And now he sighed and smiled at his own fond delusions. Love was addling his brain. He had a job, he needed money, he had to be practical.
Rob watched a catamaran in the distance. The line of its white sail looked like a swan as it crossed the stretch of water.
A noise disturbed his reverie. Rob turned, and there was Isobel coming out of the kitchen.
‘I’ve just had the most intriguing phone call from an old friend at Cambridge. Professor Hugo De Savary. Have you heard of him?’
‘No…’
‘Writes a lot. Does TV shows. But he’s a very fine scholar nonetheless. Christine knows him. I think she did a term of his lectures at King’s. In fact I think they were friends…’ Isobel tilted a smile. ‘Where is Christine anyway?’
‘Still fast asleep.’
‘Ah, young love!’ She took Rob’s arm. ‘Let’s go down to the beach. I’ll tell you what Hugo said.’
The beach was rocky and small, but pretty; and almost completely isolated. They sat on a bench of rock and she told him about De Savary’s phone call. The Cambridge historian had explained to Isobel everything he had learned from the police, and added everything he surmised himself about the gruesome murders across Britain. The gang of killers. The connection with the Hellfire Club and the link of human sacrifice in the murders.
‘Why did De Savary ring you?’
‘We’re old friends. I was at Cambridge too, remember.’
‘Yes, but what I mean is, how does this connect with everything we’ve discovered?’
‘Hugo knows I am something of an expert on Turkish and Sumerian antiquity, on ancient religions of the Near East. Such as the Yezidi. He was asking my opinion on a theory. Connected with them. A strange little coincidence. Or maybe not.’ She paused. ‘Hugo believes this gang, the killers, are looking for something closely associated with the Hellfire Club.’
‘Right. I understand that-they are digging up places associated with the club. But what are they looking for? And where do the Yez fit in?’
‘It’s very speculative. Hugo hasn’t even told the police. But he thinks it might be connected with the Black Book. That’s what the gang are pursuing, possibly…’
‘The Black Book? Explain?’
Isobel ran through the story of Jerusalem Whaley: as a friend of Hugo De Savary she’d heard lots of juicy stories about the Hellfire Club. Endless stories of depravity. ‘When he came back from the Holy Land, Thomas Whaley, or Jerusalem Whaley as he was thereafter known, brought with him a cache. A box. A hoard of some kind…’
‘What was it?’
‘Your guess is nearly as good as mine. But we do know he prized his find hugely, believed he’d proved a theory. He called it his “great evidence” in his many letters to friends. Supposedly he was given these materials by an old Yezidi priest. The Yezidi have a caste of priests, singing priests who hand down the oral tradition of the Yezidi. Because there isn’t much of a literary tradition.’
‘And he met with one of these priests, in Jerusalem? Who gave him something?’
‘Presumably. We can’t be sure because Whaley’s memoirs are irritatingly vague. But some scholars think it might be the Black Book of the Yezidi. The sacred book of the Angelicans.’
‘They have a Bible?’
‘Not any more. But their oral traditions say there was, once, a great body of sacred and mystical writing that embodied Yezidi myths and beliefs. Contemporary legends also say that the only copy was taken by an Englishman hundreds of years ago. Might some exiled priest have given the Black Book to Whaley? For safe keeping? The Yezidi have always felt embattled. They might have wanted to preserve their most precious object somewhere safe. Like faraway England. Buck Whaley certainly brought something remarkable with him on his return from the Levant. Moreover, this item, whatever it was, eventually left him a broken man.’
‘OK. So where is it now? The Black Book? If that’s what it is?’
‘Disappeared. Possibly destroyed. Possibly hidden.’
Rob’s thoughts started to race. He looked into the older woman’s serene grey eyes. Then he said: ’How can we find out what the gang are really looking for? How can we investigate this link to the Yezidi?’
‘Lalesh,’ said Isobel. ‘That’s the only place you could get real answers. The sacred capital of the Yezidi. Lalesh.’
Rob felt a shiver of disquiet. He knew he had to go to this place, Lalesh: to get answers, to finish the story. Steve was pressuring him to do the second and concluding article, and to write it properly Rob needed to tie up the straying ends: to find out about this ‘Black Book’.
But Rob also knew where Lalesh was. He’d heard of it before, from other journalists. It had featured in the news, in recent years, more than once. For all the wrong reasons.
‘I know Lalesh, he said. ‘That’s in Kurdistan isn’t it? South of the border?’
Isobel nodded gravely.
‘Yes. It’s in Iraq.’
31
That evening Rob told Christine that he had to go to Lalesh, and explained to her why.
She looked at him without saying anything. He told her, again, that Lalesh was the obvious place to finish the story. The answers to most of their puzzles lay with the Yezidi. The sacred capital was the only place he could find truly learned Yezidi. Scholars who could unwrap the enigma. And obviously it made sense for Rob to go alone. He knew Iraq. He knew the risks. He had contacts in that country. His paper would cover his enormous insurance bill, but they wouldn’t pay for Christine. So he had to go to Lalesh-and he had to go alone.
Christine seemed to accede and accept. And then she turned and walked, wordless, into the garden.
Rob hesitated. Should he join her? Leave her alone?
His reverie of indecision was broken by Isobel, humming a song as she walked through the kitchen. The older woman glanced at Rob, and then at the silhouetted figure, sitting in the garden.
‘You told her?’
‘She seemed OK about it, but then…’
Isobel sighed. ‘She was like this at Cambridge. When she’s upset, she doesn’t chuck things at walls, just bottles it up.’
Rob was torn. He hated to upset Christine, but the journey was a necessity: he was a foreign correspondent. He couldn’t pick or choose where his stories led him.
‘You know, I’m slightly surprised,’ Isobel said.
‘By what?
‘That she fell for you anyway. She doesn’t normally go for men like you. With cheekbones and blue eyes. Dashing adventurers. It’s usually older men. You do know she lost her dad when she was young, don’t you? She’s like any girl with that in her background. Always been attracted to the missing father figure. Advisors. Tutors.’ Isobel looked Rob in the eye. ‘Protectors.’
Across the waters came the hooting of a ferry. Rob listened to the echo rebounding. Then he stepped through the kitchen doorway, into the garden.
Christine was alone on the garden seat, staring through the moonlit pines. Without turning, she said, ‘Isobel is very lucky. This house is so beautiful.’
He sat down beside her and took her hand. The moonlight made her fingers seem very pale. ‘Christine, I need a favour.’
She turned to look at him.
He explained. ‘While I am in Lalesh…’ He paused. ‘Lizzie. Watch over her a little. Can you?’
Christine’s face was shadowed. A passing cloud had obscured the moon. ‘But I don’t understand. Lizzie’s with her mother.’
Rob sighed. ‘Sally works very hard at her job. Her studies. She’s got legal exams. I just want someone I really trust to…keep another eye on her. You’ll be staying with your sister, right? In Camden?’
Christine nodded.
‘So that’s barely three miles from Sally’s house. Knowing you were there, or just nearby, would make it a lot easier for me. Then maybe you could email me. Or call. I’ll ring Sally to make sure she knows who you are. She might even welcome the help. Maybe…’