The Genesis Secret: (11 page)

‘Why the fuck would anyone live out here?’

‘It’s got a lot of atmosphere. You’ll see.’

They stepped out of the car, into the kiln of dusty heat. Christine led the way, scrambling over decaying old walls, past scattered and carved blocks of marble. The latter looked like Roman capitals. ‘Yes,’ Christine said, sensing Rob’s next question. ’The Romans were here, and the Assyrians. Everyone came here.’

They approached a big dark hole in an odd and very squat building: it was a building carved literally out of the rock face. They stepped inside the low-slung structure. It took a few seconds for Rob’s eyes to adjust.

Inside, the smell of goat shit was oppressive. Pungent and dank, and oppressive.

‘This is a pagan temple. To the moon gods,’ said Christine. She pointed at some crudely carved figures cut into the walls of the shadowy interior. ’The moon god is here, you can see his horns-see-the curve of the new moon.’

The badly eroded effigy had a sort of helmet: two horns like a crescent moon balanced on his head. Rob ran a hand over the stone face. It was warm, and strangely clammy. He drew his hand back. The decaying effigies of the dead gods stared
at him with their eroded eyes. It was so quiet in here: Rob could hear his own heartbeat. The noise of the outside world was barely perceptible: just the tinkling bells of goats, and the churning desert wind. Hot sunlight blazed at the door, making the dark room seem even darker.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. I’m fine…’

She walked towards the opposite wall. ‘The temple dates from the second century
AD.
Christianity was sweeping the region, but here they still worshipped the old gods. With the horns. I love it here.’

Rob gazed about him. ‘Very nice. You should buy a condo.’

‘Are you always sarcastic when you are uncomfortable?’

‘Can we get latte?’

Christine chuckled. ‘I’ve one more place to show you.’ She led him out of the temple and Rob felt a serious relief as they exited the clammy, fetid darkness. They headed up a slope of scree and hot dust. Turning for a moment to take a breath, Rob saw a child staring at them from one of the humble houses. A small dark face in a broken window.

Christine scrambled up and over a final rise. ’The Temple of Venus.’

Rob climbed the last metres of scree to stand beside her. The wind was brisk up here, yet still burning hot. He could see for miles. It was an extraordinary landscape. Miles and miles of
endless, rolling, blanched-out desolation. Dying hills of dead rocks. The mountains were marked with the black empty sockets of caves. These were, Rob presumed, more temples and pagan shrines, each more derelict than the last. He stared at the floor on which they stood, the floor of a temple, open to the sky. ‘And all this was built when?’

‘Possibly by the Assyrians, or the Canaanites. No one knows for certain. It’s very old. The Greeks took it over, then the Romans. It was certainly a place of human sacrifice.’ She pointed out some grooves in the carved rock beneath them, ‘See. That was to let the blood flow out.’

‘OK…’

‘All these early Levantine religions were very keen on sacrifice.’

Rob looked out across the desert hills and down at the little village. The child with the face was gone; the broken window was empty. One of the cars was on the move: taking the valley road out of Sogmatar. The road ran alongside a dried up old river bed. The course of a dead river.

Rob imagined being sacrificed up here. Your legs tied with rough twine, your hands bound behind your back, the foul breath of the priest in your face; and then the thud of pain as the knife plunged into your ribcage…

He breathed deeply and wristed the sweat from his forehead. It was surely time to go. He gestured in the direction of their car. Christine nodded and they walked down the hill to the waiting
Land Rover. But halfway down the slope, Rob stopped. He stared at the hill.

Suddenly: he
knew.
He had worked out what the numbers meant.

The numbers in Breitner’s notebook.

The weather was still grim. The lead-grey sky was as sombre as the green and windswept fields beneath. Boijer, Forrester and Alisdair Harnaby were in a big dark car, speeding south across the Isle of Man. Ahead of them was another long black car: containing DCC Hayden and his colleagues.

Forrester was feeling the anxiety. Time was passing: slipping from his grasp. And every minute they lost brought them all closer to the next horror. The next inevitable murder.

