The Genesis Secret: (14 page)

Were they too late? Had they missed them, again?

DCI Forrester gazed across the stone circle at the brown-green moorlands of Cumbria beyond. He recalled another case that had seen a search for clues, in a place like this. A murderer who buried his wife on the Cornish moors. That homicide had been macabre: the head was never found. And yet, even that hideous crime lacked some of the sinister quality of this present mystery. There was a real danger in this sacrificial gang: psychopathic violence allied with subtle intelligence. A menacing combination.

Stepping over a low wooden stile, Forrester focused on his latest evidence. He knew the gang had fled the Isle of Man-just a few hours after the murder. He knew that they’d caught the first car ferry from Douglas to Heysham, on the Lancashire coastline, long before any alert had been sent to ports and airports. He knew all this because an observant docker at Heysham had
remembered that he’d seen a black Toyota Landcruiser coming through the port on the earlymorning ferry two days before, and he’d noticed five young men climbing out of the Toyota in the ferryport terminal car park. The men had gone for breakfast together. The docker had gone in for breakfast and sat next to the gang in the café.

Forrester approached one elegant grey standing stone, filigreed with lime-green moss. He reached in his pocket for his notebook, and flicked through his record of the interview with the docker.
The men were all tall and young. They had expensive clothes. Somehow they didn’t look right.
The strangeness of this scenario had piqued the young docker’s curiosity. Douglas to Heysham was not the most energetic of shipping lanes. The early morning car ferry from Douglas usually got farmers, the odd businessman and maybe some tourists. Five silent tall young men in a very expensive black Landcruiser? So he had tried to chat with them over their bacon and eggs. He hadn’t had much luck.

Forrester scanned down the notes.
The men didn’t want to talk. One of them said a very brief good morning. He maybe had a foreign accent. French or something. Could have been Italian, not sure. One of the others had a posh English accent. Then they just got up and left. As if I had ruined their breakfast.

The docker hadn’t taken down a number plate. But he had heard one of them say a word like ‘Castleyig’ as they walked out of the café, in the
pale morning light, to their waiting car. Forrester and Boijer had rapidly researched Castleyig. To no one’s surprise there was no such place. However, there was a Castlerigg not that far from Heysham. And it was quite well known.

Castlerigg turned out to be one of the better preserved stone circles in Britain. It comprised thirty-eight stones of variable sizes and shapes and was tenuously dated to 3200
BC
. It was known also for a group of ten stones forming a rectangular enclosure, the purpose of which was ’unknown’. In his Scotland Yard office, Forrester had Googled ‘Castlerigg’ and ‘human sacrifice’ and found a long tradition associating the two. A stone axe had been discovered at the Castlerigg site in the 1880s. Some had surmised that it had been used in a Druidic sacrificial rite. Of course many scientists disputed this. Antiquarians and folklorists maintained that there was no disproof of sacrifice, either. And the tradition of sacred butchery was old. It was even cited by the famous local poet Wordsworth, in the 1800s.

With the Cumbrian breeze at his back, Forrester read through the stanza of the poem. He’d copied it down at Heysham library:

At noon I hied to gloomy glades
Religious woods and midnight shades
Where brooding superstition found
A cold and awful horror round
While with black arm and bending head
She wove a stole of sable thread
And hark, the ringing harp I hear
And lo! her Druid sons appear
Why roll on me your glaring eyes
Why fix on me for sacrifice?

It was a warm spring day up here on the Cumbrian hills, the late April sun was shining brightly on the surrounding, bare green hills, the dewy turf, the distant firwoods. And yet something in this poem made Forrester shiver.

‘“At noon I hied to gloomy glades”,’ said Forrester.

Boijer, striding across the grass, looked nonplussed. ‘Sir?’

‘It’s that poem by Wordsworth.’

Boijer smiled. ‘Oh yeah. Must admit-didn’t recognize it.’

