The Marks of Cain Read online

  15

  They were on the last leg now: heading for the last place marked on the map. Approaching the heart of the maze.

  Navvarenx. Near to Gurs.

  Navvarenx was north by a distance, so they pulled over at a garage for more fuel. David walked to the tiny shop, trying to work out what the doors meant. Smaller doors, smaller cemeteries, smaller fonts. Why?

  It didn’t make sense. Why was everything duplicated in this eccentric, almost insulting way? Was it a kind of apartheid, like benches for black people in 50s Alabama? Like old South Africa?

  Or was it something else? Could they be smaller doors for…smaller people?

  But that hardly made sense, smaller people could use any door.

  A bell jingled as he entered the garage shop; he went straight to the till and bought Amy a new sim card, and an entirely new cellphone – just in case. The garage owner was eating red saucisson and baguette as he totted up the bill. David stared at the sum on the receipt, trying to remind himself he didn’t have to worry about money.

  Back in the car they were both pensive and subdued. And David felt the sadness tighten as they made the last drive. He thought of his parents. And the memories loomed in his mind, even as the mountains faded behind them in the mirror.

  He was on his grandfather’s sturdy shoulders, his infant mouth clouded with pink cotton candy. The blue Pacific was sparkling and his mum was young and walking beside them, and his dad was there too, and laughing. When was that? What were they doing there? How old was he then? Five? Seven? Nine? It was a blur, too faint to discern.

  And the torment was: he had no one to ask. That was the worst thing. He couldn’t ring his mum and say when did we do this, he couldn’t ask his granddad and say why did we do that. There was no one left to give him answers, to explain his childhood, to laugh about the funny stuff, to swap memories, to say remember when we went on that picnic. He had been left alone and behind by the others, and David yearned, with a wild sadness, to know why. Granddad had sent him here for a reason, the reason had to explain it all.

  It had to.

  David gripped the steering wheel tightly. The road into Navvarenx took them through the outlying village of Gurs, which seemed to be virtually a suburb of Navvarenx.

  Gurs was straggly. The long French road was lined with parallel trees, whitewashed at the base. There was some kind of strange flat area to the south of town – adorned with a series of glass structures, somewhat like bus stops. David looked at it and looked away. An enormous black crucifix loomed over the flatness; he got an overwhelming urge to drive faster. The cross was so very black.

  They drove straight on, straight past the village of Gurs, tucked off the main road, and a few minutes later they were seeing a sign saying Navvarenx.

  At last Amy spoke.

  ‘You know, we don’t have to do this now…’ Her sadly traced smile was empathic.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can wait. It’s been a long day already. Maybe we should wait.’

  ‘I’m OK. I’m fine. And if Miguel is after us I want to do this quickly.’

  He wondered why he was saying this. He knew Miguel was after them. Probably in Mauleon right now, asking the hotel manageress. Leaning across the desk, tall and scarred and imposing. Which direction did the English-speaking couple go?

  As they motored the last couple of kilometres Amy asked him: ‘Why didn’t you ever try and find out more? About the crash.’

  He exhaled.

  ‘I was young…I wanted to shield myself. From the agony. The knowledge.’

  ‘That’s why you didn’t ever think that the map was connected.’

  ‘I guess. Yep. Denial. Erasure. Repression. I avoided the details. And the Andersons protected me from the truth. I was just fifteen – and alone.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘Zakly. But now I have to think about it.’

  David put the car into second as he watched a man cycling down a suburban lane. There was a red car at the end of the road. He stifled the duetting cries of his grief and anxiety.

  They parked at the edge of central Navvarenx; they had no choice, it was a fortified and historic town and cars were, apparently, forbidden to drive inside the centre du ville. So they locked the car, and they walked.

  A town map confronted them at the edge of an empty grey square. It revealed that they were near the church. The last few hundred metres brought them to the impressive frontage of Navvarenx Saint Germain. It was austere and grey, with hints of Gothic arches, but no more, like a fading memory of Gothic.