He sighed, heavily. Almost angrily. But at least they were now onto something: following a proper lead. A farmer had spotted something odd in a remote corner of the Isle, way down in the south near Castletown. Forrester had urgently persuaded Alisdair Harnaby to come along for the interview, as he felt the man might be good for some more information. The historical angle. It seemed important.

But first Forrester wanted to know what the
CNN woman had said; Boijer was keen to divulge. The Finnish DS explained that Angela Darvill had heard about the Craven Street case ‘from some hack on the
Evening Standard’.

‘So she linked them,’ said Forrester. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Yes that’s right, sir. But she said something else. Apparently there was a similar case. New York State and Connecticut. In New England.’

‘How similar?’

‘Same kind of elaborate torture.’

‘Star of David?’

Boijer said no, then added, ‘But carvings in the skin, yes. And flayings. She said it was one of the most horrible cases she’d ever covered.’

Forrester sat back and looked out of the window. Low damp sober green hills stretched away on all sides. Small farms dotted the rural emptiness, and small hunched trees, with their branches shaved brusquely and bizarrely to an angle by the prevailing winds. The scenery reminded him of a holiday he’d once taken in Skye. There was a melancholy beauty to the landscape, a melancholy beauty which edged close to real, haunting sadness. Forrester drove the thought of his daughter from his mind, and asked: ‘Who committed the murders?

‘They never found out. Weird though: the similarity, I mean…’

Ahead of them the road dwindled to little more than a rutted track, which led on through the
wind-battered hedgerows to a farm. The two cars parked. The five policemen and the amateur historian walked down the track towards the low-slung white farmhouse. Boijer stared down at his shoes, now soggy with clay, and tutted with a young man’s vanity. ‘Damn. Look at that.’

‘Should have brought your wellies, Boijer.’

‘Didn’t know we were going hiking, sir. Can I claim these on exes?’

Forrester was glad to laugh. ‘See what I can do.’

One of the white helmeted constables accompanying Hayden knocked on the door of the farmhouse, and at last it was opened by a surprisingly young man. Forrester wondered why the word ‘farmer’ always conjured up an image of a middle aged gent brandishing a hoe, or a shotgun. This farmer was handsome and no more than twenty-five.

‘Hello, hello. The Deputy…?’

‘Chief Constable,’ supplied Hayden. ‘Yes. And you must be Gary?’

‘Yep. I’m Gary Spelding. We spoke on the blower. Come in, guys. Horrible day!’

They crowded into the warm, welcoming, and pinewoody farmhouse kitchen. Biscuits were arrayed on a plate: Boijer grabbed one with enthusiasm.

Forrester was suddenly conscious of their numbers. Five was too many. But they all wanted to know about the lead. What Spelding had seen. Over two potfuls of tea, provided by his smiling
wife, Spelding told his story. The afternoon of the murder he had been fixing a gate on his farm. He was about to head back home, the job done, when he’d seen ‘something strange’. Forrester let his tea go cold as he listened.

‘It was a big four by four. Chelsea tractor.’

Hayden leaned over the kitchen table keenly. ‘Where exactly?’

‘Road at the end of the farm. Balladoole.’

Harnaby interrupted. ‘I know it.’

‘Course we get a few tourists there now and again. The beach is just beyond. But these guys were different…’ Spelding swivelled his mug of tea, and smiled at Hayden. ‘Five young men. In telecoms overalls.’

‘Sorry?’ said Boijer.

Spelding turned to Forrester’s junior. ‘They were all wearing big green overalls, with Manx telecom insignia. Mobile phone company.’

Forrester took over the questioning. ‘And they were doing what?

‘Just wandering around my fields. And I thought that was odd. Pretty odd. Yep.’ Spelding sipped some tea. ‘Not least because we have no masts down here, no reception. It’s a deadzone for mobiles. So I wondered what they were doing. And they were all young. Young guys. But it was nearly dark and pretty cold so they weren’t surfers.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

Spelding blushed faintly. ‘Well I was gonna. They
were walking on my farm, for a start. But the way they looked at me when I went near…’

‘Was?’

