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?'