  The interior was virtually deserted, just like the other churches. An old priest was stacking books by the chancel; David noticed a portrait on the wall above the priest’s balding head. He didn’t have to go over and read beneath the painting: the portrait was exactly the same as the one in Savin. The same severe Victorian visage, frowning, disapproving, contemptuous.

  Pope Pius the Tenth.

  The main door of the church banged shut behind them. Alerted by the noise, the priest turned – and he stared at David. He stared with a shock of recognition whitening his aged face.

  David wanted to go and talk to the man. But the priest shuffled away, and shook his head, and continued his task, as if he were avoiding their gaze, manfully ignoring their presence. He returned to stacking books.

  What was this? David fretted, impatient and scared. Was he imagining it? Perhaps he was letting paranoia take over. And yet he knew Miguel was after them right now. He knew this because his heartbeat was telling him: quick-ly, quick-ly, quick-ly.

  David examined the church doors. Because the plural was correct, again. There were two doors.

  Amy came over.

  ‘OK. Campan, Luz, Savin, Navvarenx. Two doors. Two doors each time. And two cemeteries. They’re all linked. But how…?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Two doors maybe you could explain, I guess – but two fonts, or stoups? Doesn’t make sense.’ He sighed. ‘And the symbol. The goose’s foot. I don’t get it.’

  As urgent hiss interrupted their dialogue.

  It was the priest.

  The old man was at his side and tugging David’s sleeve: he was gabbling in thickly accented French, keenly, urgently, saying something important. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow, like tainted egg-yolk. David replied with a desperate, apologetic shrug: he didn’t understand!

  Amy stepped over; she was frowning as she listened to the priest. Then she explained, and interpreted:

  ‘He says he…recognizes you. Very odd, he says they have been waiting for you. But now he sees your face he feels…different? He wants to know if your father was called…Edward…’

  David shivered at the revelation. He looked first at Amy, then at the old man.

  ‘Yes. Edward! Eduardo Martinez. Why?’

  The old priest was crossing himself, and repeating: ‘Eduardo Martinez…Eduardo Martinez…’

  Amy listened closely and translated the priest’s further words. ‘Apparently you look just like your father. He says everyone in Navvarenx knows what happened, the accident…Oh…oh my God…’ Amy’s face was grave with sympathy. ‘David…I don’t how to put this, it was not an accident, it was…it was something else…’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘He says your mother and father were murdered.’

  Her blue eyes were wide with compassion. But he just wanted the truth.

  ‘Ask him…’ he said. ‘Please ask him if he will sit with us. And tell me more.’

  The old priest looked fretful, even frightened, but he seemed to agree.

  ‘He says he knows a little more. But it is dangerous. The Society is waiting for us. He is meant to tell them. I’ve no idea what this means…He wonders…can we go somewhere else, discreet, right away?’

  ‘Merci!’ David snapped. ‘Thank you. Thank you!’

  The three of them walked to the blaze of light – the open door. The larger door, which had banged shut behin
d them. Before they crossed into the light, Amy lifted a hand and said:

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘What?’

  There was something defensive in Amy’s stance. Something very scared.

  She nodded towards the square.

  ‘A car. Just pulling up.’

  He knew what her next word would be.

  ‘Miguel.’

  16

  The cold terror flashed – as far as David’s fingertips. Fight or flight. He visored a hand, and stared across the Place d’Église.

  Amy was right. A red car had just swung into the square. The doors opened, Miguel got out, with two other dark-haired men. They walked towards the church.

  David shrank back into the shadows. The fear was numbing. Amy had also crept away from the threshold.

  ‘He hasn’t seen us yet.’

  ‘But he will. He’s coming…We’re trapped.’

  They stared from the darkness into the ominous brightness.

  Another voice intruded on their urgent dialogue. The priest was nudging Amy, saying something, very rapidly.

  Amy translated:

  ‘He says we can escape. Use the other door. The…qu’est-ce que c’est ?’

