now. We snatched one of them, the Italian-'
'Marsinelli,' said Forrester.
'Yes, him. Marsinelli. We snatched him yesterday. Of course that's alerted the rest of the gang: they know we are surrounding them and they're heavily armed.'
Rob nodded, and sighed, then he gave into his feelings and slumped forward, his head hard against the seat in front. Thinking of Christine. The way she must have heard her own organs boiling…
Forrester put a calming hand on Rob's shoulder. 'We'll get them, don't worry, Rob. The Gardai know what they are doing. They dealt with Irish terrorism for thirty years. We'll get Lizzie out.'
Rob grunted: he wasn't just feeling sad and scared, he was also feeling a rising resentment, at the police. The police had snatched just one gang member, and his daughter was still inside the cottage, still in the hands of Cloncurry. And Christine was already dead. The Irish cops were screwing up. 'What you're telling me then,' he said, 'is that it's a total stalemate? You've got the place surrounded so they can't get out but you can't get in either, in case they do anything to my daughter. But he's already butchered my girlfriend! And we know he has killed before. So how do we know he isn't killing Lizzie right now? Right this fucking minute?'
Dooley shook his head. 'We know your daughter is OK. Because we are speaking to Cloncurry all the time.'
'How?'
'By webcam. He's got another webcam set up-a two-way webcam this time. We've seen your daughter and she's OK. Uninjured. Tied up. As before.'
Rob turned to Forrester for reassurance. The DCI nodded. 'Cloncurry is rambling on a lot. He may be on drugs.'
'But what if he suddenly snaps?'
There was a weighty silence in the minivan. The siren had been switched off. No one spoke. Then Dooley said, 'For some reason he seems determined to get something out of you. He wants this Black Book or whatever it is. He goes on and on about it. We think he is convinced you have it. He won't kill your daughter while he thinks that.'
Rob couldn't follow the logic. He couldn't follow anything.
They turned off the motorway, leaving the last of the Dublin suburbs behind, and sped along open country roads, heading into green, well-wooded hills. White-painted farmsteads dotted the fields. A sign said Wicklow Mountains 5km. It was still drizzling.
Dooley added quietly, 'And of course, if there is any sign that he is going to harm your daughter we will go in, whatever the risk. We've got armed Gardai all over. I promise.'
Rob closed his eyes. He could imagine the scene: the police rushing in, the melee and the chaos. And Cloncurry silently smiling and slitting his daughter's throat with a kitchen knife, or shooting her in the temple, just before the police smashed through the door. What was to stop him? Why would a lunatic like Jamie Cloncurry keep Rob's daughter alive? But perhaps the police were right. Cloncurry must be desperate to find the Black Book: that was what Isobel had surmised. And Cloncurry must have believed Rob when he said he could find it. Otherwise he'd have just killed Lizzie as well as Christine.
The problem was that Rob had no idea where the Book was. And unless Isobel came up with something, very quickly, this fact would soon become apparent. And what then? When Cloncurry guessed that Rob had nothing, what happened then? Rob didn't have to guess. When that happened, Cloncurry would do what he had done so many times: kill his victim. Get that grim and macabre satisfaction, and silence the blood-lusting voice inside him. He would placate his Whaley demons-and kill with great cruelty.
Rob gazed at the sodden green countryside. He saw another sign, half-hidden by dripping oak branches. Hellfire Wood, owned by the Irish Forestry Commission, Coillte. They were nearly there.
He had studied the history of the place on the train to Stansted Airport, simply to give himself something to do. To distract himself from his horrible imaginings. On the top of a hill near here was an old stone hunting lodge: Montpelier House. Built on a hilltop also graced by a Neolithic stone circle. Montpelier had a reputation for being haunted. It was celebrated by occultists, ciderdrinking kids and local historians alike. The lodge was one of the main places where the Irish Hellfire members had got together. To drink their scultheen and burn those black cats and play whist with the devil.
Much of what happened in the house was, as far as Rob could tell, legend and myth. But the rumours of murder were not entirely unsubstantiated. A house in the valley beneath Montpelier had also, according to legend, been used by the Hellfirers. By Buck Egan, and Jerusalem Whaley, and Jack St Leger and all the rest of the eighteenth century sadists.
Killakee House, it was called. And when Killakee House was being refurbished decades ago they had dug up a skeleton of a child or a dwarf, next to a small brass statue of a demon.
Rob turned and looked out of the other window. He could actually see Montpelier House now: a sombre grey presence on top of the hills, even darker and greyer than the grey clouds beyond. It was a vile day for June. Suitably rainy and satanic. Rob thought of his daughter shivering in the cottage somewhere near here. He had to get a grip. Think positive, even in the smallest way. He hadn't congratulated Forrester on his coup.
'By the way, well done.'
The DCI frowned. 'Sorry?'
'On the hunch, you know, finding these guys.'
Forrester shook his head. 'It was nothing. Just a reasonable guess. I tried to think with his brain. Cloncurry's deluded brain. He likes the historical resonance. Check his family. Where they live. He would hide out somewhere that meant something to him. And of course they are looking for the Black Book, for Whaley's treasure. This is where Burnchapel Whaley came from, where Jerusalem Whaley came from. They would have started looking here, so why not base yourself here?'
The van scrunched to a halt outside a farmhouse with a large tent erected in the forecourt and they all climbed out. Rob walked into the crowded tent and saw his ex-wife in the corner, sitting with a Gardai policewoman drinking a mug of tea. There were lots of policemen here, lots of sonorous Irish accents, flashing gold cap badges and screens of TV monitors.
Dooley took Rob by the arm and talked him through the situation. The gang's cottage was just a few hundred yards away down the hill. If you walked three minutes to the left, out of the farmhouse back door, you could see it, tucked into a narrow green valley. Montpelier House was right on top of the lofty hill behind them.
'Cloncurry rented the croft months ago,' said Dooley. 'From the farmer's wife. She was the one who informed us, when we were doing door to door. Said she'd seen strange comings and goings. So we put the cottage under surveillance. We've been watching them for twenty hours now. Think we've counted five men inside. We seized Marsinelli as he drove to the shops.'
Rob nodded, dumbly. He felt very dumb. He was in some dumb stupid stand-off: policemen with rifles were apparently stationed around the fields and hills, gunsights aimed at the cottage. Inside were four men led by a fucking lunatic. Rob wanted to run down the hill and just…do something. Anything. Instead he glanced at the TV screens. It seemed the Gardai had several cameras, one of them infra-red, directed at the gang's hideout. Every movement was scrutinized and noted, day and night. Though nothing serious had been seen for hours: the curtains were shut; the doors self-evidently shut.
On a desk in front of the TV monitors was a laptop. Rob guessed this was the computer set up to receive communications from Cloncurry via the webcam. The laptop had a webcam of its own.
Feeling as if someone had filled his lungs with frozen leadshot Rob crossed to Sally. They exchanged words, and a hug.
And then Dooley called to Rob across the tent. 'It's Cloncurry! He's on the webcam again. We told him you were here. He wants to speak to you.'
Rob ran across the tent and stood in front of the laptop screen. There it was. That angular face: almost likeable, yet so utterly chilling. The intelligent yet serpentine eyes. Behind Cloncurry was Lizzie, in fresh clothes; still tied to a chair; this time unhooded.
'Ah, the gentleman from The Times.'
Rob stared mutely at the screen. He felt a nudge from somewhere. Dooley was gesturing and mouthing: talk to him, keep him talking. 'Hello,' said Rob.
'Hello!' Cloncurry laughed. 'I'm sorry we had to parboil your fiancee, but your little girl is perfectly unharmed.
