The Genesis Secret: (28 page)

Rob was sitting in a swivel chair at Dooley’s desk. Dooley’s office was on the tenth floor of a gleaming new building overlooking the River Liffey. The views from the picture windows were stupefying, from the junction of the river and the Irish Sea in the east, to the soft Wicklow Hills beyond the city, to the south. The hills looked green and innocent under clearing skies. If Rob squinted he could actually discern the low, sullen shape of Montpelier House on top of its wooded hill, a dozen miles away.

The view of Montpelier returned him to stark reality. He swivelled to face the room: the office was full of people. Just ninety minutes had elapsed since the terrifying drama at the cottage under Hellfire Wood. They’d had one brief message from Cloncurry showing that Lizzie was still alive. But where? Where was she? Rob bit a fingernail, trying to work it out, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together.

Christine was talking animatedly and lucidly. Dooley leant towards her. ‘Are you sure you don’t need the paramedics to—’

‘No!’ she snapped. ‘I’m fine. I told you. They didn’t harm me.’

Boijer interrupted. ‘So how did they get you to Ireland?’

‘Boot of a car. In a car ferry. Judging by the rancid smell of diesel and seawater.’

‘You were stuck in the boot?’

‘I survived. It was only a few hours in the car, and then the boat. And then here.’

Forrester nodded. ‘Well, that’s what we guessed. They were driving between Britain and Ireland, taking the ferry, avoiding customs controls. Miss Meyer, I know it’s traumatic but we need to know as much as we can, as soon as we can.’

‘As I said, I’m not traumatized, Detective. Ask me anything.’

‘OK. What do you recall? Do you know when the gang split? We know they kept you and Lizzie together, for a day or two in England: any idea where?’

‘Sorry.’ Christine was talking in an odd way, Rob noticed: staccato, sharp. ‘I have no idea where they kept me, sorry. Somewhere near Cambridge perhaps? The first drive wasn’t long, maybe an hour. Lizzie and I were both in a car boot. But then they took us out. Hooded and gagged. They were talking a lot, and I guess then they split up. After about a day and a half maybe? It’s hard to
tell when you are in a gag and hooded and fairly terrified.’

Forrester smiled, quietly and apologetically. Rob could sense him trying to work through the logic. Boijer said, ‘But I still don’t get it. What was the whole drama for? The poor woman in the video, the stick in the garden, when he threatened to kill the girl. What was that about?’

‘He saw it as an opportunity to torture Rob. Psychologically,’ said Christine. ‘That’s Cloncurry’s style. He’s a psychotic. Flamboyant and theatrical. Remember, I was with him a while. Not the best hours of my life.’

Rob glanced her way; she stared right back. ‘He never touched me. I wonder if he’s asexual. Either way, I do know he’s an exhibitionist. A show-off. He likes to make people watch what he does. Make the victims suffer, and make those who love them suffer too…’

Forrester had stood, and walked to the window. The soft Irish sun was on his face. He turned and said quietly, ‘And human sacrifice was traditionally performed in front of an audience. De Savary told me that. What was the word he used…the
propitiary
power of sacrifice comes from its being watched. The Aztecs would haul people to the top of pyramids so the whole town could see their hearts being pulled out. Right?’

‘Yes,’ Christine added. ‘Like the Viking ship burials-very public ceremonies of sacrifice. And the impaling of the Carpathians-again, a big
public ritual. Sacrifice is meant to be observed. By the people, by the kings, by the gods. A theatre of cruelty. That’s the appeal for Cloncurry. Prolonged, public and very
elaborate
cruelty.’

‘And that’s what he was planning for you, Christine,’ Forrester said gently.’ A public impaling. In the cottage garden. I guess the gang in Ireland fucked up.’

‘How?’

‘They started arguing and shooting,’ Dooley said. ‘I think the gang lost control, without him-without the leader.’

‘But there’s another thing,’ Boijer added. ‘Why did Cloncurry leave the gang in Ireland when he must have known they would get caught, get shot even?’

Rob laughed bitterly. ‘
Another sacrifice.
He sacrificed his own men. In public. He was probably watching as the Gardai killed them. He had those cameras everywhere in the cottage. I imagine he enjoyed the whole thing, watching it on his computer screen.’

The central question had been raised. Boijer voiced it.

‘So. Where is Cloncurry? Where the hell is he now?’

Rob glanced at the policemen in turn. At last Dooley said, ‘Surely he must be in England?’

‘Or Ireland,’ Boijer replied.

Christine suggested, ‘I think maybe he’s in France.’

Forrester frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘When I was tied up and hooded I’d hear him going on and on about France and his family there. He loathed his family, family secrets, all that. His horrible inheritance. That’s what he kept saying. How much he hated his family-his mother, in particular…In her stupid house in France.’

‘I wonder…’ Boijer stared at Forrester with a significant expression. The DCI nodded sombrely. ’Maybe the woman in the video, the one he killed, might be his mother.’

‘Christ.’

The room fell silent. Then Rob said, ‘But the French police are staking the place out. No? Watching the parents?’

