The Marks of Cain

26

Tomasky growled with anger as his first stab of the knife missed Simon's neck — by an inch.

The journalist gasped as he sensed another slashing cut, and he swerved, again, batting away the blade — but Tomasky came at him for a third time, jumping forward, and this time he got a hand on his victim's throat and the knife was aimed directly at an eye.

Choking and spitting, Simon caught the stabbing arm at the last moment. The knife was poised just millimetres from the pupil, shaking with the violence of their struggle.

Tomasky was thrusting down, his victim was holding the wrist and grinding the hand upwards. They were on the floor. The knife was too close to see, it was just a menacing silver blur in his vision: a looming greyness. The knifepoint came closer, the journalist shuddered — he was going to be blinded, then killed. Drilled into the brain through the optical bone.

His eye was blinking reflexively, shedding tears. Loud noises rumbled behind. The bladepoint trembled with the strength of two men opposed. Simon screamed and made a final effort to force the blade away, but he was losing the battle. He shut his eyes and waited for the steel to sink into the softness, popping open the eyeball, then crunching into his brain.

Then his face was covered with splattering wetness, like he'd been slapped with heavy blancmange: and suddenly Tomasky was just a body, dead weight, sagging down, and he forced the dead policeman off his chest and he stared upwards.

Sanderson.

DCI Sanderson was standing in the door; next to him was a policeman with chest armour. The door had been kicked open. The chest-armoured cop had a gun.

'Shot, Richman.'

'Sir.'

Sanderson reached a hand down and pulled the journalist to his feet. But when he stood up he felt his knees go, trembling and buckling with the fear and the shock; he crumpled to the floor again. He was staring at Tomasky's body. The head had been blown apart, by a sidelong shot, at close range. The skull was in pieces. Actual pieces scattered across the hallway.

Then he sensed the wetness on his face. Smeary wetness. He had Tomasky's blood and maybe his brains on his face. His throat tightened with nausea as he stood; without a word to the policemen he hurled himself upstairs to the bathroom, where he averted himself from the mirror: he didn't want to see himself covered with brains and blood. Splashing water and more water on his face, he used a box of tissues, and half a bottle of handsoap, and finally he rinsed and nearly gagged, and rinsed again.

Now he checked the mirror. His face was clean. But there was something stuck in his cheek, lodged in its own little wound. Like a small piece of glass, burrowed in his flesh. Leaning close to the mirror he plucked the thing from his cheek.

It was one of Tomasky's teeth.

'League of Polish Families.'

The voice was familiar. DCI Sanderson was standing right behind, at the hallway door.

'What?'

'Tomasky. We've been watching the bastard for a while. Sorry it got that close. We've been monitoring his calls — but he slipped out of the building — '

'You — '

'Sorry, mate. Had to use lethal force. Waited too long — '

Simon's hands were still trembling with fear. He extended one into the air, experimentally. Watched it shaking. He grabbed a towel and dried his face. Trying to be calm and manly. Largely failing.

'Why did you suspect him?'

Sanderson offered a sad, sympathetic smile.

'Odd little things. The knotting. Remember that?'

'Yes.'

'You found out it was a witch torture, in an hour. Tomasky didn't. I put him on the job before you, and he turned up nothing like that. Yet he was a smart copper. That didn't quite…fit.' The DCI pointed at Simon's face. 'You're still bleeding.'

He switched his attention to the mirror once more. The wound where the tooth had impacted was indeed bleeding. But not badly. Rifling the bathroom cabinet, he found some cotton wool. He swabbed himself with water, then rinsed the woollen bud. White wool, red wool, clear water, stained water. Blood in the water. Sanderson carried on talking.

'When I noted that — the knotting, I mean — that's when I took an interest. I remembered he was keen to be assigned to this case in the first place. Very very keen. And then we found he was taking certain calls that were meant for me, and not telling me, like the call from Edith Tait. And he wasn't following up other leads, either. So we looked into his background…'

The journalist gestured at Sanderson. He wanted to get out of the bathroom. He wanted to get out of the house. He could hear voices downstairs. More policemen, presumably. An ambulance outside, come to take the body away.

