He stopped. Boijer was clapping politely. The guide did a little bow, then looked at his watch. ’Gosh, it’s nearly six. I have to go! I do hope tomorrow’s plan comes off, officers. The twelfth baronet is very keen to help the police catch those awful murderers.’
He hurried across the tarmac and disappeared down a hillside path. Boijer and Forrester walked slowly to their police car, parked in the shade of an oak tree.
As they walked, they went over their plan. Hugo De Savary had, by phone and email, convinced Forrester that the gang was bound to visit the Hellfire caves, because if the gang were looking for the Black Book, the treasure Whaley had brought back from the Holy Land-this was one place they just had to search: in the epicentre of the Hellfire Club phenomenon.
But when would the gang visit the caves? Forrester had worked out that they only hit a target when it was most likely to be deserted. Craven Street in the middle of a weekend night; Canford School one early morning at half term.
So the police had set a trap. Forrester had paid a visit to the present owner of West Wycombe Estate, the 12th Baronet Edward Francis Dashwood, direct descendant of the Hellfire lord, and had got permission to close the caves for one day. The unexpected closure would be spuriously publicized, as being ‘in celebration of the baronet’s wedding anniversary, and to give the loyal staff of West Wycombe a holiday’. Adverts to this effect had been put in all the local papers. The news had been posted on relevant websites. Scotland Yard had even persuaded the BBC to run a small TV item, focusing on the scandalous history of the site, but mentioning the temporary closure. Consequently, as far as the general public were concerned, the Hellfire caves were going to be completely empty. The trap had been baited.
Would the gang turn up? It was a long shot, Forrester knew, but this idea was all they had. Forrester felt a definite pessimism as Boijer raced their car along the country roads to their hotel.
The only other lead they had of any sort was a CCTV shot of Cloncurry from Canford School. The gang had disabled the rest of the school’s cameras by snipping the cables. But one camera had been overlooked, and it had yielded a blurry image of Cloncurry walking through the school. Cloncurry had stared chillingly at the camera as he walked past. As if he knew he was being filmed. And didn’t care.
Forrester had stared at the grainy image of Cloncurry for hours, trying to get inside the young man’s mind. It was difficult: this was a man who could flay a pinioned victim, alive. A man who could cheerily cut out a tongue, and bury a screaming face in soil. A man who could do anything.
He was strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones and almost oriental eyes. An angular and dashing profile. And somehow this made his intense wickedness all the more sinister.
Boijer was parking the car. They were staying at the High Wycombe Holiday Inn, just off the M40. It was a fitful night. Forrester had a tiny bit of spliff after dinner, but it didn’t help him sleep. He dreamed, sweatily, all night, of caves and naked women and lurid parties; he dreamed of a small girl lost amongst the laughing adults, a small girl crying for her father, lost in the caves.
He woke up early, dry-mouthed. Leaning across the bed, he picked up the phone and called Boijer, stirring his junior from sleep. They drove straight to their Portakabin.
The little cabin was concealed around the hill at the far side of the main cave entrance. The cave system was empty. The ticket office was locked. The Dashwood Estate was largely deserted: all the staff had been asked to stay away.
Boijer and Forrester had three constables with them in the cabin. They took it in turns to look at the CCTV images. The day was hot: cloudless and perfect. As the hours dragged by, Forrester stared out of the little window and thought about the newspaper article he had read, a Times piece about the Yezidi and the Black Book. Some journalist in Turkey was, it seemed, onto another thread of the same bizarre story.
Forrester had read the article again last night, and then called De Savary to ask his opinion. De Savary had confirmed that he’d read the article and agreed that it was a peculiar and rather intriguing echo: and then he told Forrester there was a further link. The journalist’s French girlfriend, mentioned in the article, was actually an ex-student and a friend. And she was coming to visit him the following day.
DCI Forrester had asked De Savary to question the girl. To find out what the possible connection was, between Turkey and England. Between there and here. Between the Yezidis’ sudden fear and Cloncurry’s sudden violence. De Savary had agreed to ask the questions. And, at that moment, Forester had felt a certain hope. Maybe they could crack this. But now, fifteen hours later, that optimism had gone again. Nothing was happening.
Forrester sighed. Boijer was telling a salacious story about a colleague in a swimming pool. Everyone chuckled. Someone handed out some more coffee. The day trudged by and the Portakabin grew stuffier. Where were these guys? What were they doing? Was Cloncurry just teasing them?
Dusk came, soft and balmy. A serene and tranquil May evening. But Forrester’s mood was bleak. He went for a walk. It was now 10 p.m. The gang wasn’t coming: it hadn’t worked. The detective scuffed along in the darkness, glaring at the moon. He kicked an old Appletise bottle with his shoe. He thought of his daughter. App-ull. App-ull. Appull dadd-ee. His heart filled with the mercury of grief. He fought back the sense of purposelessness: the sense of cold anger going nowhere; the bleakness of everything.
Maybe the old Sir Francis Dashwood was right. Where was God anyway? Why did He allow such terrible things? Why did He allow death? Why did He allow the death of children? Why did He allow people like Cloncurry? There was no God. There was nothing. Just a small child lost in the caves, then silence.
‘Sir!’
It was Boijer, running out of the Portakabin followed by three armed constables.
‘Sir. Big Beamer, in the car park-right now!’
Forrester’s energy returned instantly. He chased after Boijer and the armed cops. They sprinted around the corner, towards the car park. Someone had switched the lights on: the anti-burglary lights they had installed on the fencing all around the car park. The entrance to the caves was flooded with dazzling light.
In the middle of the bare car park was a big, new, glossy black BMW. The windows of the car were tinted, but Forrester could see large figures inside.
The constables trained their rifles on the car. Forrester took the megaphone from Boijer, his amplified voice booming across the floodlit emptiness: ‘Stop. You are surrounded by armed police.’ He counted the dark shapes in the car. Five, or six?
The car remained motionless.
‘Get out of the car. Very slowly. Do it now.’
The car doors stayed shut.
‘You are surrounded by armed police. You must get out of the car. Now.’
The constables crouched lower, training their rifles. The driver’s side car door was opening, very slowly. Forrester leaned forward, to catch his first glimpse of the gang.
A can of cider rolled onto the concrete with a clatter. The driver emerged from the car. He was about seventeen, visibly drunk, and visibly terrified. Two more figures got out and raised their shaking hands. They were also seventeen, eighteen. They had strings from party poppers draped pinkly over their shoulders. One of them had a red lipstick kiss on his cheek. The tallest of them was wetting himself, a big stain of urine spreading across the front of his jeans.
Kids. They were just kids. Students on a prank. Probably trying to spook themselves in the evil caves.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Forrester snapped at Boijer. ’For fuck’s sake.’ He spat onto the ground and cursed his luck. Then he told Boijer to go and arrest the kids. For something. Anything. Drunk driving.