‘Likewise,’ said Forrester, closing his notebook. The DCI recalled his inner city comprehensive, a struggling young English teacher trying to forcefeed Shakespeare’s Macbeth to a bunch of kids more interested in underage drinking, reggae music and shoplifting. An entirely pointless exercise. Might as well teach Latin to astronauts.

‘Beautiful place,’ said Boijer.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure they came here Sir? To this place?’

‘Yes.’ said Forrester. ‘Where else were they going?’

‘Liverpool maybe?’

‘No.

‘Blackpool?’

‘No. And if they were going anywhere else they would have got the ferry to Birkenhead. That leads directly to the motorway. But they came to Heysham. Heysham leads practically nowhere. Except to the Lake District. And here. I can’t believe they are doing a pleasant tour of the Lakes. They went to a Viking burial site on Man associated with sacrifice. Then they came here. To Castlerigg. Another place associated with sacrifice. And of course the docker overheard them. They were coming here.’

Boijer and Forrester walked to one of the tallest menhirs. The stone was mottled and patched with lichen. A sign of clear air. Forrester laid a flat palm against the ancient stone. The stone was just slightly warm to his touch. Warmed by the mountain sun, and old, so very old. 3200 BC.

Boijer sighed. ‘But what really attracts them to these circles and ruins? What’s the point?’

Forrester grunted. It was a good question. A question he had yet to answer. Down in the river valley, beneath the high plateau of Castlerigg, he could see the Cumbrian police squad cars; four of them parked in the sun by a picnic spot, and a couple of other police cars trundling down the narrow lakeland road, trawling the local farmsteads and villages to see if anyone had witnessed the gang. So far they had had no luck. Nothing at all. But Forrester was sure they had visited
Castlerigg. It fitted too well. The circle was a notably atmospheric place. And intense. Whoever built this high and lonely circle in the shaved cradle of hills knew something about aesthetics. Feng shui even. The whole circle, standing on its table of dewy grass, was set in a kind of amphitheatre. A theatre in the round. The billowing hills were the terraces, the audience, the bleachers. And the stone circle itself was the stage, the altar, the
mise en scène.
But a stage-set for what?

Boijer’s radio crackled. He pressed the button and talked to one of the Cumbrian officers. Forrester listened in. It was clear from Boijer’s expression and his perfunctory words of acknowledgement that the Cumbrian police were still drawing a blank. Maybe the gang hadn’t come here after all.

Forrester walked on. A fox was stealing over a field and edging along a copse across the nearest valley: a furtive blur of brushy red. But then the fox turned and gazed behind it, staring directly at Forrester, showing a wild animal’s fear and cruelty. Then it was gone, darting into the woodland.

The sky was clouding over: at least partly. Patches of black were scudding across the moorland hills.

Boijer caught up with Forrester. ‘You know, sir, we had a weird case in Finland a few years back. Might be relevant.’

‘Case of what?’

‘It was called the Landfill Murder.’

‘Because they buried the body in a dump?.’

‘Sort of. It started in October 1998. If I remember right, a man’s left leg was found on a dumping ground near a little town called Hyvinkaa. North of Helsinki.’

Forrester was confused. ‘Weren’t you already living in England by then?’

‘Yes, but I followed the news from home. As you do. Especially grisly murders.’

Forrester nodded. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, the police got nothing at first. Only clue they had was the leg. But then there were suddenly…well, all these headlines…The police claimed they had arrested three people suspected of the murder and they claimed there were indications of satanic worship.’

A wind was kicking up. Whistling across the ancient circle.

‘In April 1999 the incident came back into the headlines, when the case went to court. Three kids, young people, were charged. The strange thing is, the judge ordered that the court records should be suppressed for forty years, and all the details kept quiet. Unusual for Finland. But some of the details leaked out, anyway. Horrible stuff. Torture, mutilation, necrophilia, cannibalism. You name it.’

‘So who was the victim?’

‘A guy of about twenty-three. He was tortured and killed by three of his friends. I think they were all in their early twenties or late teens.’ Boijer
frowned, trying to remember. ‘The girl was 17-she was the youngest. Anyway the murder took place after a bout of drinking. Days of it. Homemade schnapps.
Brennivin
they call it in Iceland. The Black Death.’

