The Genesis Secret

19

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.