The Genesis Secret

Cloncurry’s voice drifted, his eyes seemed unfocused. His expression was odd, detached. Rob glanced meaningfully at Forrester, who nodded back.

‘No, I’m not going fucking mad,’ Cloncurry chuckled. ‘I’m already mad. You surely have noticed that, Detective Forrest Gump. But I’m also several times smarter than you, no matter how mad I am. So I know what you know. For instance, you’ve already worked out in your slow-witted way I am in Kurdistan. Given that I got hold of poor Isobel and her pancreas, that much must be obvious. And I have to say, what a shitty place this is. The Turks are so mean to the Kurds. Really. It’s disgraceful.’ Cloncurry shook his head, and exhaled, ‘I’m serious, they’re racist. And I hate racists. Really. You maybe think I’m some heartless psychotic but I’m not. I utterly despise racists. The only people I hate more than racists are niggers.’ Cloncurry spun around in his swivel chair, spun round twice, then stopped to face the camera again. ‘Why are the darkies so dim? Guys, come on, admit it. Haven’t you ever wondered? The sooties? They just fuck everywhere up, don’t they? Is that a plan they’ve got? Do the niggers get together and think-hey, let’s see if we can emigrate somewhere nice and turn it into a toilet? We can go and live in crappy houses and start robbing and shooting. Again. Then we’ll complain about white people. And as for Pakis! Pakis! And Arabs! God help us. Why don’t they just piss off and put their women in binliners at home? And stop all the yelling from mosques? No one cares. And what about the Yiddos, whining about the Holocaust?’ Cloncurry was chortling now. ‘Whining and mewling like a bunch of girls. Holocaust this, Holocaust that, please don’t hit me, it’s a Holocaust. Holocaust schmolocaust. Listen up, Joh

Cloncurry gri

45

The videolink fizzed and shut down. Sally had retreated to the sofa, once more, and was quietly crying. Rob went over and out an arm around her.

It was Christine who got it together first. She dried her eyes and said, ‘So. We know he’s in Urfa. That means Cloncurry must have been thinking along the same lines as…’ she sighed, profoundly, ‘as poor Isobel.’

‘You mean the Austen Layard theory?’ asked Rob.

‘Surely. What else? Cloncurry must have reached the same conclusion concerning the Book. So I guess he flew to Kurdistan, with Lizzie, in that private plane.’

Forrester nodded. ‘Yup. Might have been doing it for months. False name, etc. We’ll get onto Turkish air traffic control.’

Rob shook his head. ‘You don’t know Kurdistan! If Cloncurry is clever-and he is-then he could have landed almost u

Sally made an imploring gesture. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We look here. We look in Ireland,‘ said Christine.

‘Sorry?’

‘The Black Book. It’s not in Urfa. I think poor Isobel was wrong. I think the Book is still here.’

The policemen exchanged glances. Rob frowned.

‘How come?’

‘I had several days in a wardrobe to think about the Black Book. And I know the Layard story. But I reckon Layard was just buying off the Yezidi with money and that was why he returned. So I reckon that’s a dead end.’

‘So where is it, then?’

‘Let’s go outside,’ she said. ‘I need fresh air to think it through. Just give me a few minutes.’

Obediently, they trooped out of the office and took the steel lift to the ground floor and exited into the mild summer air. The Dublin sky was now bluish and pale; the breeze was gentle off the river. Tourists were staring at an old boat moored by the quays. A strange parade of gaunt bronze statues blocked half the pavement. The group walked slowly down the quayside.

Dooley pointed to the statues. ‘Memorial for the Famine. Starvelings from the Famine would queue on these docks, waiting for boats to New York.’ He turned and gestured at the shiny new office buildings and the glittery glass atria: ranked along the quays. ‘And all that used to be brothels and wharves and terrible slums, the old red light district. Monto. Where James Joyce went whoring.’ He paused, then added, ‘Now it’s all fusion bistros.’

‘All is changed, changed utterly…’ murmured Christine. And then she went very quiet.

Rob looked at her and could tell at once that she knew something. Her fine mind was engaged.

They stopped at a glamorous new footbridge and watched the grey river water surging torpidly to the Irish Sea.

Then Christine asked Forrester to tell her again the strange word De Savary had written just before he died.