They stepped out onto the landing and leaned over the banister, looking down at the hall. The body was still lying there: with paramedics bustling around. Big splashes of blood, like bright red paint, were flung across the polished wooden floor. That wooden floor was Suzie's pride and joy. Simon wondered, incongruously, how angry she would be: about her floor.

'You said about his background?'

'Yeah.' Sanderson nodded. 'Likesay, Polish. Came here with his family about ten years ago. A cleanskin. No record of anything suspicious, even trained as a priest. Or monk. But his dad was big in the League of Polish Families. And his brother worked for Radio Maryja.'

'They are?'

'Hard right nationalist groups, ultra Catholic political parties. Linked to the Front National in France and various Catholic sects, like Pope Pius the Tenth. Lots of them perfectly legitimate but with…radical right agendas. At the edges anyway.'

'So he was a Nazi?'

'Nah. These outfits, from what we can tell, are not really Nazi. More hearth and home. The blessed Virgin Mary and a nice big army. They don't really go in for kicking shit out of black people. Or killing Anglo-Irish journalists. Not normally anyway.'

'I don't understand it.'

'Nor do I, mate, nor do I.' He squinted Simon's way, assessingly. 'But there may be some link…you know, your witch theory. It alerted us. We're still checking Tomasky out. He was a passionate churchgoer. Witches and churches, churches and witches? Who knows.'

'So you listened in on the phone call I made to him?'

'We did,' Sanderson answered. 'He must have thought you were onto something, when you rang him, something he wanted hidden. So his only choice was to take you out.'

'The Cagots?'

'Yup. The gist of your call with Tomasky. And these poor bastards in France? Very interesting. What the fuck is all this about?'

'Sorry?'

The DCI looked momentarily sober, verging on reflective. Even maudlin. 'Remember what I said way back? How right I was.'

'What?'

'This isn't any old fish and chip job, Quinn, this isn't a fish and chip job. This is something else. Who the heck knows…' His vigour returned. 'OK. Let's get sorted. Nuff rabbiting. Come on, we need to debrief you, Quinn. Then, I am afraid — '

'What — ?'

'We're gonna assign you protection. Just for the while. And your close family.'

They descended the rest of the stairs. Past the body of Tomasky. Tip toeing through the bloodsplashes, apologizing to the paramedics and SOC photographers. The grey drizzly air of late September was enlivening. The sun was battling to be seen through the clouds.

Sanderson opened a car door for Simon, who climbed in. Sanderson sat alongside, in the back. The car began the long journey to New Scotland Yard. Finchley, Hampstead, Belsize Park.

'And,' Sanderson said, 'we will protect your family as well. Your mum and dad, Conor and Suzie will be with you…'

'You're putting armed guards on my mother and father?'

Sanderson confirmed this with a curt 'Yep', then he leaned and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Cummings, this traffic is a bitch. Try St John's Wood?'

'Right you are, sir.'

He turned back to Simon. 'So that's it, wife and kid, mum and dad, there's no one else they can use. Right?'

The journalist nodded, then turned and stared out of the police car window, at the ordinariness of London. Red car yellow car white lorry. Pushchairs. Supermarkets. Bus stops. A knife three millimetres from his eye, a man bellowing with rage, forcing the knife down.

He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to rub away the horror.

'You will feel weird for a time,' Sanderson said, quite gently. 'I'm afraid you better get used to it.'

'Post-traumatic stress?'

'Well, yeah. But you can handle it, eh? The Fighting Irish?'

Simon attempted a weak smile. Then said:

'Tell me about the case, Bob. I need…distraction. What have you found, lately?'

Loosening his tie, Sanderson asked the driver to open the window. Cooler air refreshed the car. He said:

'We got some interesting leads on GenoMap. There's a Namibian connection. One of GenoMap's biggest sponsors was a Namibian diamond company, Kellerman Namcorp.'

'I remember Fazackerly mentioned them. So? '

'Seemed a bit odd to me. When I thought about it. A bleeding diamond company? What's that got to do with genetics? So I got a bod at the Yard to track down one of the scientists from GenoMap. A Chinese Canadian, Alex Zhenrong. We found him back in Vancouver. And he told us…quite a lot.'

They were passing the Regent's Park mosque. Its golden dome glittered half heartedly in the uncertain sunshine.

'Like what?'

