The Genesis Secret

by Tom Knox

  He handed the book back to Christine. ‘What does the writing say? I don’t know much German.’

  ‘Well, most of it is illegible.’ She opened the book towards the end. ‘But he talks about wheat, here. And a river. Turning into more rivers. Here.’

  ‘Wheat? But why?’

  ‘God knows. And this drawing seems to be a map. I think. With mountains. It says mountains with a question mark. And rivers. Or maybe they are roads. It really is a mess.’

  Rob finished his beer and motioned to the bar owner for two more. Another huge silver lorry thundered down the Damascus road. The sky over Sanliurfa was a dirty orange-black.

  ‘And what about the grass?’

  Christine nodded. ‘Yes, that is weird. Why keep that?’

  ‘Do you think he was frightened? Is that why the notes are so…messed up?

  ‘It is possible. Remember the Pulsa Dinura?’

  Rob shuddered. ‘Hard to forget. Do you think he knew about that?’

  Christine picked an insect off the top of her beer. Then she looked hard at Rob. ‘I think he knew. He must have heard the chanters outside the window. And he was an expert on Mesopotamian religions. The demons and the curses. It was one of his specialities.’

  ‘So he was aware he was in danger?’

  ‘Probably. Which might account for the chaotic state of his notes. Sheer fear. But still…’ She held the book flat in her hands, as if assessing its weight. ’A lifetime’s work…

  Rob could sense her sadness.

  Christine dropped the book again. ‘This place is horrible. I don’t care if they do serve beer. Can we go?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  Dropping some coins in a saucer, they made for the Land Rover and barrelled off down the road. After a while Christine said, ‘I don’t believe it was just fear, it doesn’t add up.’ She swivelled the wheel so they could overtake a cyclist, an old man in an Arabic cloak. Sitting in front of the bicycling man, athwart the crossbar, was a small dark boy. The boy waved at the Land Rover, grinning at the white western woman.

  Rob noticed that Christine was taking side streets. Not an obvious route back to the centre of town.

  At last she said, ‘Franz was diligent and thorough. I don’t think a curse would have sent him over the edge. Nothing would have unsettled him like that.’

  ‘So what was it?’ Rob asked.

  They were in a newer part of town now. Almost European looking. Nice clean apartment blocks. Women were walking the evening streets, not all of them in headscarves. Rob saw a brightly lit supermarket advertising cheese in German as well as Turkish. Next door was an internet café full of shining screens with dark heads silhouetted against them.

  ‘I think he must have had some theory. He used to get excited by theories.’

  ‘I saw.’

  Christine smiled, staring ahead. ‘I think he had some theory, about Gobekli. That’s what the notes say to me.’

  ‘A theory to do with what?’

  ‘Perhaps he had worked out why Gobekli was buried. That is, after all, the big mystery. If he felt he was onto a solution that would get him pretty agitated.’

  Rob wasn’t satisfied by this. ‘But why didn’t he just write it down, or tell anyone?’

  The car had stopped. Christine pulled the key from the ignition. ‘Good point,’ she said, looking at Rob. ‘A very good point. Let’s go and find out. Come on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s a friend here. Might be able to help.’

  They were parked in front of a new apartment complex with a huge crimson poster advertising Turku Cola on the wall. Christine ran up the steps and pressed a numbered button. They waited, and then they were buzzed in. The lift took them to the tenth floor. They ascended in silence.

  A door was already half-open across the landing. Rob followed Christine. He peered into the apartment-then jumped: just inside the door was Ivan the paleobotanist, from the party. Just lurking there.

  Ivan nodded politely but his expression was notably unfriendly. Almost suspicious. He showed them into the main room of his flat. It was austere, just a lot of books and some pictures. On a desk a smart laptop computer was showing a screensaver of the Gobekli megaliths. There was one beautiful small stone object on the mantelpiece which looked like one of the Mesopotamian wind demons. Rob found himself wondering if Ivan had stolen it.