‘Supposedly,’ Boijer answered. ‘But we aren’t in touch with them hourly. And they wouldn’t have been tracing the mother if she went away.’

Sally suddenly interrupted angrily. ‘But how would he have got there? Private planes? You said you were following that up!’

Forrester raised a hand. ‘We’ve scoured air traffic control reports. Contacted
every
private airfield in eastern England.’ He shrugged. ‘We know they had the money for a plane, we know Marsinelli had a licence, and possibly Cloncurry too. The problem with that line of enquiry is…’ He sighed. ‘There are thousands of private planes in the UK, tens of thousands in western Europe. If Cloncurry has been flying successfully under a false name for months, a year, who
knows, no one would necessarily challenge him. He’d have clearance, by rote. And another problem is that everyone is looking for a gang of men, in a car, on a private jet. Not a single guy,
flying alone
…’He rubbed his chin, pensively. ‘But I
still
don’t think the French would have let him slip through their hands. Every major airfield and port was alerted. But I suppose it’s possible.’

‘All this speculation doesn’t get us very far, does it?’ Rob snapped. ‘Cloncurry may be in Britain, France or Ireland. Great. Just three countries to search. And he still has my daughter. And maybe he’s butchered his mom. So what are we gonna do?’

‘What about your friend in Turkey, Isobel Previn? Has she had any luck with finding the Black Book?’ Forrester asked.

Rob felt a pang of hope mixed with despair. ‘I got a text from her last night. She says she’s close. That’s all I know.’

Sally sat forward, the sun flashing on her yellow hair. ‘But what about
Lizzie?
Enough of this Black Book. Who
cares
about that? What’s he going to do to Lizzie now?
To my daughter?
’

Christine moved along the sofa and hugged Sally. ‘Lizzie is safe for now. He didn’t need me because I’m just Rob’s girlfriend. I was a toy. A bonus. Disposable.’ She hugged Sally again. ‘
But the guy is not an idiot.
He is going to use Lizzie, use her against Rob. Until he gets what he wants. And
what he wants is the Black Book. He thinks Rob has it.’

‘But the fact is, I
don’t
know anything,’ Rob said despondently. ‘I lied to him, told him I knew something, but why would he believe me? He’s not stupid. As you say.’

‘You went to Lalesh,’ Christine answered. ‘I heard him talking about that, too. Lalesh. How many non-Yezidis have been there? Maybe a few dozen, in a hundred years? That’s what’s bugging him.’ She sat back. ‘He’s obsessed with the Book and he is sure you know something. Because of Lalesh. So I think Lizzie is relatively safe, for now.’

Silence ensued. Then the general conversation wandered, helplessly, between planes and airfields and car ferries for a couple more minutes. And then the laptop chimed.

Cloncurry had come online.

Rob waved a hand, wordlessly, at the people in the room and they gathered around and stared at the laptop screen.

There, in the webcam image, was Cloncurry. The image was clear and distinct. The audio was good. The killer was smiling. Chuckling.

‘Hello again! Thought we should catch up. Have a little chat. So, you managed to catch my cognitively deficient operatives. My brothers in Eire. How tiresome. I had a nice impaling planned as well. As you probably know. Did you see the big stick in the garden?’

Dooley nodded. ‘We saw.’

‘Ah, Detective Doohickey. How are you? Shame we didn’t get to kebab the French bitch. All that whittling for nothing. I should have at least tortured the slut, as I intended. But I had other things on my mind. It doesn’t really matter. Because I still have my friends. In fact I’ve got one right here. Say hello to my little friend.’

Cloncurry reached off camera and picked up something.

It was a severed human head.

To be precise, it was Isobel Previn’s head, white and faintly rotting. Grey nerves and greenish arteries dangled flaccidly from the neck.

‘Isobel! Say something. Say hello to everyone.’ With a jaggle of the hand he made the head nod.

Christine began to cry. Rob stared, aghast, at the screen.

Cloncurry was beaming with a kind of sardonic pride. ‘There. She says hi. But now I think she wants to go to her special place. I’ve made a special place for her head, out of respect for her archaeological achievements.’ Cloncurry stood, took a step forward and then kicked the head across the room, toe-punting it expertly. The head flew towards a rubbish bin in the corner, landing neatly in it with a chunky clatter. ‘Slam fucking
dunk
!’ He turned back to the camera. ‘I’ve been practising that for hours. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Robert the journalist. So-called. Hello. So pleased you could be with us. Don’t worry, as I said before, your daughter is still safe. Look—’ he leaned forward
and twisted the webcam until it showed Lizzie. Still lashed to a chair; but alive and healthy, it seemed. The webcam was shifted back.

