There was an icon for a photograph, and John clicked on it. Moments later the image appeared. A photograph of two good-looking people, a man in his mid-thirties and a woman in her late twenties. He recognized them instantly.
They had been on Dettore’s ship. There was no mistaking them. It was the couple by the Serendipity Rose ’s swimming pool who had totally ignored them. The couple he and Naomi had jokingly called George and Angelina.
44
George and Angelina. John sat at his desk, mesmerized by the two images of the couple on his computer screen.
One, which Kalle had emailed him, was a wedding photograph. Jack O’Rourke in a white tuxedo looked even more of a doppel-ganger for George Clooney than he had on the ship. His wife Jerry, hair in ringlets, wearing a classy white dress, seemed less like Angelina Jolie now, thinner, harder. They looked vain, as they had done on the ship, as if they knew exactly how beautiful and rich they were, powerful enough to buy everything they wanted, including perfect children.
The other was a close-up from the photograph he had taken surreptitiously on board the Serendipity Rose, of the couple lying on loungers by the pool. The match was evident; no question it was the same couple.
Twin babies, he read again.
They had twins too?
He swallowed, his mouth dry suddenly, and his hand was shaking. He clicked on another icon and there was a photograph showing a driveway leading up to a swanky house with tall pillars.
‘They were a wonderful and kind couple, devoted to each other, and the most adoring parents in the world to their two-month-old twins,’ said Betty O’Rourke, the murdered man’s mother, at her Scottsville home. ‘They had wanted to start a family for a long time, and felt truly blessed by the arrival of their beautiful twins.’
John’s door opened and his secretary came in with some mail to be signed. He hastily clicked up a different window, one containing his weekly diary, then scrawled his signature on each letter, barely looking at them, anxious for her to leave so he could get back to the story.
As she closed the door behind her, he read to the end of the story. Then he read it again.
John O’Rourke was a sharp boy who had built up a billion-dollar real estate empire. His wife, Jerry, had genuine Mayflower ancestry; they were active in Washington political circles, had given Barack Obama a massive donation and were big fund-raisers for the Democrats. John O’Rourke harboured political ambitions of his own.
Their twins were called Jackson and Chelsey.
Like their parents, the babies had been mutilated.
Slogans and obscenities had been written on the walls in their blood.
With hands shaking so badly he could barely hit the buttons on his phone, he rang Naomi. When she answered he could hear screaming.
‘It’s Phoebe,’ she said. ‘She won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do, John, why won’t she stop? Why is she crying?’
‘Maybe you should call the doctor.’
‘I’ll see. What is it you want?’
‘Want?’
‘Yes – you just called – now you’re calling again.’
‘I – I wanted to see if you’re OK, darling?’
‘NO, I AM NOT OK,’ she shouted. ‘I’M DEMENTED. IT’S FINE FOR YOU IN YOUR BLOODY OFFICE.’
‘Maybe she’s got an infection or something?’ he answered lamely. Then he said, ‘Listen, are you-’
He stopped in mid-sentence. This was stupid calling her like this, stupid to worry her.
‘Oh Christ,’ Naomi cried out. ‘Luke’s being sick again. John – sod it – I have to call you back.’
She hung up.
John stared back at the screen, suddenly feeling very, very alone in the world.
He dialled Kalle Almtorp in Washington.
It seemed, he told John, that the Disciples of the Third Millennium were as elusive as they had been a year ago when they’d claimed responsibility for Dettore’s death. There were no names of any of the members and no clues where the organization hailed from.
‘I think you need to be vigilant. The police don’t know whether this organization is for real or whether it’s the work of some copycat sickos. This whole genetics issue brings out some strong feelings in people, for sure. It’s good that you aren’t in America any more, but my advice to you is to make your home as secure as possible. Keep your head below the parapet and keep out of the press.’
‘Can you do me one favour, Kalle. Can you get your secretary to find me a phone number for a Mrs Betty O’Rourke, in Scottsville, Virginia? I need to speak to her very badly. She may be unlisted – if so, could you try to pull some strings?’
Kalle rang back an hour later. It was an unlisted number, but he had managed to obtain it.
John thanked him, then dialled it.
After five rings he heard a mature-sounding woman’s voice. ‘Hallo?’
‘Could I please speak to Mrs Betty O’Rourke?’
‘That’s me.’ The voice, cracked with grief, sounded guarded.
‘Mrs O’Rourke? Forgive the intrusion, my name is Dr Klaesson, I’m calling from England.’
‘Dr Gleeson, did you say?’
‘Yes. I – my wife and I – we met your son last year at a clinic.’
‘Clinic? I’m sorry, what clinic are you talking about?’
John hesitated, unsure how much she knew. ‘Dr Dettore. Dr Dettore’s clinic.’
‘Dr Dee Tory?’ The name sounded like it was a total blank to her. ‘Are you a newspaper man?’
John felt increasingly awkward. ‘No, I’m not. I’m a scientist. My wife and I knew your son and – and his wife. I’m very sorry about your sad news.’
‘I apologize, Dr Gleeson, I’m really not up to talking with anyone.’
‘This is important, Mrs O’Rourke.’
‘Then I think you should talk to the police, not me.’
‘Please let me ask you just one question. Did your son intend to have twins?’ Realizing he hadn’t phrased it well, he tried to recover the situation. ‘What I mean is-’
‘How did you get this number, Dr Gleeson?’
‘This may have some bearing on what has happened. I appreciate it must be difficult for you to talk at the moment, but please, believe me-’
‘I’m going to hang up now. Goodbye, Dr Gleeson.’
The line went dead.
Shit.
He stared at the receiver for some moments. Then he redialled. The line was busy.
He tried again, repeatedly, for the next half hour. The line remained busy.
Finally he gave up. From a drawer in his desk he pulled out a thick, heavy Yellow Pages, and turned to the heading marked Security Services and Equipment.
45
Chopin tinkled on the Saab’s radio as John drove along the country road. It was eight o’clock. The wipers thud-thudded, smearing the drizzle into an opaque film. Headlights burst out of the darkness towards him, then, in his mirror, became red tail lights shrinking into the distance. Darkness in front of him now, and behind him.
Darkness, also, in his heart.
He drove at a steady sixty miles an hour, the headlamps picking out the familiar landmarks. Inside his head he pricked at thoughts, trying to grab them, grasp them.
They had moved from America to here. Was there any point in moving again – and if so, to where? Sweden? Would they be any safer there, any further from the reach of these crazies? A few years back the Swedish Prime Minster had been shot in a busy street. Where in this world could you be safe from fanatics?
He passed a brightly illuminated pub on the right, followed by the sign for a farm shop. Then a long stretch of dark road again, bordered by hedgerows. In a fortnight the clocks went forward. Summertime would begin. He would be able to drive home in daylight. Daylight gave more protection than darkness. Didn’t it?
His mobile rang. Glancing at the dial he could see it was Naomi. Jamming the phone into the hands-free cradle, he answered. ‘Hi, honey, I’m almost home. Be there in five minutes.’