  ‘La porte des Cagots!’ the priest stammered. ‘La porte des Cagots! ’

  He was hurrying across the church, taking them to the other door. Talking wildly as he did so. Amy and David followed. Amy hissed:

  ‘Something about the door of the…Cagots? It leads to the medieval quarter…we can get out this way. He says we can escape –’

  They were at the side door, the humble door, the smaller door. Amy looked at David who looked at Amy.

  ‘David!’

  He squinted, checking the square again. At a greater distance, it was hard to tell, the light was blinding compared to the darkness of the church – but it looked like the three figures had paused.

  But then they walked, fast, towards the church.

  ‘He’s coming!’

  ‘La porte! ’

  The old priest was trying the door, but the doorknob obviously hadn’t been turned in decades. David helped. He pulled, and twisted: nothing happened.

  ‘It’s totally rusted!’

  David’s hands were sweaty with the tension – the fear – he grabbed at the old iron handle and twisted again, with all the force he could manage.

  Miguel was closing in, approaching the church. Any second he would enter, see them trapped in a corner…and draw his gun. But the door was unbudgeable.

  ‘Try this!’

  Amy was clutching a glass phial.

  ‘From the altar. It’s oil.’

  The oil oozed over the handle as David frantically twisted. The old priest was babbling, ‘Votre père, votre père –’

  The metal grated – and sighed – and then it yielded. There were men silhouetted at the main door, but the handle of the old door was turning. With a final puff of rust, the door burst open – onto a lightwell surrounded by looming medieval houses, crooked and ancient. Various alleys led off the courtyard, disappearing into darkness.

  Was that Miguel’s voice behind them? A noise echoed across. The priest had slammed the door; he was still inside, blocking Miguel’s way. They had a chance.

  David yelled: ‘Down here!’

  Amy was already following. David grabbed her hand and they sprinted. He didn’t dare to look back. The priest was in the church, maybe defending them, confronting Miguel. What would happen? Miguel might shoot. He would force the door open…and then…and then…

  He kept on running. The alley was little more than a sheltered gutter, overhung by eaves and the bulging upper floors of ancient tenements. Shafts of sunlight speared through the slates, like rods of light they had to dodge. As he ran, half tripping, David thought of his parents. Killed. Slain. Murdered.

  The fear mixed with anger; his stomach roiled with terror as he ran. At last they emerged from the alley into a space of green grass and old crumbling battlements.

  ‘Through here?’

  There was a Gothic archway – piercing the white limestone walls of Navvarenx. Beyond it was a moated dip, and beyond the dip, over a footbridge – was the car park.

  ‘There!’

  His car keys were slippery in his sweaty hands as he clicked the doors open. They piled inside. David revved and reversed – and flung them out onto the road.

  South. For several minutes they drove: fast and silent. David checked the mirror. Nothing. He checked it again. Nothing. Amy sighed, urgently:

  ‘Too much. That was too close…’

  David glanced yet again in the rearview mirror as he drove. But the road was deserted. They hadn’t been followed. The appalling tension eased a touch, but just a touch. They were out in the countryside, a big aluminium farm building marked a junction.

  He pulled over. He handed Amy the phone he’d bought at the garage.

  ‘Check something. Please?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These people with the doors. What did he call them…the Cagots?’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘Now? Shouldn’t we just get the hell out?’

  He cursed, sardonically.

  ‘Fuck that. Where are we going to go? And if I run away…I will never know the answer. My parents died here; they were fucking killed here. It must be linked to these churches, the Cagots, otherwise why did Granddad give me the map, my dad’s map, marked with the same Cagot churches?’

  Amy nodded. She smiled – with unhappiness. She took a deep breath, then she picked up the phone and switched it on and went online.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Check the Cagots. And the symbol, the goose’s foot.’

  Amy went quiet as she searched the net. David looked away, and opened the car window, the damp smell of cow manure filling the car. And rotting silage. A buzzard was hunting in the distance, silhouetted by the blue distant mountains.

