Idly, he Googled ‘witch murders’, just to see if there were any developments. Just in case.

The news this morning was subdued, compared to the furore that had greeted Fazackerly’s murder last week: just one or two follow-up pieces. An American website was rehashing the entire chain of bizarre events for the delectation of its more prurient readers. Simon noted this American journalist had actually stolen some of Simon’s lines, and shamelessly used Simon’s quotes from Fazackerly.

Bastards.

He sipped water. And then he had an idea. Quite a fetching idea. There was nothing to stop him following the clues, chasing up leads, even if he actually wrote zero. He could still write, and research – if only for his own satisfaction. And even if he was barred from daily journalism on the story, at the end he could…do a book? Yes! If he had all the notes he could still write a book. And then he could make some real money, when it was all over. He could do a job and feed his wife and son and pay his debt to his conscience, and the bank, without annoying his editor, or the cops.

Simon flexed his fingers. Then he attacked the search engines.

The trick he deployed was one of his favourites when he was on a complex investigative story and he needed new leads: he would throw randomly associated phrases into the internet and online newsfeeds, juggling quote marks, seeing what came out.

For two hours he toyed with words. He tried various combinations of Scottish and Killing and Nairn, GenoMap and Fazackerly and Basque.

Nothing.

He tried some more.

Syndactyly, Witch, Cagot, Inheritance, Murder, Canaan…

Nothing.

He tried one more time, a whole host of words: Scoring, French, Nazi, Burning, Deformity, Torture, Genetic, Homicide, Gascony, Bequest…

And…There! Yes. He’d lucked out: two possibly related news items. Two.

The first was a murder in Quebec. A Canadian news website gave a brief resume. A very old woman had been killed three weeks ago in her house just outside Montreal. The woman had been shot, for no apparent reason. It was the very last line of the report that really made him pay attention: the woman was apparently Basque, and as a young girl she had been interned in a Nazi concentration camp. In Gurs. The French Basque Country. The murder was a total mystery, as nothing had been stolen, despite the victim’s wealth.

This had to be linked. Had to. Even if it wasn’t, it needed more investigating. He wrote down the details on his pad, then turned to the next news item. The article had been carried by a couple of newsfeeds a few weeks ago.

The headline was: ‘Bizarre Bequest Leads to Million Dollar Basque Mystery’

A thirty-something man called David Martinez was staring out of a photo: he was holding a map. Martinez had an awkward grin in the photo, as he brandished the map, a kind of uncomfortable smile. The article said the map showed places in the Basque Country. Moreover it said the young man’s grandfather had died and left him two million dollars – and according to the newspaper this had come as a complete surprise.

Simon scanned the article, feeling quite alive with excitement. He didn’t want a drink any more. He wanted to know what this was about: a link to the Basques, a mysterious amount of money, a very old man – thousands of miles away – now dead.

The article gave him almost everything: it even explained that David Martinez had been a lawyer in London prior to his inheriting this mysterious sum.

It took two minutes on the net to find out the ‘well known law company’ where David Martinez had worked: there were lists of lawyers of every company.

Walking to the window, Simon called Martinez’s firm on his mobile. A clipped voice requested his name and credentials, he handed them over: Simon Quinn from the Daily Telegraph.

He was batted around the system for a few moments, put on hold, put through to HR, put back on hold…but then he reached a superlatively snooty man, apparently David Martinez’s boss, Roland De Villiers, who was more than keen to hand out Martinez’s mobile number. The boss actually added, for good measure, ‘I do hope he’s in trouble.’

The call clicked off, abruptly.

Simon looked at his notepad, resting on the windowsill. It was a British number that the lawyer had airily handed over. He keyed the numbers, but the ensuing ringtone was long bleeps – indicating that this guy Martinez was abroad – in Spain maybe?

Then a hesitant voice came down the satellite.

‘Yes…Who is this?’

24

The smell of congealed eels hung in the air. Mist was sidling into the room stealthy and needy. David sat in the silence and the chill, wondering at José’s words. Then he welcomed the return of his wits. He needed to speak to Amy. To tell her all of this.

‘Amy!’

His voice echoed. He tried again.

‘Amy?’

Where was she? He hadn’t seen her for an hour. It was hard to believe she was outside in the rain.

He called again. His voice bounced off the mouldering woodwork, and down the empty corridor. Nothing.

A swift search told him there was no one on the ground floor: all he could hear was the incessant skitter of rat tails, as the vermin fled his approach through each unsavoury chamber.

How about the room they shared? He and Amy? Where they had talked through the night?

He had to take the stairs; he had to go up the stairs. The pounding of his feet matched the pounding of his pulse as he called Amy’s name again – nothing, the hallway was empty.

He pushed the door and as he did his mind filled: the imagined scene of his parents, dying in their car, came suddenly and vividly into mental view. His mother’s head crushed, blood drooling politely from her slackened mouth…

Maybe the same had happened to Amy. Everyone close to him was taken away: everyone.

David scanned the room he and Amy had shared. Empty. It was bereft even of rats, or ravens cackling at the window. The bunks were still shifted together; the old picture of a Jesuit saint was still askew on the peeling wall. Slumlike dampness seeped from the ceiling.

There was one bedroom left, Fermina and José’s room. No doubt the door was locked and barred against the world.

Maybe she was in there?

David gathered his valour and stepped down the hallway and called through the door, Amy – Amy – but the returning silence was claustrophobic.

This was intolerable. He yearned to escape, to find the truth and find Amy – and then run away, get out of this awful house, this monument to oppression; the pains and terrors of the Cagots – branded, excluded, humiliated – seemed to have soaked into the bricks and mortar. David wanted to find her, and then fly.

He poised a fist to knock on the door. He would kick the door in, if necessary.

But his knock was stayed by a voice – right behind him.

‘David?’

He swivelled. It was Amy.

‘Where have you been?!’

‘Downstairs -’ Amy shook her head ‘- the cellar…to check -’

‘What?’

‘For passages. The chemins des Cagots. You remember? Eloise said there were passages, built by the Cagots – I thought if we were in trouble, we could use them…but I only found vaults -’

He put two hands on her shoulders.

‘José told me, told me all of it – everything. He’s locked in there – with Fermina -’

He tilted a frown, leftwards, indicating the door.

‘But why?’

He began to explain.

And he stopped almost at once. Their conversation was slashed in half by a horrible and unmistakable sound.

A gunshot. And then another gunshot.

Inside the Garovillos’ room.

They ran to the door and shoved against the rusted locks. The wood and metal resisted for a minute, then two minutes. But the planks were wormed, and the hinges were ancient, the doorway began to splinter, and then it swung open. They were inside.