Forrester was interested. ‘Describe the murder.’

‘He was slowly mutilated with knives and scissors. Killed over a period of many hours. Bits of him were progressively cut off. The judge called it a prolonged human sacrifice. After the victim died the three friends abused the body, ejaculated into his mouth and so on. Then they cut off his head, and I think his legs and arms. And they removed some his internal organs, kidneys and the heart. They dismembered him, basically. And they ate some of the body.’

Forrester was watching a farmer, striding down a country lane, half a mile in the distance. He asked, ‘And what does this tell you? I mean, what association do you make with this case?’

His junior shrugged. ‘The kids were all Satan worshippers, death metal fans. And they had a history of sacrilege. Church burnings. Desecrating tombs, sort of thing.’

‘And?’

‘And they were into paganism, ancient sites. Places like this.’

‘Though they buried the body in a landfill, not at Stonehenge.’

‘Yes. We don’t have a Stonehenge in Finland.’

Forrester nodded. The farmer had disappeared
behind a rise in the landscape. The ancient standing stones were growing greyer and darker as the clouds covered the sun. Typical lakeland weather-from shining spring sun, to brooding, winter cold in half an hour. ‘What were the murderers like? What’s the sociology?’

‘Definitely middle class. Rich kids even. Certainly not from the fringes.’ Boijer zipped up his anorak against the gathering cold. ‘Children of the élite.’

Forrester chewed a stalk of grass and regarded his junior. Boijer’s bright red anorak brought a fierce and sudden image to Forrester’s mind: a body gutted open,
unzipped,
oozing red blood. Forrester spat the stalk from his mouth.

‘Do you miss Finland, Boijer?’

‘No. Sometimes…Maybe a little.’

‘What d’you miss?’

‘Empty forests. Proper saunas. And I miss…cloudberries.’

‘Cloudberries?’

‘Finland’s not very interesting, sir. We have ten thousands words for getting drunk. The winters are too cold, so all you do is drink.’ The wind brushed the Finn’s blonde hair over his eyes, he swept it back. ‘There’s even a joke. They tell it in Sweden. About how much the Finns drink.’

‘Go on.’

‘A Swede and a Finn agree to meet to drink together. They bring several bottles of very strong Finnish vodka. They sit across from each other in
perfect silence, and pour glasses of vodka, not speaking. After three hours the Swede fills both glasses and says “Skol”. The Finn looks at him in disgust, and asks: “Did we come to talk or did we come to drink?”’

Forrester laughed. He asked if Boijer was hungry and his junior eagerly nodded; with Forrester’s assent, Boijer went off to eat his usual tuna sandwich in the car.

The DCI walked on alone, brooding, surveying his surroundings. The forests around here were government owned: Forestry Commission plantations. Strict squares of sterile firs marching across the landscape like Napoleonic regiments. Platoons of birches, marching silently and unobserved. He thought about Boijer’s story. The Landfill Murders of Hyvinkaa. Was it possible that the Sacrifice Gang were burying corpses or bones or objects, not digging things up? But nothing appeared to have been buried in Craven Street. And nothing was buried in St Anne’s Fort. But had they checked properly?

Forrester had reached the edge of the stone circle. The silent grey menhirs curved away from him on either side. Some seemed to be sleeping: prone and fallen like mighty warriors slain. Some were rigid and defiant. He remembered what he had read about Castlerigg; about the squarish enclosure of ‘important but unknown purpose’. If you had come all this way to bury something, this was surely where you would do it-in the most
symbolic part of the site. If Castlerigg mattered to you, this was your target.

The detective scanned the circle. It didn’t take him long to find the enclosure: a rectangular site marked out by lower stones, besides the most eroded megaliths.

For twenty minutes Forrester examined these lower stones. He padded and prodded at the damp dark soil and the soggy, acidic turf. A soft lakeland rain started to fall. Forrester felt its cold drops on his neck. Maybe he was heading up another cul de sac.