  They sat down. Wordless. Ivan offered no tea or water but just sat down opposite them, looked hard at Christine and said, ‘Yes?’

  She took out the notebook and laid it on the table. Ivan stared at it. He glanced up at Christine. His young Slavic face was a picture of blankness. Like someone suppressing emotion. Or someone used to suppressing emotion.

  Then Christine reached in her pocket and took out the grass stalk and laid it very gently on top of the book. All the time Rob watched Ivan’s face. He had no idea what was going on here, but he felt that Ivan’s reaction was crucial. Ivan flinched very slightly when he saw the stalk of grass. Rob couldn’t stand the silence any longer. ‘Guys? Please? What is it? What’s going on?

  Christine glanced at him as if to say be patient. But Rob didn’t feel like being patient. He wanted to know what was going on. Why had they driven here, late at night? To sit in silence and stare at some piece of grass?

  ‘Einkorn,’ said Ivan.

  Christine smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it? Einkorn wheat. Yes.’

  Ivan shook his head. ‘You needed me to tell you this, Christine?’

  ‘Well…I wasn’t sure. You’re the expert.’

  ‘So now you are sure. And I am very tired.’

  Christine picked up the grass. ‘Thank you, Ivan.’

  ‘It is nothing.’ He was already standing. ’Goodbye.’

  They were escorted briskly to the door. At the threshold Ivan glanced left and right along the landing as if he was expecting to see someone he didn’t want to see. Then he slammed the door shut.

  ‘Well that was friendly,’ said Rob.

  ‘But we got what we came for.’

  They buzzed the lift and descended. All the mystery was irritating Rob. ‘OK,’ he said as they breathed the warm, dieselly air of the street. ‘Come on, Christine. Einkorn wheat. What the hell?’

  Without turning to face him she said, ‘It is the oldest form of wheat in the world. The original wheat, the first ever cereal if you like.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It only grows around here. And it was crucial to the switch to agriculture. When man started farming.’

  ‘And?’

  Christine turned. Her brown eyes were shining. ’Franz thought it was a clue. I’m sure he thought it was a clue. In which case I think it’s a clue.’

  ‘A clue to what?’

  ‘It might tell us why they buried the temple.’

  ‘But how can a piece of grass do that?’

  ‘Later. Come on. Let’s go. You saw the way Ivan was watching at the door. Come on. Now.’

  ‘You think we’re being…followed?’

  ‘Not followed exactly. Maybe watched. I don’t know. Maybe it’s paranoia.’

  Rob remembered Franz, skewered on the pole. He jumped into the car.

  16

  Forrester woke in an almost feverish sweat. He blinked at the dingy curtains of his Douglas hotel room. For a moment the nightmare lingered: giving a palpable yet absurd savour of evil to the hotel fixtures: the wardrobe door had swung half-open, showing the blackness within; the television lurked, squat and ugly, in the corner.

  What had he dreamed? He rubbed the sleep from his face and remembered: he’d dreamed the usual, of course. A small body. A bridge. Then the bump-bump-bump of cars, driving over a ’tyre’.

  Bump bump bump.

  Bump bump bump.

  He got up, walked to the window and drew the curtains. To his surprise it was light: very light. The sky was white and blank and the streets were busy; he was going to be late for the press conference.

  He made it just in time. The
sizeable hall was already bustling. The local police had commandeered the biggest room in St Anne’s Fort. A handful of local journalists had been joined by a dozen national hacks. Two news crews with digicams, big headphones and long grey microphones were loitering at the back. Forrester saw a familiar head of blonde hair: it was the London correspondent for CNN. He’d seen her at several media briefings before.

  CNN? Someone had obviously tipped off the London media about the macabre nature of the murder. From the back of the hall, he surveyed the room. Three policemen were sitting at the front; Deputy Chief Hayden was in the middle, flanked by a couple of younger guys. A big blue screen above them said Isle of Man Constabulary.

  The Deputy Chief Constable raised a hand. ‘If we could begin…’ He talked the journalists through the circumstances of the crime, citing the discovery of the body, and laconically describing the way the man’s head had been buried in the soil.