  ‘Right,’ said Amy. ‘All I’ve found, not much, but it’s strange. The Cagots seem to be a tribe of pariahs, that’s what they’re called, like untouchables. In the Pyrenees.’ She paused, then added, ‘They had their own doors. Marked with symbols. The pattes d’oie, of course.’

  ‘A tribe? Of pariahs?’

  ‘That’s what it says. Yes. They had their own special small doors in the churches. There isn’t much else. I think…if we want to know more –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s a good website here, dernieredescagots dot fr – the last of the Cagots. It’s the website of a man who is a Cagot and he lives in Gurs. We could…’

  David was already starting up the car. Amy protested: ‘But, David…that’s very near Navvarenx. Miguel?’

  He answered, emphatically. ‘Amy. I can drive you to the nearest station and give you ten grand and you need never see me again and I will totally understand and –’

  She put her hand on his wrist.

  ‘We’re in it together. Now. No. Anyway I know Miguel.’ She was shaking her head, the shine of fear or sadness in her eyes. ‘I know him. He will come after me now, whatever I do. He will kill me and you. Separately or together. So…’

  ‘So we stay together.’

  David drove fast towards Gurs; Amy guided him, using the satnav on the phone.

  ‘Down here, take a left, just here…’

  Gurs was a humdrum place: a few sombre old villas, a disused railroad. Some desultory bungalows surrounded a tired-looking town hall, even the Brasserie d’Hagetmau was resolutely shut. It was a place sucked of life by bigger towns nearby. Or just a place no one especially wanted to live.

  The sharpest corner brought another row of bungalows, with gardens lush from recent rain.

  ‘This is it, the right number,’ said Amy, gesturing at the last bungalow in the row. The bungalow was slightly isolated; it stood opposite a modern and rather ugly church, with offices attached. Beyond was scruffy wasteland.

  They walked up the path. The front door was painted a self-consciously
cheerful yellow. David had the sense of curtains twitching elsewhere in the silent suburban street; old faces peering. He turned. No one was looking.

  He pressed the doorbell. A faintly ecclesiastic chime was heard. Nothing happened. Amy peered at the windows.

  ‘Maybe no one is in…’

  He pressed again. Wondering where Miguel was. Then he heard a noise. A yell. Someone was shouting at them, from inside.

  ‘What…?’

  The shout was heard, again. Angry and panicked.

  He lifted the letterbox lid and peered.

  A young woman was crouched in the hallway. And she had a shotgun. She was trembling, and her grip was clumsy, but she was pointing the shotgun at the door. At David and Amy.

  17

  Detective Sanderson was sceptical about Simon’s mission to interview Professor Emeritus Francis St John Fazackerly, one time winner of the Willard Prize for Human Genetic Research, and now the ex-boss of GenoMap.

  ‘Good luck. And you’ll need it, mate,’ said Sanderson, his cheerful voice quite clear on the mobile phone pressed to Simon’s ear. The detective added: ‘He’s an evasive old fucker, we talked to him last week.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Simon crossed Euston Road, and stared at the gleaming offices of the Wellcome Institute: this whole area was full of medical research centres and high-tech university faculties, and young undergraduates laughing outside pubs who made Simon feel all of his forty years. He spoke into the phone:

  ‘Doesn’t he know anything about Nairn?’

  Sanderson scoffed, ‘If he does he ain’t saying. Tomasky nearly got the thumbscrews out – you seeing him at the GenoMap gaff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He asked to meet us there, as well. Guess he prefers neutral territory.’

  Simon headed down Gordon Street.

  ‘Detective –’

  ‘Mate, call me Bob, fer fuck’s sake –’

  ‘Bob – Detective – Bob –’

  Bob Sanderson laughed. ‘If you get anything on these blood tests do tell – maybe your sleuthing skills will prove a bit better than ours.’

  ‘Bob, you make it sound like you…don’t exactly trust him?’

  The line was silent. Simon repeated his question. The DCI replied slowly, ‘Not sure I do. There’s just something…well, evasive, likesay. Check it out.’