'Like…a lot. He told us GenoMap found it hard getting people to fund the lab, at first, after what happened at Stanford.'

'But Kellerman were…keen?'

'They came on board after a year, and they were very keen indeed. Superfuckingduper keen. The only ones. Apparently they poured money into the lab. For several years. Genomics is not cheap but GenoMap got every machine they wanted. From Kellerman Namcorp.'

'And they are exactly? This corporation?'

'Diamonds, like I said. Big aggressive multinational, mining and export. They're up there with De Beers. They run their own part of Namibia, the Sperrgebiet. The Forbidden Zone. The owners are a very old Jewish family, South African. Jewish Dynasty.'

'Why were they so determined to finance the lab?'

'Because of Fazackerly and Nairn. According to Zhenrong anyway.'

'Say again?'

'Fazackerly was the best geneticist in Britain two decades ago. Big reputation. Nairn was maybe the best young geneticist in the world. Kellerman wanted their brains. And Kellerman wanted their results.'

'So that was good for GenoMap.'

Sanderson nodded. He glanced out of his window as they overtook a double decker bus. Crowded with shoppers.

'Yeah, but — so Zhenrong told us — Kellerman also wanted bangs for their bucks. They wanted some payoff for all that investment. So they pushed the research in…a certain way…If you see what I mean.'

'No. I don't…'

A brief silence. The journalist looked around the interior of the police car. So calm and sensible and ordinary. So unlike the interior of his mind.

Sanderson explained.

'By the end, it seems Nairn and Fazackerly weren't just investigating genetic diversity in the way…you are supposed to.'

'Explain?'

'I'm no molecular biologist, Quinn, as you might have twigged. But my understanding is this. The initial idea behind GenoMap was…meant to be medical. Finding cures for diseases, through differering racial genetics.' Sanderson shook his head. 'That's why Alex Zhenrong joined, anyhow. But by the end, with Nathan Kellerman's strong encouragement, Fazackerly and Nairn, according to this Zhenrong lad, were just looking for genetic differences, full stop. They wanted to find and prove that there are large and serious genetic differences between human races. You understand.'

'Next stop Josef Goebbels.'

'Yup. Maybe.'

'In which case…You reckon they are, or were, racist? Nairn and Fazackerly. A couple of Nazis? Fits with Tomasky.'

He shivered at the memory of the Polish policeman, teeth bared in rage; he looked across the car.

'Nope.' Sanderson shook his head. 'We don't think Angus was racist. According to all his mates, and Zhenrong, he just wanted to be famous, to be published. He was ambitious, that's all. Apparently he was pretty eccentric, as well as very smart. But he, at least, was not a Nazi.' Sanderson leaned a little closer to Simon, across the front seat of the car. 'And we think he and Fazackerly may have been onto something quite astounding by the end. Though they wouldn't tell anyone what it was. But it must've been something that the Kellermans really wanted.'

'So how do you know about it?'

'Fazackerly started boasting about it! In his cups.' Sanderson mimed a drinking hand. 'Zhenrong says Fazackerly was a terrible boozer. There was a genomics conference in Perpignan about six months ago when Fazackerly got ratarsed. And he told everyone that him and Nairn, they were gonna publish something that would amaze everyone, that would make Eugen Fischer look like a nonce. That's not how Zhenrong phrased it, by the way, that's me.'

'Eugen Fischer? I heard that name. Recently.' Simon frowned. Exhausted by the mystery. 'The young guy in France, Martinez, he mentioned him.'

'That right? Well, Fischer was a race scientist. Worked in Namibia, and then for Hitler, one of the founders of eugenics. A real bastard. Thought Germans were supermen.'

'Namibia.'

'Namibia.'

'I remember…' Simon said, 'I remember there was, ah, a picture in Fazackerly's office of Francis Galton. He was a eugenicist…and he worked in Namibia.'

'You see?' Sanderson was broadly smiling. 'It all connects. The Namibian Connection! I'm only telling you all this because you had a detective sargeant's premolar embedded in your face this morning. Please keep shtoom for now. I guess you will wanna write a book when we're done, won't you?'

Simon found himself blushing.