  One journalist gasped.

  Hayden paused, allowing time for this gruesome detail to sink in. Then he appealed for witnesses to come forward. His presentation concluded, he scanned the room. ‘Any questions?’

  Several hands shot up.

  ‘The young lady at the back?’

  ‘Angela Darvill, CNN. Sir, do you think there is a link between this murder and the recent case in Covent Garden?’

  This was unexpected. Hayden winced visibly, then flashed a glance at Forrester, who shrugged. The Scotland Yard officer didn’t know what to advise. If the media knew about the link already there was nothing anyone could do about it. They would have to ask the media to keep it quiet so the murderers didn’t know the police had linked the cases; but you couldn’t unsay what someone had obviously said.

  The DCC acknowledged Forrester’s shrug then returned his gaze to the American journalist. ‘Miss Darvill, there are certain shared peculiarities. But anything beyond that is mere speculation at the moment. I wouldn’t like to comment further. We appreciate your discretion on this, as I am sure you realize.’ With that, he looked around the room seeking a different questioner. But Angela Darvill raised her hand again.

  ‘Do you think there is a religious element?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The Star of David. The carving in the chest. In both cases?’

  The local journalists turned to stare at Angela Darvill. The question had thrown them; it had unsettled the whole room. Hayden hadn’t mentioned the ‘design’ of the knife cuts.

  The room was hushed as Hayden replied. ‘Ms Darvill. We have a brutal and very serious crime to investigate. The clock is ticking. So. I think I should take a few more questions from…others. Yes?’

  ‘Brian Deeley, The Douglas Star.’ The local hack speculated about possible motive and Hayden said they had no motive at present. The two men batted some more questions and answers between them. Then a national newsman stood up and asked about the victim’s circumstances. Hayden told them that that the victim was a wellliked local man with a wife and children living in town. He was a keen sailor. The DCC gazed about the room, staring at each face in turn. ’Some of you might even know his boat, The Manatee. He used to go sailing with his son Jonny.’ He smiled sadly. ‘The lad is just ten years old.’

  For a few seconds, no one spoke.

  The Manx police, Forrester thought, were doing a good job. The blatant emotion was deft. That was how you got witnesses to come forward: appeal to the heart not the head. And they really needed witnesses. Because they had no evidence, no DNA, no prints. Nothing.

  Hayden was gesturing at a balding man in an anorak. ‘The chap in the corner? Mr…?’

  ‘Harnaby. Alisdair. Radio Triskel.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think the crime is linked to the unusual history of the building?’

  Hayden’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. ‘I’m not aware of any unusual history.’

  ‘I mean the way the castle was first built. Is it perhaps important? You know, all the legends…?’

  The policeman’s fingers stopped drumming. ‘As of this moment, Mr Harnaby, we are following all lines of investigation. But I hope we aren’t pursuing legends. And that’s all I can tell you. Now.’ He stood up. ‘I think we have some work to do, so if you would excuse us, I do believe there’s coffee in the tent at the front.’

  Forrester looked around. It had been a good, professional press conference: but he still felt unsettled. Something was bothering him. He looked at Harnaby. What was this guy talking about? The ‘unusual history’ of the building? It chimed with Forrester’s thoughts. Something was wrong here. The architecture: the pastiche effect of the building: something was wrong.

  Alisdair Harnaby was reaching under his chair for a blue plastic shopping bag. ‘Mr Harnaby?’

  The man turned, his thin-rimmed spectacles shiny in the striplight.

  ‘My name is DCI Forrester. I’m with the Met.’

  Harnaby looked nonplussed. Forrester added: ’Scotland Yard? Do you have a minute?

  The man put down his plastic bag and Forrester sat beside him. ‘I’m interested in what you said. About the unusual history of the building. Can you elaborate?’

  Harnaby nodded, his eyes twinkling. He gazed about the empty hall. ‘What you see today is actually a rather crude copy of the previous building.’