Then he spotted something in the long wet grass: a small line of sliced earth. Dark soil disturbed, then replaced, barely visible to the naked eye-unless you knew what you were looking for. He knelt and dug at the sods with his bare hands. It was unscientific-Forensics would be appalled, but he had to know.

Within seconds his fingers touched something cold and hard-but not a stone. He dislodged the object from its little grave and brushed off the soil. It was a small glass vial. And inside the vial was a very intense-looking liquid the colour of dark red rum.

The streets were red with blood. Rob was walking through the old town to meet Christine, at the caravanserai. It was dusk. Everywhere he looked: he saw great splashes of blood-up the walls, along the pavements, outside the Vodafone outlet. The locals were slaughtering goats and sheep-and doing it publicly, in the streets. Rob presumed that it was part of the holiday Christine mentioned, but it was still unnerving.

He paused at the corner, by a clocktower, and watched as one man struggled to hold a white-skinned goat between his legs. The man wore baggy black pantaloons-shirwals, the traditional Kurdish dress. Setting the fuming cigarette on a stool beside him, the man picked up a long, glittering knife and plunged the blade into the lower stomach of the goat.

The animal screamed. The man was unfazed. He turned, picked up his cigarette, had another puff, put it down again. Blood was drooling from
the stomach of the wounded goat. The man leaned further over, grimaced, then vigorously ripped the knife straight up the quivering, pinkwhite belly. Blood pissed out of the animal, showering the road in front. The goat no longer screamed and struggled but whimpered, sensuously. Its long-lashed eyelids fluttered as it died. The man yanked open the great gash, and viscera slithered out, the pastel-coloured organs tumbling neatly into a shallow plastic bowl on the pavement.

Rob walked on. He found Christine by the archway, that led to the caravanserai. His expression of surprise and perplexity obviously said it all.

‘Kurban Bayram,’ she said. ‘The last day of hajj.’

‘But why the goats?’

‘And sheep.’ Christine threaded her arm through his as they walked along the shuttered streets of the bazaar. Cooking smells wafted. Roasting goat and broiled sheep. ‘It’s called the Sacrifice Holiday. It commemorates Abraham and Isaac, the near sacrifice of Isaac.’

‘Kurban Bayram, of course. They have that in Egypt and Lebanon; I know it well: it’s called Eid…But,’ he shook his head, ‘They don’t kill animals in the street! They do it inside, and they slit the throats.’

‘Yes,’ She agreed. ‘The Urfans treat it as a special, local festival. Because Abraham comes
from here.’ She smiled. ‘And it is quite…blood-thirsty.’

They had reached a small square with cay houses and cafés in which men were smoking shishas. Many of them were wearing, for Kurban Bayram, the long black baggy Kurdish trousers. Others had special embroidered robes. Their women passed in front, decked in flashing jewellery, or sporting purple headscarves trimmed with silver. Some were tattooed with henna, their hands and feet liberally and gorgeously painted; their headscarves were hung with silver trinkets. The scene was pungently colourful.

But they weren’t here to sight-see.

‘There it is.’ Christine nodded at a small house down a shady road. ‘Beshet’s address’.

The heat of the day was draining from the streets, like water after a flood. Rob squeezed Christine’s hand. ‘Good luck.’

Christine crossed the road and knocked on the door. Rob wondered how unorthodox and unsettling it would be for Beshet to have a white western women come to his house. When Beshet opened the door, Rob scrutinized his expression and saw surprise and anxiety there, but also that puppydog languish again. Rob was confident Christine would get the keycode.

He walked back to the square and surveyed the scene. Some children, carrying firecrackers, greeted him.

‘Hey you, American!’

‘Hello…’

‘Happy Bayram!’

The children laughed, as if they had stirred some exotic and slightly frightening beast in the zoo; then they scattered up the road. The pavements were still red with blood but the slaughter had stopped. Moustachioed Kurds, smoking their shishas at café tables, greeted him with a smile. Sanliurfa was, Rob decided, the strangest place. It was implacably exotic, and somehow hostile; yet the people were some of the friendliest Rob had ever encountered.