‘Nasty. Just…’ The farmer’s blush deepened. ’Kind of nasty. Glaring. So I thought discretion was the better option. Rather cowardly, sorry. And then I saw your press conference on the news and I started to wonder…’

DCC Hayden sank the rest of his tea. He looked at Forrester, then back at Spelding.

Over the next half hour they got the remaining information from Gary Spelding. Detailed descriptions of the men: all tall and young. Descriptions of the car: a black Toyota Landcruiser, though Spelding could remember no numberplate. But at least it was a lead. A break. Forrester knew these were likely to be the men there were looking for. Posing as Telecoms workmen was a good cover. There were phone masts everywhere; everyone wanted mobile coverage, 24/7. You could work late at night without arousing suspicion. ‘We’ve got a network failure.’

But the gang had come to an area without any mobile phone reception. Why had they done that? Was it possibly their first mistake? Forrester felt his hopes rising. You needed luck in this job. This might be his stroke of luck.

The interview was finished. The teapot was empty. Outside, the lid of grey clouds had partially lifted. Slants of sunshine shone down on the wet fields. The policemen lifted their trousers from the
mud as they walked with the farmer down to the Balladoole Road.

‘Just through here,’ said Spelding. ‘This is where I saw them.’

They all gazed across the rucked and muddy field, bordered by the small country road. A doleful cow was staring at Boijer. Beyond the cow was a long curve of grey sand, and then the frigid grey sea, lit by the occasional dazzle of sunshine.

Forrester indicated the lane. ‘Where does that go?’

‘To the sea. That’s all.’

Forrester climbed the last gate; followed by Boijer and the rest, who showed rather less alacrity. He stood exactly where the car had parked. It was an odd place to stop if you were headed for the bay. It was half a mile back from the shoreline. So why did they park here? Why not drive the last half mile? Did they fancy a walk? Clearly not. So they must have been looking for something else.

Forrester climbed back on to the nearest gate. He was nine feet in the air now. He looked all around him. Just fields and stone walls and sandy meadows. And the unhappy sea. The only point of interest was the nearest field. Which, from Forrester’s vantage, showed some shallow bumps, and stray rocks. He got down from the gate and turned to Harnaby, who was panting from the walk. ‘What are they?’ asked Forrester. ‘Those little bumps?’

‘Well…’ Harnaby was smiling unsurely. ‘I was going to mention it. Not many people know about it but that’s the Balladoole burial site. Vikings. Eleventh century. It was dug up in the 1940s. They found brooches and the like. And…something else too…’

‘What?’

‘They also found a body.’

Harnaby elaborated. He told them about the great excavation during the war when scientists from the mainland had unearthed an entire Viking ship, interred with jewellery and swords. And the body of a Viking warrior. ‘And there was also evidence of human sacrifice. At the warrior’s feet, the archaeologists found the body of a teenage girl. She was probably a sacrificial victim.’

‘How do they know?’

‘Because she was buried without any grave goods. And she was garrotted. Vikings were quite partial to a bit of sacrifice. They would kill slavegirls to honour fallen men.’

Forrester felt a reflexive quickening. He looked at Boijer. He looked at the distant grey waves. He returned his gaze to Boijer. ‘Ritual sacrifice,’ he said at last. ‘Yes. Ritual human sacrifice. Boijer! That’s it!’

Boijer seemed puzzled. Forrester explained:

‘Think about it. A man buried alive with his head in the soil. A man with his head shaved-and his tongue cut out. Ritual carvings on both bodies…’

‘And now Balladoole,’ said Harnaby.

Forrester gave a brisk assent. Jumping over a second gate, he crossed to the bumps and rocks in the field. His shoes were ruined by mud but he didn’t care. He could hear the sounding waves from the beach; taste the tang of oceanic salt. Beneath him Vikings had interred a young woman, a woman who had been ritually slain. And these men, these murderers, had communed here: before committing their own ritualized execution: just a few hours later.

The clockwork was whirring. The machinery was engaged. Forrester inhaled the muggy moist air. Smirrs of grey cloud were racing in, from the roiled and choppy Irish Sea.

