fought?'
'Very possibly. But these days such a trait would be problematic. Intense aggression has no outlet in an era of smoking bans and smart bombs. We often kill by proxy if we kill at all. And now we have young Jamie Cloncurry, who is maybe what we call a 'genetic celebrity'. He carries the sadistic genes of his forefathers but in the most outrageous way. What can he do with his talents? Apart from murder? I see his dilemma, if that doesn't sound callous.'
Forrester stared at half a pickled human brain. It looked like a withered old cauliflower. He read the accompanying sign. The brain belonged to Charles Babbage, 'inventor of the computer'.
'What about a propensity for sacrifice then? Are you sure you couldn't, you know, inherit that, as a trait?'
'Maybe in historic times this gene cluster might have led you to commit human sacrifice, in a religious society already structured for such acts.'
Forrester pondered this for a moment. Then he retrieved a slip of paper from his pocket: a printout of the email that had been sent to Rob Luttrell. He showed it to Janice, who scanned it very quickly.
'Anti-Semitism. Yes, yes. This sort of thing is a fairly common symptom of psychosis. Especially if the victim is very bright. The dimmer kind of psychotics just think aliens are living in the toaster, but a clever man, going mad, will perceive more intriguing patterns and conspiracies. And antisemitism is a pretty regular feature. Remember the mathematician, John Nash?'
'The guy in that film? A Beautiful Mind?
'One of the greatest mathematical thinkers of his time. Won the Nobel I believe. He was totally schizophrenic in his twenties and thirties, and he was obsessively anti-Semitic. Thought the Jews were everywhere, taking over the world. High intelligence is no defence against dangerous lunacy. The average IQ of Nazi leaders was about 138. Very high.'
Forrester took the sheaf of paper and folded it back into his pocket. He had one last question. A very long shot. He gave it a try. 'Maybe you could help with one last thing. When we found that poor guy De Savary he had written a word, a single word on the front page of a book. The paper was soaked with flecks of aspirated blood.'
'Sorry?'
'He was writing with his mouth. The pen was in his mouth, and he was coughing blood as he wrote.'
The doctor grimaced, 'That's horrible.'
Forrester nodded, 'Not surprisingly, the writing is barely legible.'
'OK…'
'But the word seems to be 'Undish'.'
'Undish?'
'Undish.'
'I have absolutely no idea what that means.'
The DCI sighed, 'I did a search on it, and there is a Polish death metal band called Undish.'
'Right. Well…there's your answer no? Aren't these satanic cults often influenced by this awful music? Goth metal or whatever?'
'Yes,' Forrester agreed. Janice was heading for the exit, past ancient dark planks, smeared with dissected veins. He followed, adding, 'But why would someone like De Savary know about a death metal band? And why tell us about them anyway? If he had one last word to write, when he was in massive pain, why write that?'
Dr Edwards checked her watch 'Sorry, I have to go. We have another meeting.' She smiled. 'If you like we can have a proper session next week: call my secretary.'
Forrester made his farewells and walked down the stairs, past its plinths and pedestals, and the sombre unsmiling busts of famous medical men. Then he strode, with a certain relief, into the sunny streets of Bloomsbury. His conversation with Janice had given him some intriguing ideas. He wanted to sort through them. Right now. The phrase his doctor had used: honouring their ancestors, had set him thinking. Hard. It chimed with something in Rob Luttrell's report in The Times. Something about ancestors. And where you chose to live.
He strode to Holborn station, hummed impatiently on the Tube train, barrelled his way through the crowded shopping streets of Victoria. When he reached Scotland Yard he sprinted up the stairs and slammed into his office. He would have knocked over the photo of his dead daughter if it hadn't already have been laid face down on the desk.
Straight away he booted up his computer and Googled 'ancestors buried house'.
He found it. Bang to rights. His prize. What he wanted; what he remembered being mentioned in The Times article.
Cayonu and Catalhoyuk. Two ancient Turkish sites, near the temple of Gobekli Tepe.
The crucial aspect of these sites, for Forrester, was what had happened beneath the houses and buildings. Because the inhabitants had buried the human bones of their sacrificial victims in the floors beneath their homes. Consequently, these people lived and worked and slept and fucked and ate and talked right above their own victims. And this, it seemed, would go on for centuries: new layers of human bones and corpses, then another floor, then more bones. Living above the sacrificial victims of your ancestors. In the Skull Chamber.
He took a victorious glug of water from an Evian bottle. Why would you want to live near or even above your own victims? Why did so many killers want to do this? He stared out of the window at the sunny London sky and considered the curious echo in so many modern murder cases. Like Fred West in England, burying his murdered daughters in the backyard. Or John Wayne Gacy in Indiana, who buried dozens of the boys he killed, right under his own house. Whenever you got a mass murder the first place you looked for bodies was in the murderer's house or under his floorboards. It was standard police procedure. Because murderers so often hid their victims nearby.
Forrester had never properly considered this phenomenon in the round before: but now that he did he was struck by the strangeness of it. There was obviously a deep, maybe subconscious urge-to live near or above your dead victims, an urge that had been arguably present in humanity ten thousand years back. And maybe that was what the Cloncurrys were doing. Living above the bodies of their own victims: all those soldiers killed by the Butcher of Albert.
Yes.
He swallowed another mouthful of lukewarm Evian. What about the death-pit? Maybe the Cloncurry family fancied some affinity with those victims, too: after all, the victims in the Ribemont death-pit were Celtic. Gaulish warriors…
Forrester sat straight. Something was tugging at his thoughts like a loose nail pulling a thread. Unravelling a pullover. Celtic. Celts. Celts? Where did the Cloncurrys come from originally? He decided to search under 'Cloncurry ancestors'.
Within barely two minutes he found it. The Cloncurry family were descended, by marriage, from an old Irish family. But not just any old Irish family. Their forefathers were…the Whaleys.
The Cloncurrys were descended from Buck and Burnchapel Whaley, from the founders of the Irish Hellfire Club!
He beamed at the screen. He was on a roll, on a high. He felt he could crack the whole thing. He was hitting the sweet spot. Knocking every ball for six. He could solve the damn thing now. Here and now. Right here-at his desk.
So where could the gang be? Where could they be hiding? For a long time he and Boijer and the rest of the squad had presumed the gang was slipping in and out of Britain, going to Italy, or France. On a private plane, or maybe by boat. But maybe he and Boijer were looking in the wrong place. Just because certain gang members were Italian or French didn't mean they were going to France or Italy. They might be in another country: but they could be in the one country you didn't need a passport to get to when you left Britain. Forrester looked up. Boijer was coming through the door.
'My Finnish friend!'
'Sir?'
'I think I know.'
'What?'
'Where they are hiding, Boijer. I think I know where they are hiding.'
