided in Juliet.
    The options were fewer now. David added another name to the list, at the foot of the page, to indicate that it was a last resort and that there might be alternatives he had not yet considered. Then he rang two local hospitals, drawing a blank in each case.
    Perhaps she really
had
gone to Paris …?
    The final entry on his list appeared to have been written in darker ink than the rest. He could not take his eyes off it. He imagined himself already talking to the person, trying to anticipate the questions….
    There had to be a simple explanation. But he encountered only this hole where perceptions of his own wife ought to live and did not. Something that a more sensitive husband might have noticed had passed him by, leaving him with this guilty void.
    They had tickets for the South Bank the coming weekend. Brahms, the Second Symphony. It enraged David that at this crucial juncture the thing he remembered was that Anna shared his love of Brahms. Unless she really didn’t like Brahms at all … oh, don’t be stupid, she wouldn’t walk out on you to avoid going to a concert! No, but—how had her voice sounded when he proposed the outing? David could not remember. He was starting to experience an eerie kind of nausea. Nothing could be taken for granted any more.
    It occurred to him to search Anna’s desk. At first he rejected the thought. When you loved someone, trusted her, adored her, you didn’t rifle through herprivate papers. But sometimes you
had
to do a small bad thing …
    David opened the top drawer. Anna’s diary. He hesitated before opening it. There were few daily entries, but the last section overflowed with names, addresses, phone numbers, none of which meant anything to him. Who were these people? Professional colleagues? Friends? More than friends …?
    The memory of his interview for the Krysalis committee came back to him:
At one time she seemed to be rather friendly with a German chappie.
But none of the names in Anna’s diary sounded the least bit foreign. He slammed it shut and tossed it back inside the drawer, now angry with himself as much as Anna.
    David clasped his hands on the lip of the desk and rested his weight against them. Only one number left to ring now. Before he telephoned, however, there was something to check. He rose and went to open the safe.
    For a long moment he stared into the cavity. Then he reached out behind him and groped his way back into the nearest chair, where he slumped down, still keeping his eyes on the safe. He couldn’t breathe. There was an ache in the pit of his stomach, a devastating mixture of colic and a punch from a prizefighter. Blood throbbed inside his head until he felt it would lift off his shoulders.
    Krysalis gone.
    He could not believe it. He
refused
to believe it.
    David stood up. For an instant he staggered, his legs not supporting him. At last he summoned up the strength to go and pick up the phone.
    The man he was calling answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
    “My name’s David Lescombe. I’m deputy head of department, defense department, FCO.”
    “Yes? Could you speak up?”
    “My wife’s disappeared.”
    This time there was a long pause before the inevitable “Yes?”
    “My copy of the New Testament appears to have gone as well.”
    “Are you at home?”
    “Yes, I’m