He barely noticed Christine as she stole up to him, and said: ‘Hello.’

He turned, alerted. ‘You got it?’

‘I got it. He wasn’t keen…but he gave it to me.’

‘OK, so…’

‘Let’s wait until it’s dark.’

A quick walk brought them to the main road out of the old town. A taxi took them to Christine’s apartment, where they spent a nervous few hours surfing the net, trying not to worry, then worrying. At eleven they crept out of the apartment block and walked to the museum. The streets were much quieter now. The blood had been washed away; the holiday was nearly over. A scimitar of moon shone above them. Stars glittered like tiaras around the spires of the minarets.

At the gates to the museum Rob looked up
and down the street. No one was about. He could hear Turkish TV voices from a shuttered house a block down. Otherwise, there was silence. Rob pushed and the gate swung open. At night the garden was an intensely atmospheric place. Moonlight silvered the wings of the desert demon Pazuzu. There were busts of Roman emperors, broken and crumbling; and Assyrian warlords, frozen in marble, their lion hunts never ending. The history of Sanliurfa was here, in this garden, dreaming in the moonlight. The demons of Sumeria screamed silently; stone beaks open for five thousand years.

‘I need two codes.’ said Christine. ‘Beshet gave me both of them.’

She approached the front door of the museum. Rob hung back, checking that they were alone.

They were alone. There was a car parked under the fig trees. But it looked as if it hadn’t been moved in a few days. Rotten figs were splattered across the windshield. A smear of jam and seeds.

The door clicked. Rob swivelled to find the front door was open. He paced up the steps and joined Christine inside. The air within the museum was hot: there was no one here to open windows or doors. And no air conditioning. Rob wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was wearing a jacket to carry everything they needed: flashlights, phones, notebooks. In the main room, the oldest statue in the world glowed dimly in
the darkness, with his sad obsidian eyes staring mournfully into the gloom.

‘Down here,’ said Christine.

Rob saw, in the gloom, a small door in the far corner of the room. Beyond was a flight of stairs, leading down. He handed a flashlight to Christine and turned on his own. The two torch beams flickered in the dusty blackness as they descended the stairs.

The vaults were surprisingly big. Much bigger than the museum above. Doors and corridors led in all directions. Shelves of antiquities glimmered as Rob flicked his flashlight beam this way and that over broken pottery, chunks of gargoyle; spears, flints and vases.

‘It’s huge.’

‘Yes. Sanliurfa is built on old caves and they converted the caves into cellars.’

Rob leaned and looked at a broken figurine lying on its back. Snarling at the shelf above. ‘What’s that?’

‘The monster Asag. The demon that causes sickness. Sumerian.’

‘OK…’ Rob shivered, despite the stifling warmth. He wanted this over: the cold dread of what they were about to do was building up. ’Let’s get a move on, Christine. Where’s the Edessa Vault?’

‘Down here.’

They doglegged down another corridor, past a Roman column, brutally truncated, and more
shelves of vases and pots. The dust was thick and choking; Christine was leading them to the oldest part of the cave system.

But then a big steel door barred the way. Christine fumbled with the keycode. ‘Shit.’ Her hands were shaking.

Rob poised the flashlight so that she could see better as she keyed in the numbers; at last the lock snapped open. They were greeted with a rush of hot air as the Edessa Vault exhaled. There was badness in the breeze. Something indefinable, and remote, but organic and unpleasant. And old.

Rob tried to ignore it. They stepped inside the cellar. Blunt steel shelves led down the vast cavern. Most of the antiquities were in big plastic boxes with names and numbers scrawled on them. But some were left in their natural state. Christine named them as they walked. Syriac or Akkadian goddesses; a big head of Anzu; a chunk of a Hellenic nude. Ghostly hands and wings extended into the gloom.

Christine was walking up and down beside the shelves. ‘There’s nothing here.’ She almost sounded relieved. ‘It’s all the same stuff I saw before.’

‘Then we’d better go…’

‘Wait.’