‘So you see, Robbeeeee. She’s just fine. Fit as a fucking fiddle. Unlike Isobel Previn. I’m
so
sorry about my little joke with her vital organs. But I just couldn’t resist the gag. Think I must have a bit of film director in me. And it was such a rare opportunity. There I was, mooching around these pissy little Turkish streets, and there’s Isobel Previn! The great archaeologist! On her own! Wearing lorgnettes! What the fuck are lorgnettes? So I had a little think, for about a second. I know my archaeologists, I
know
she was a colleague of De Savary, I
know
she taught the prize-winning Christine Meyer, I
know
she is an expert in Assyria and the Yezidi in particular. Yet she’s meant to be retired to her dildos in Istanbul?’ Cloncurry chortled. ‘Yeah right. Too much of a coincidence. So we grabbed her, sorry, and smacked her around a bit, and she told us quite a lot, Robbie, quite a lot of
interesting detail.
And then I had a flash, if I say so myself, of aesthetic insight. I came up with our little drama. With the hoods. And the saucepan. And her small intestine. Did you appreciate
that?
I so hoped to make you think that Christine was dying in front of you, under that hood, having her uterus boiled in gravy, and then-this is the beauty of it-then you would actually get to Ireland and see Christine die
again,
in the most grotesque fashion, impaled on a stake,
in Ireland. How good is that? How many people get to see their loved ones tortured to death
twice?
First turned into
soup? Then impaled?
West End producers get paid millions for that kind of thing. A
coup de theâtre
!’ He gestured excitedly. ‘And that’s just half of it. What about the sheer directorial beauty of the whole gory drama in Ireland? Can I not have a little applause? For my Oscar-winning scenario?!’

He gazed out at them as if he seriously expected a round of cheers and bravos. ‘Oh, come on. Did you not have a sneaking admiration for the production values? In one go, I throw you off the scent and put you through the worst mental torture, you believe you are about to see your daughter impaled but then it would turn out to be Christine being impaled, and meanwhile I’m here, safe and sound and watching it all on high definition telly.’ The smile faded, slightly. ‘But then my cretinous assistants go and start shooting and fuck it all up before managing to skewer Christine. Tsk tsk. I tell you, you can’t get the staff these days. It would have been
so
good.
So
good. But still. Where were we? Where…you…you…were…’

Cloncurry’s voice drifted, his eyes seemed unfocused. His expression was odd, detached. Rob glanced meaningfully at Forrester, who nodded back.

‘No, I’m not going fucking mad,’ Cloncurry chuckled. ‘I’m already mad. You surely have
noticed that, Detective Forrest Gump. But I’m also several times smarter than you, no matter how mad I am. So I know what you know. For instance, you’ve already worked out in your slow-witted way I am in Kurdistan. Given that I got hold of poor Isobel and her pancreas, that much must be obvious. And I have to say, what a shitty place this is. The Turks are so
mean
to the Kurds. Really. It’s disgraceful.’ Cloncurry shook his head, and exhaled, ‘I’m serious, they’re racist. And I hate racists. Really. You maybe think I’m some heartless psychotic but I’m not. I utterly despise
racists.
The only people I hate more than racists are
niggers.
’ Cloncurry spun around in his swivel chair, spun round twice, then stopped to face the camera again. ‘Why are the darkies so dim? Guys, come on, admit it. Haven’t you ever wondered? The sooties? They just fuck everywhere up, don’t they? Is that a plan they’ve got? Do the niggers get together and think-hey, let’s see if we can emigrate somewhere nice and turn it into a toilet? We can go and live in crappy houses and start robbing and shooting. Again. Then we’ll complain about white people. And as for Pakis! Pakis! And Arabs! God help us. Why don’t they just piss off and put their women in binliners
at home?
And stop all the yelling from mosques? No one cares. And what about the Yiddos, whining about the Holocaust?’ Cloncurry was chortling now. ‘Whining and mewling like a bunch of girls.
Holocaust this, Holocaust that, please don’t hit me, it’s
a Holocaust.
Holocaust schmolocaust. Listen up, Johnny Kike, isn’t it time you got over it? Move on. And anyway was the Holocaust really that bad? Really? At least it was
punctual.
Those Germans can stick to a timetable. Even with cattle trucks. Can you imagine the chaos if the Brits had been in charge? They can’t even run a commuter line from Clapham let alone a pan-European Railway of Death.’ Cloncurry went into a fake Cockney accent. ‘“We’d like to apologize for the late running of the Auschwitz service. An alternative bus service has been provided. The buffet car will reopen at Treblinka.”’ Another chortle. ’Jesus, the
Brits.
Screw the Brits. Arrogant drunken idiots always brawling in the fog. And what about the
Yanks?
God save us from the Yanks and their buttocks! Fucking Yanks with their
ginormous asses.
What is that about? Why are their arses so big? Haven’t they worked out the link between their failure in Iraq and their
massive great butts?
Hey, here’s a clue, America. Wanna know what happened to those weapons of mass destruction? Some fat bitch in LA is
sitting on them
in Dunkin Donuts. Only she doesn’t even realize it, because her ass is the size of Neptune and she can’t feel a thing.’ Cloncurry swivelled again. ‘As for the Japs, they are just devious trolls with a gift for wiring. And the Chinks: seven ways to cook broccoli, and they look like gonks. Fish-eating fuckers.’ He paused, considering. ‘I quite like the Poles.’