'Hah.' Sanderson chuckled. 'Fucking writers can't resist. Make sure you give me a good haircut. Six foot two. Strong jaw. You know. And here's another thing. Nathan Kellerman, the Jewish heir to all those diamond billions, he and Nairn became very close. Kellerman and Nairn would have these…chinwags, apparently, when he used to come and visit London, see how money was being spent.'

'Conversations?'

'Yes. About the Bible.' Sanderson shrugged. 'The Curse of Canaan. Genesis 3 or whatever. Zhenrong listened in. Sometimes. To their…chats.'

'The doctrine of the Serpent Seed? The Curse of Cain?'

'Yeah. All the stuff you got from Winyard. Odd, eh?'

'When you say he and Kellerman were close…how close?'

'Well they weren't boyfriends. But a couple of years back Nairn started visiting Namibia.'

The car was now stalled on Baker Street. The sun was properly out; the streets were lively with people. Three Arab wives in turquoise hijabs were walking several paces behind the husband — attired in jeans and baseball cap.

'Right. And?'

'It's a pretty expensive place to go, the other side of the world. Nairn wasn't rich.'

Simon saw the clear light of logic.

'Kellerman paid for his trips!'

'Yup. We're pretty sure he paid, because Nairn went several times, in three years. Never told anyone why or what he did there.'

'Holidays?'

Sanderson's expression narrowed. 'Long way to go surfing.'

'You believe he's in Namibia now, don't you?'

The DCI smiled with a trace of smugness. 'I do. I even tried writing to him, on his email address. See if I could coax him out, tell him about the case. If he's down there he's probably still receiving emails. Reckon.'

Simon sat back. Sanderson confessed: 'I didn't get very far. Not good coppering. Tut fucking tut. But hey, at least I saved your Danish — just in time.'

The policeman's weary smile was warm: genuine and warm. Simon felt a little better. Then he remembered the expression on Tomasky's face. The growling anger. Ferocious. He felt worse.

Simon was quiet for the rest of the journey to New Scotland Yard. He was subdued during the debriefing; he was almost silent when he got home and hugged Suzie and embraced Conor with a fierce paternal love that almost broke his own heart, and his son's ribs.

The subdued feeling hung around like an unwanted, overstaying visitor, like the bloodstain that couldn't be removed from the hallway floor, no matter how many times it was sanded and polished. The journalist was melancholic and disquieted. He watched the fat housewife put out her fat housewifely washing. The fat black crow hopping along the garden. A policeman came to live with them, sleeping in the spare room. His radio buzzed loudly at odd times. He had a gun. He read football magazines.

Meanwhile, Simon researched Catholic sects and Polish skinheads. He drank too much coffee and researched genetics. He emailed David in France, and got a couple of emails in return. The emails were fascinating, and full of information, but they also added to his sense of danger and guilt. Simon felt guilty that he'd told the police about David: because Martinez and his friend — Amy — were, it seemed, suspicious of police involvement. Everywhere and everyone was suspect, unreliable, a menace.

And now Simon wondered if he could really trust Sanderson. Tomasky had, after all, seemed trustworthy and funny and decent; he had rather liked Tomasky — and Tomasky had tried to kill him. Who was to say that Tomasky's superiors were in the clear? How deep, how high, how far did this go?

This isn't any old fish and chip job, Quinn, this isn't a fish and chip job.

Five days later, sitting at his desk, bleakly daydreaming — yet again — he got a call from a distraught Polish woman.

Tomasky's sister.

Her English was appalling but her meaning was obvious: she was harrowed with guilt for what her brother had done, she wanted to apologize to Simon. She had tracked him down through 'The Scottish Yard policing man'.

He listened to her sincerely weepy, flamboyantly Slavic grief for several minutes, feeling his own awkwardness. Even if Tomasky had attacked Simon, the poor woman's brother had died. What could you say? Never mind, it wasn't that bad?

The woman was burbling again.

'Andrew was a good Polish man, Mister Quinn. Good man, regular guy! Regular.' Her words retreated into a taut, choking silence. 'He like smalec and piwo. He good. Normal. Like any men. But then the place change him, it change him.'

'Sorry?'

'Yes! Strasne. The monastery…the monastery Tourette in France.' Another suppressed sob. 'When he go there something happen. Something very bad like it change him. Pyrzykro mi. I am very sorry. Pyrzykro mi.'

The sobs came, and the phone call ended.