The Land Rover sped down the dirt track away from Sogmatar towards the main Sanliurfa road, twenty klicks alongside the ancient arroyo. Christine was staring ahead, concentrating on the road, her hand tight on the gearstick. They drove in silence.

Rob hadn’t told her what he thought he had discovered about the numbers. He wanted to prove it to himself first. And for that he needed a book, and maybe a computer.

By the time they arrived back in the city the sun was an hour from sunset and Sanliurfa was notably busy. As soon as they reached the centre they went straight to Christine’s flat, flung dusty jackets onto the wickerwork chair and flopped onto the sofa. And then Christine said, quite unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing, ‘Do you think I should fly home?’

‘What? Why?’

‘The dig is over. My salary stops in a month. I could fly home now.’

‘Without finding out what happened to Franz?’

‘Yes.’ She stared out of the window. ‘He is…dead. Shouldn’t I just accept it?’

The sun was dying outside. The muezzin were calling across the ancient city of Urfa. Rob got up, went to the window; creaked it open, and gazed out. The cucumber man was cycling down the pavement shouting his wares. Veiled women were in a group outside the Honda shop talking into mobile phones through their concealing black chadors. They looked like shades, like ghosts. The mourning brides of death.

He went back to the sofa and gazed at Christine. ’I don’t think you should go. Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think I know what the numbers mean.’

Her face was motionless. ‘Show me.’

‘Do you have a Bible? An English one?’

‘On that shelf.’

Rob paced to the shelf and checked the spines: art, poetry, politics, archaeology, history. More archaeology. There. He took down a big old black Bible. The proper authorized version.

At the same time Christine took Breitner’s notebook from the desk.

‘All right,’ said Rob. ‘I hope I’m right. I think I’m right. But here goes. Read out the numbers in the notebook. And tell me what they’re next to on the page.’

‘OK, here’s…twenty-eight. Next to a compass sign, for east.’

‘No, say it like the two numbers are separate. Two eight.’

Christine stared at Rob, perplexed. Maybe even amused. ‘OK. Two eight. By an arrow pointing east.’

Rob opened the Bible to Genesis, thumbed through the thin, almost translucent pages and found the right page. He ran his finger down the dense columns of text.

‘Chapter two, verse eight. 2:8 Genesis. “And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed”.’ Rob waited.

Christine was staring at the Bible. After a while she murmured, ‘Eastward in Eden?’

‘Read another one.’

Christine scanned the notebook. ‘Two nine. Next to the tree.’

Rob went to the same page in the Bible and recited, ‘Book of Genesis. Chapter two, verse nine. 2:9 “And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil”.’

Christine said in a low voice, ‘Two one zero. Two ten. By the river squiggly thing.’

‘The line that turns into four rivers?’

‘Yes.’

Rob looked down at the Bible. ‘Chapter two, verse ten. “And a river went out of Eden to water
the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads”.’

‘My God,’ said Christine. ‘You’re right!’

‘Let’s try one more, to make sure. A different one, one of the big numbers.’

Christine went back to the notebook. ‘OK. Here are some bigger numbers, at the end. Eleven thirty-one?’

Rob fanned through the pages and recited, feeling like a vicar in his pulpit, ‘Genesis. Chapter eleven, verse thirty-one. “And Terah took Abraham his son, and Lot the son of Haran his son’s son, and Sara his daughter in law, his son Abraham’s wife; and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Haran, and dwelt there”.’

‘Haran?’

‘Haran.’ Rob paused, sitting down next to Christine. ‘Let’s try one more, one more of the others, one of the numbers next to a drawing.’

‘Here’s a number by a picture, seems to be a dog or a pig…or something.’

‘What’s the number?’

‘Two hundred and nineteen. So, two nineteen?’

Rob found the relevant passage: ‘“And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them…”’

Quietness filled the flat. Rob could still hear
the cries of the cucumber seller floating up from the dusty streets below. Christine gazed at him intently. ‘Breitner thought he was digging up—’

‘Yes.
The Garden of Eden.
’

They stared across the sofa at each other.