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 fiancée, but your little girl is perfectly unharmed. Indeed I like to think she’s in tiptop condition! We’re giving her lots of fruit. So she thrives. Of course I’m not sure quite how long we can maintain the status quo, but that’s up to you.’
‘You’ve…’ Rob said. ‘You’ve…’ He tried again. It was no good; he didn’t know what to say. In despair he turned and looked at Dooley, but as he did, he realized something. He did have something to say. He had one card in his hand and now he had to play it. He stared directly at the screen. ‘OK, Cloncurry, this is the deal. If you give me Lizzie. I can get you the Book. I can do that.’
Jamie Cloncurry winced. It was the first flash of insecurity, however subtle, that Rob had ever seen on his face. It gave him hope.
‘Of course,’ said Cloncurry. ‘Of course you can.’ The smile was sarcastic; unconvinced. ‘I suppose you got it in Lalesh?’
‘No.’
‘So where did you get it? What the fuck are you on about, Luttrell?’
‘Ireland. It’s here in Ireland. The Yezidi told me where. They told me in Lalesh, where to find it.’
It was a blatant gamble-and yet it seemed to work. There was a hint of worry and doubt on Cloncurry’s face, worry disguised by a sneer. ‘Right. But of course you can’t tell me where it is. Even though I might slice off your daughter’s nose with a cigar cutter.’
‘It doesn’t matter where it is. But I’ll bring it here. In a day or two. Then you can have your Book and you can give me back my daughter.’ He gazed into Cloncurry’s eyes. ‘Whether you shoot your way out after that, I don’t care.’
‘No. Nor do I.’ Cloncurry laughed. ‘Nor do I, Robbee. I just want the Book.’
The two men stared at each other. Rob felt a surge of curiosity, the old journalistic intrigue. ‘But why? Why are you so obsessed by it? Why all of…this?’
Cloncurry looked off-camera, as if thinking. His green eyes flashed as he glanced back. ‘I may as well tell you a little, I suppose. What do you journalists call it? A teaser?’
Rob sensed the policemen moving on his left: something was happening. Was this the signal? Were the police moving in? Was his daughter’s fate going to be decided right now?
Forrester made a hand gesture: keep him talking.
But it was Cloncurry who kept talking. ‘Three hundred years ago, Rob, Jerusalem Whaley came back from the Holy Land with a cache of materials brought back from the Yezidi. He should have been a happy man. Because he had found precisely what the Hellfire Club had been looking for, what Francis Dashwood had sought all those years. He had found the final proof that all the religions, all the faiths, the Koran and the Talmud and the Bible, all that rancid, imaginary piffle, all of it was bullshit. Religion is just the stale reek of urine from the orphanage of the human soul. For an atheist, for a priesthater like my forefather, that final proof was the Holy Grail. The big one. El Gordo. The lottery win. God isn’t just dead, the fucker never lived.’ Cloncurry smiled. ‘And yet, Rob, what Whaley found went further than that. What he found was so mortifying it actually broke his heart. What’s the saying? Be careful what you wish for. Isn’t that how it goes?’
‘So what was it? What did he find?’
‘Ah.’ Cloncurry chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, Robbie, my little tabloid hack? But I’m not going to tell you. If you really know where the Book is you can have a read yourself. Except if you tell anyone I shall slice up your daughter with a set of steak-knives from eBay. All I can say for now is that Thomas Buck Whaley concealed the Book. And he told a few of his friends what was in it. And that in certain circumstances the Book must be destroyed.’
‘Why didn’t he destroy it himself?’
‘Who knows? The Black Book is such an extraordinary…treasure trove. Such a terrifying revelation, Rob, maybe he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He must have had some pride in its discovery. He had found what the great Dashwood didn’t. Him. Humble Tom Whaley from the boondocks of colonial Ireland had outdone the British Chancellor. He must have been proud, despite himself. So instead of destroying it, he hid it. Where exactly has been forgotten over time. Hence our heroic search for my brave ancestor’s discovery. But here’s the clever bit, Rob. Are you listening?’