‘Three weeks ago, I spotted two men in the field by the old preceptory. They were staring at those little stone graves. These chaps seemed so out of place I went to talk to them.’
‘Out of place?’
‘Their clothes were… rather odd. This was November. In the Dales. But they were wearing thin leather jackets. And city shoes! I was walking the dog, but I saw them over the gate, and they struck me as conspicuous, abnormal. So I went to have a chat, say hello as it were.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘I’d say they were in their thirties, or so. And they were swarthy, if one is still allowed to say that! Italian or Spanish looking, I mean.’
He paused, staring gravely at his glass. ‘And, they were hostile, positively menacing.’
‘You spoke to them?’
‘Just one. I only heard the one man talk. He had an American accent.’
A heartbeat of a silence. Adam leaned close. ‘Did the American have tattoos?’
‘I can’t properly recall. Yes, perhaps. Why do you ask?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Nina hurried on. ‘What else did they say?’
‘Well. This is the sinister bit, this is the element that perhaps you ought to, ah, be aware of. When I said they were on my land, they didn’t bat an eye. Instead they asked about your father, very aggressively. Did I know him? Archibald McLintock? What did I know of him? What were his reasons for visiting Penhill?’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing! Of course I asked them to get off my land in short order. Lucky I had Alaric with me, big boxer, big three-year-old bitch. So they sauntered to the car, and that was that, really. I watched them drive away. Most peculiar. As I say. I called your father to tell him, naturally — but he seemed… rather unsurprised. Perhaps alarmed, but unsurprised.’ Surtees sighed. ‘That was the very last time we spoke. So. There it is. Not sure if it is relevant. I am afraid I have to go in a minute, it’s already dark out there.’
Their drinks were finished. The conversation was finished. Surtees stood, solemnly shook them by the hand, gave his sympathies once more and exited into the dark and the cold.
All the other drinkers had left. It was just Nina and Adam in the bar, and a Christmas tree, fairylights frantically flickering, on and off.
A secret that will get you killed.
Nina was furiously texting something into her phone, her dark head bowed. A sudden, troubling notion unbalanced Adam. ‘Nina, have you been updating the Facebook page? And tweeting?’
She looked up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Are you still updating? Telling everyone where we are and what we’re doing?’
Her eyes expressed innocence, then anxiety.
‘Yes. Of course. But-?’
‘The whole world could be reading,’ Adam hissed. ‘Anyone at all. We need to get going. Right now.’
22
The American Christian Hospital, Trujillo, Peru
Dr Andrew Laraway, silver-haired, brisk and archly Bostonian, gazed sympathetically at Jessica.
‘You have no evidence of mercury poisoning, Miss Silverton.’
Jessica knew this. She’d always known this. Before she even got here she’d known this. But she just wanted to be here. To have a reason, however feeble and phoney, to escape from Zana. But she could not escape her fears, even as she ignored them. She had been pestering Laraway to explain her symptoms, even as she wanted to deny them.
‘I understand, Dr Laraway. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Asking all these questions.’
‘You’re not, Jessica, not at all…’ He hesitated, for a moment. ‘But I must ask — why did you come all the way here? I imagine you are aware that cinnabar is inert. After so long.’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘So what is it, Jessica? The mild diabetes we discussed when you were last here?’
‘No. Yes. No.’
An awkward silence intervened. The doctor sighed, delicately, and looked at her. ‘Can I ask you some personal questions, Jessica?’
‘Yes…’
‘You seem to suffer — and this is not meant to be insulting — a notable concern for your health, almost an obsession?’ He sat back, tutted at himself. ‘No, that’s not the mot juste. My sincere apologies. You are not hypochondriac, you are clearly very intelligent, determined, hard-working, even bold. Quite admirable. And yet… there is a hypersensitivity and a gentle neuroticism. Therefore, and before we go on, I’d like to know more about you and your life.’
This was strange, and a little unnerving. She said, ‘All right.’
‘Let’s start with your life now, your profession? How are things professionally? Is there anything in your career that has troubled you?’
Jessica knew she needed to talk about everything that was happening at Zana. But she didn’t want to. So she diverted, as always. ‘My last job was in Calcutta.’ She tried to seek Laraway’s eyes, like a truthful person. ‘That was tough. The anthropology of poverty.’
‘Please explain?’
‘We had to work with… these children, infants even. We had to research these poor kids that actually live under the platform at the railway station. This big British imperial railway station, you know. These street kids live there in utter poverty. They were attacked, molested, abused. I met one boy…’ Jess shook her head. She was being candid now. This memory was brutal. ‘He used to sleep under the platform, with a razor blade under his tongue. He showed me how to do it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The razor was to ward off attackers: men, abusers. He was eight years old.’
Laraway sighed. ‘The world is too much with us. That’s awful.’
‘But, actually, you know, it wasn’t entirely bleak. There were people helping them, charities. Some of the stories were inspiring. Kids coming from nothing, from this dire poverty, and remaking themselves. The human spirit is really there, everywhere, indomitable. In Calcutta. India. It’s the best and the worst of places.’
The doctor leaned forward. ‘But what about Peru, Jessica? You never talk about what you are doing here.’
Jess didn’t really want to talk about Peru. But maybe, she thought, maybe she needed to talk about it. Maybe the perceptive Dr Laraway was just doing his job, and doing it well, and she needed to be honest.
‘There is something.’ Jessica inhaled, profoundly, as if she was on the stage of the Met and about to sing an aria: and maybe she was.
It took her ten minutes, fifteen, then twenty. But she told him everything. The Moche, the Muchika, the Museo Casinelli, the amputations, the intruder at Zana. Slowly and eloquently she recited the entire and recent demonology of her work in Zana.
At the end, for perhaps the only time in their acquaintanceship, Dr Laraway was entirely silenced.
It took him a long time to respond. ‘My God, that is quite a narrative. That is indubitably extreme. Anyone would be unsettled by such a sequence of events. Really. Astonishing. And very perturbing. I have never heard of the Moche. And this man McLintock. Goodness.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you believe the intrusion was linked to that awful explosion last month, here in Trujillo? The Texaco garage?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What do the police say?’
‘Not much, they’re looking into it. I reckon they think it is a bit far-fetched. Why should anyone be intent on