  ‘Right, so…’

  ‘The original fort, St Anne’s Fort, was demolished in 1979. It was also known as Whaley’s Folly.’

  ‘And it was built by?

  ‘Jerusalem Whaley. A rake.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A buck. A roisterer. An upper class thug. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘A kind of playboy?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Harnaby smiled. ‘We are talking real sadism here, through the generations.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Whaley’s father was Richard Chappell Whaley. But the Irish called him “Burnchapel” Whaley.’

  ‘Because…’

  ‘He was a member of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy. A Protestant. And he used to burn Irish Catholic churches. With the worshippers inside.’

  ‘Ask a stupid question.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Harnaby grinned. ‘Quite unsavoury! And Burnchapel Whaley was also a member of the Irish Hellfire Club. They were an awful shower of hooligans, even by the standards of the time.’

  ‘OK. And what about Jerusalem Whaley, his son?’

  Harnaby frowned. The room was now so quiet that Forrester could hear the patter of drizzle on the long sash windows.

  ‘Tom Whaley? He was another Georgian buck. As brutal and reckless as his father. But then something happened. He came back to Ireland after a long journey east to Jerusalem. Hence his nickname: Jerusalem Whaley. When he returned, it seemed that the journey had changed him. It broke him.’

  Forrester frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘All we know is that Jerusalem Whaley returned a very different man. He built this strange castle: St Anne’s Fort. He wrote his memoirs. A surprisingly remorseful book. And then he died. Leaving behind the castle and a lot of debts. But a fascinating life! Absolutely fascinating.’ Harnaby paused. ’Forgive me, Mr Forrester, am I talking too much? I do get carried away sometimes. Bit of a passion of mine, local folklore. I have a radio programme, on local history you see.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. This is very interesting. I’ve actually only got one more question. Is there anything left of the old building?’

  ‘Oh, no. No no no. It was all pulled down.’ Harnaby sighed. ‘This was the 1970s! They would have pulled down St Paul’s Cathedral if they could. Really. Such a shame. A few years later and the building would have been conserved.’

  ‘So nothing was left?’

  ‘Yes. Although…’ Harnaby’s face clouded. ’There is something…’

  ‘What?

  ‘I’ve often wondered…There is one more legend. Rather odd really.’ Harnaby clutched his plastic bag. ‘I’ll show you!’

  The older man waddled to the
door and Forrester followed him into the front garden. In the breeze and the cold and the drizzle, Forrester looked left: he could see Boijer by the police tent. The CNN girl was walking past with her crew. Forrester mouthed to Boijer, and pointed at Angela Darvill: talk to her: find out what she knows. Boijer nodded.

  Harnaby plodded across the soggy front lawns in front of the castellated house. Where the lawns gave way to hedges and walls, the older man knelt as if he was about to do some gardening. ‘See!’

  Forrester crouched alongside and scoped the wet dark earth.

  Harnaby smiled. ‘Look! Do you see? The soil is darker here than it is here.’

  It was true. The soil seemed to change colour slightly. The soil of the castle lawn was definitely peatier and darker than the soil further from the house. ‘I don’t understand. What is it?’

  Harnaby shook his head. ‘It’s Irish.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The soil. It’s not from here. It’s maybe from Ireland.’

  Forester blinked. It was raining again, and harder this time. But he took no notice of it. The clockwork of the case was turning over in his mind. Turning over quite fast. ‘Please explain?’

  ‘Buck Whaley was an impulsive man. He once bet someone he could jump out of a second storey window on a horse and survive. He did it-but the horse died!’ Harnaby chuckled. ‘Anyhow. The story is that he fell in love with an Irish girl, just before he moved here. To Man. But this presented him with a problem.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘His bride’s marriage contract said she was only ever allowed to live on Irish soil. Yet this was 1786, and Whaley had just bought this house. He was determined to bring his wife here, despite the contract.’ Harnaby’s eyes were twinkling.

  Forrester thought about it. ‘What you mean is he shifted tons of Irish soil to live on? So she lived on Irish earth?’