The view of Montpelier returned him to stark reality. He swivelled to face the room: the office was full of people. Just ninety minutes had elapsed since the terrifying drama at the cottage under Hellfire Wood. They’d had one brief message from Cloncurry showing that Lizzie was still alive. But where? Where was she? Rob bit a fingernail, trying to work it out, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together.
Christine was talking animatedly and lucidly. Dooley leant towards her. ‘Are you sure you don’t need the paramedics to-’
‘No!’ she snapped. ‘I’m fine. I told you. They didn’t harm me.’
Boijer interrupted. ‘So how did they get you to Ireland?’
‘Boot of a car. In a car ferry. Judging by the rancid smell of diesel and seawater.’
‘You were stuck in the boot?’
‘I survived. It was only a few hours in the car, and then the boat. And then here.’
Forrester nodded. ‘Well, that’s what we guessed. They were driving between Britain and Ireland, taking the ferry, avoiding customs controls. Miss Meyer, I know it’s traumatic but we need to know as much as we can, as soon as we can.’
‘As I said, I’m not traumatized, Detective. Ask me anything.’
‘OK. What do you recall? Do you know when the gang split? We know they kept you and Lizzie together, for a day or two in England: any idea where?’
‘Sorry.’ Christine was talking in an odd way, Rob noticed: staccato, sharp. ‘I have no idea where they kept me, sorry. Somewhere near Cambridge perhaps? The first drive wasn’t long, maybe an hour. Lizzie and I were both in a car boot. But then they took us out. Hooded and gagged. They were talking a lot, and I guess then they split up. After about a day and a half maybe? It’s hard to tell when you are in a gag and hooded and fairly terrified.’
Forrester smiled, quietly and apologetically. Rob could sense him trying to work through the logic. Boijer said, ‘But I still don’t get it. What was the whole drama for? The poor woman in the video, the stick in the garden, when he threatened to kill the girl. What was that about?’
‘He saw it as an opportunity to torture Rob. Psychologically,’ said Christine. ‘That’s Cloncurry’s style. He’s a psychotic. Flamboyant and theatrical. Remember, I was with him a while. Not the best hours of my life.’
Rob glanced her way; she stared right back. ‘He never touched me. I wonder if he’s asexual. Either way, I do know he’s an exhibitionist. A show-off. He likes to make people watch what he does. Make the victims suffer, and make those who love them suffer too…’
Forrester had stood, and walked to the window. The soft Irish sun was on his face. He turned and said quietly, ‘And human sacrifice was traditionally performed in front of an audience. De Savary told me that. What was the word he used…the propitiary power of sacrifice comes from its being watched. The Aztecs would haul people to the top of pyramids so the whole town could see their hearts being pulled out. Right?’
‘Yes,’ Christine added. ‘Like the Viking ship burials-very public ceremonies of sacrifice. And the impaling of the Carpathians-again, a big public ritual. Sacrifice is meant to be observed. By the people, by the kings, by the gods. A theatre of cruelty. That’s the appeal for Cloncurry. Prolonged, public and very elaborate cruelty.’
‘And that’s what he was planning for you, Christine,’ Forrester said gently.’ A public impaling. In the cottage garden. I guess the gang in Ireland fucked up.’
‘How?’
‘They started arguing and shooting,’ Dooley said. ‘I think the gang lost control, without him-without the leader.’
‘But there’s another thing,’ Boijer added. ‘Why did Cloncurry leave the gang in Ireland when he must have known they would get caught, get shot even?’
Rob laughed bitterly. ‘Another sacrifice. He sacrificed his own men. In public. He was probably watching as the Gardai killed them. He had those cameras everywhere in the cottage. I imagine he enjoyed the whole thing, watching it on his computer screen.’
The central question had been raised. Boijer voiced it.
‘So. Where is Cloncurry? Where the hell is he now?’
Rob glanced at the policemen in turn. At last Dooley said, ‘Surely he must be in England?’
‘Or Ireland,’ Boijer replied.
Christine suggested, ‘I think maybe he’s in France.’
Forrester frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘When I was tied up and hooded I’d hear him going on and on about France and his family there. He loathed his family, family secrets, all that. His horrible inheritance. That’s what he kept saying. How much he hated his family-his mother, in particular…In her stupid house in France.’
‘I wonder…’ Boijer stared at Forrester with a significant expression. The DCI nodded sombrely. ’Maybe the woman in the video, the one he killed, might be his mother.’
‘Christ.’
The room fell silent. Then Rob said, ‘But the French police are staking the place out. No? Watching the parents?’
‘Supposedly,’ Boijer answered. ‘But we aren’t in touch with them hourly. And they wouldn’t have been tracing the mother if she went away.’
Sally suddenly interrupted angrily. ‘But how would he have got there? Private planes? You said you were following that up!’
Forrester raised a hand. ‘We’ve scoured air traffic control reports. Contacted every private airfield in eastern England.’ He shrugged. ‘We know they had the money for a plane, we know Marsinelli had a licence, and possibly Cloncurry too. The problem with that line of enquiry is…’ He sighed. ‘There are thousands of private planes in the UK, tens of thousands in western Europe. If Cloncurry has been flying successfully under a false name for months, a year, who knows, no one would necessarily challenge him. He’d have clearance, by rote. And another problem is that everyone is looking for a gang of men, in a car, on a private jet. Not a single guy, flying alone…’He rubbed his chin, pensively. ‘But I still don’t think the French would have let him slip through their hands. Every major airfield and port was alerted. But I suppose it’s possible.’
‘All this speculation doesn’t get us very far, does it?’ Rob snapped. ‘Cloncurry may be in Britain, France or Ireland. Great. Just three countries to search. And he still has my daughter. And maybe he’s butchered his mom. So what are we gonna do?’
‘What about your friend in Turkey, Isobel Previn? Has she had any luck with finding the Black Book?’ Forrester asked.
Rob felt a pang of hope mixed with despair. ‘I got a text from her last night. She says she’s close. That’s all I know.’
Sally sat forward, the sun flashing on her yellow hair. ‘But what about Lizzie? Enough of this Black Book. Who cares about that? What’s he going to do to Lizzie now? To my daughter?’
Christine moved along the sofa and hugged Sally. ‘Lizzie is safe for now. He didn’t need me because I’m just Rob’s girlfriend. I was a toy. A bonus. Disposable.’ She hugged Sally again. ‘But the guy is not an idiot. He is going to use Lizzie, use her against Rob. Until he gets what he wants. And what he wants is the Black Book. He thinks Rob has it.’
‘But the fact is, I don’t know anything,’ Rob said despondently. ‘I lied to him, told him I knew something, but why would he believe me? He’s not stupid. As you say.’
‘You went to Lalesh,’ Christine answered. ‘I heard him talking about that, too. Lalesh. How many non-Yezidis have been there? Maybe a few dozen, in a hundred years? That’s what’s bugging him.’ She sat back. ‘He’s obsessed with the Book and he is sure you know something. Because of Lalesh. So I think Lizzie is relatively safe, for now.’