‘What?’

Christine was gesturing into the darkness.

‘Here. This is from Gobekli.’

Rob paused. He was getting the bad signals again. The suicide bomber in Iraq. He could never forget the bomber’s face, staring over; just before the explosion.

Rob felt the urgent need to exit-to get out of here. Now.

Christine said: ‘Shut the door.’

Reluctantly, Rob closed the door behind him. They were alone in the furthest vault, with whatever Franz had found. Whatever he felt should be compared with the horror of the Cayonu Skulls.

‘Rob, come and look.’

Her torchlight was shining down on an extraordinary statue. A woman, with her legs open: the vagina heavily engraved, and obscenely large. Like the open wound in the fur of that goat.

Next to the woman stood a trio of animals: wild boars, perhaps. All of them had pronounced, erect penises; they were surrounding the splayed woman-like it was a gang-rape.

‘This is from Gobekli.’ Christine whispered.

‘Is this what we were looking for?’

‘No. I remember when we found this. Franz put it here. He must have been hoarding the…stranger discoveries in one place. So whatever it is he found should be here. Somewhere.’

Rob flicked his flashlight left and right and left. The dust whirled in the gloom. Faces of sombre gods and leering demons greeted him, then faded
to black as he moved along. He couldn’t see anything; he didn’t even know what he was looking for. It was hopeless. Then his torchlight illuminated a large polystyrene box with the word
Gobekli
written on it in marker pen. Rob felt his heart thump. ‘Christine,’ he hissed.

The box was lodged at the back of the steel shelf, by the cave wall. It was obviously big and heavy; Christine struggled with it. Lying his torch on the shelf behind, Rob reached in and assisted her. Together they dragged the box out and set it on the floor.

Rob picked up his flashlight, his heart racing, and kept the beam high as Christine opened the box. Inside there were four old-fashioned olive jars about half a metre long, packed in bubblewrap. Rob felt a thudding pang of disappointment. Half of him had wanted to find something obscene and horrifying. The journalist half; the juvenile half of him, maybe.

Christine took one of the jars out.

‘Is it from Gobekli?’

‘For sure. And if it is, then it must be ten thousand years old. So they did have pottery…’

‘Amazingly well preserved.’

‘Yes.’ Handling the jar with great care, Christine turned it over. There was a curious design on one side. A sort of stick with a bird at the top. ‘I’ve seen that somewhere,’ she said. Quietly.

Rob took his mobile out and took a brisk set of pictures. The flash from the phone-camera felt
like an intrusion, in the sombre darkness of the vault. Djinns and emperors scowled in the brief and vulgar dazzle.

Pocketing the phone, Rob reached into the box and took out one of the long jars himself. It was surprisingly heavy. He wanted to know what was inside. Some kind of liquid? Grains? Honey? He tilted it and looked at the top. It was stoppered and sealed. ‘Shall we open it?’

‘Careful…’

Her warning came too late. Rob felt the jar suddenly sag in his hand: he had tilted it too brusquely. The neck of the jar seemed to sigh, and it fell onto the floor: then the crack in the neck opened further, ripping into the body of the ancient, rotting pottery. The jar was crumbling in Rob’s hand. Just crumbling. The shards scattered on the floor, some of them shivering immediately into dust.

‘Oh my God!’ The smell was hideous. Rob put a sleeve to his nose.

Christine shone a torch on the contents of the jar. ‘Fucking hell.’

A tiny body lay on the floor. A human body: a baby, forced into a foetal position. The corpse was half mummified, half viscous liquid. Still decomposing after all the centuries. The stench drilled into Rob’s face till he gagged. Gurgles of liquid were pouring from the skull.

‘Look at the face!’ cried Christine. ‘Look at the face!’

Rob shone his flashlight in the baby’s face. It was locked in a silent scream. A scream of a dying child, echoing across twelve thousand years.

Suddenly lights filled the room. Lights, noises, voices. Rob spun and saw: a group of men standing in the back of the vault. Men with guns and knives, coming for them.