The Marks of Cain Page 13

  The call concluded, the journalist pushed through the battered, paint-peeling door. He took the lift to the top floor where an old, old guy in a tweed jacket, with a wattly neck and yellowy eyes, was waiting to greet him. The man looked barely half a social class above a tramp. Yet, as Simon’s research had told him, this man Fazackerly had been – once – amongst the best geneticists of his generation.

  Fazackerly fixed his eyes on his visitor. The scientist’s yellow-toothed smile was lordly yet repulsive, like a monitor lizard grinning after a large meal of diseased goat.

  ‘Mister Quinn from the Daily Telegraph. Do come in, and excuse the mess. I’m still moving my ancillary documents. Two months later!’

  Fazackerly opened a glass door and guided his guest through the main lab of the GenoMap project, as was. Evidence of the project’s closure was all around. Much of the machinery had already been dismantled, there were big half-sealed crates sitting in the dusty silence, with fridge-freezer sized machines inside, waiting to be shipped.

  The old professor pointed at a couple of the bigger pieces of equipment, and listed their names and functions: the thermocycler for rapid segmentation, the vast lab microwave for sterilization and histology, the DNA sequencers for analyzing fluorochromes. Simon scribbled the strange words and purposes in his notebook; it felt like he was taking dictation in Latin.

  Then Fazackerly invited the journalist into a back office, closed the door, and sat down at a desk. Simon sat opposite in a steel chair. A black and white photo of a Victorian-looking man lay flat and dusty on the desk.

  Fazackerly nodded in its direction. ‘Just taken it down off the wall. It’s Galton.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Francis Galton, bit of a hero. The founder of eugenics. Did some excellent work in Namibia.’

  The scientist took up the framed photo and slid it into a cardboard box at his side; the box also contained three empty bottles of whisky.

  ‘Well, Mister Quinn, I imagine you have some questions, like your police friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To speed things up, what say I give you a little background?’

  ‘OK.’

  Fazackerly began to waffle: about human genetics and the genome project and the problems of funding pure research. Dutifully, Simon scribbled.

  But the journalist was beginning to sense what the Scotland Yard detective had been implying: Fazackerly was evasive, filling the air with mellifluous but distracting verbiage, as if aiming to decoy.

  He needed to hurry the dialogue along.

  ‘Professor Fazackerly. Why exactly was the GenoMap project closed down?’

  The interviewee sniffed the air.

  ‘Because we quite ran out of money, I’m afraid. Genomics is an expensive business.’

  ‘So there was no…political element?’

  A flash of the yellow teeth.

  ‘Well…’

  Silence.

  ‘Professor Fazackerly. I know you’re a busy guy. I’ll come clean.’ Simon stared directly at the professor. ‘I’ve been doing my Googling. GenoMap was set up mainly with private funding from corporations to continue the work that was begun by the Human Diversity Genome Project at Stanford University. Yes?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Were you closed for the same reason as the Stanford project?’

  For the first time the scientist appeared uncomfortable.

  ‘Mister Quinn. Please remember. I’m just a retired biologist.’

  ‘What coaxed you out of retirement?’

  ‘I think GenoMap is a grand idea: we are, or rather we were, aiming to map the differences between different human races…and if we manage that then it could be of momentous benefit.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Medicines. There are, for instance, new medicines available for people of African descent in the United States for their particular problems with hypertension. And so forth. At GenoMap we were hoping especially for some insights into Tay Sachs disease, which seems to be especially common with people of Ashkenazi Jewish origin…’

  ‘But there were political objections, right?’

  An expressive sigh.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suspect you know as well as I do, Mister Quinn. For some people the very idea of there being significant ethnic differences at all is quite anathematic. Many thinkers and politicians like to assert all racial differences are illusory, a social construct. A fable. A chimera. And certainly it’s a point of view.’

  ‘One you don’t agree with?’

  ‘No. I think young black men can sprint faster than young white men – on average. That’s quite a fundamental racial and genetic difference. Of course you’re not meant to say these things…’ He chuckled mirthlessly. ‘But I don’t especially care anyhow. I am too old!’

  ‘Fair enough. But a younger scientist?’

  Fazackerly adopted a shrewd expression.

  ‘For a young scholar, yes, it is different: it could be seen as career-suicide, getting into this kind of thing. It is very controversial. Koreans are better at chess than Aborigines and so forth! Eugenics died as a science after the Second World War, for obvious reasons. And it has proved very hard to revive the study of racial differences. The HDGP at Stanford was a start, but the politicians got it closed. After that many decided to avoid the field of human genetic diversity altogether. And of course, there are the endless lawsuits, as well…’

  ‘The biopiracy?’

  ‘You have done your homework.’ Fazackerly’s expression was almost wistful. ‘Yes. You see, during our research we aimed to analyze the DNA from isolated tribes and races, like Melanesians, and Andaman islanders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, like rare Amazonian plants, rare races of men might have uniquely beneficial genes. If we found an isolated Congolese tribe that is genetically resistant to malaria we could then have a shortcut to a genetically-based malaria vaccine.’

  Simon wrote in his pad.

  ‘Yet the tribesmen objected. And sued. Because it’s their DNA?’

  ‘Quite so. But then again, the hunter-gatherers of the Kakoveld have not done all the expensive research.’ Fazackerly shrugged, impatiently. ‘Anyhow some Australian native groups sued us for biopiracy, and that put the poison cherry on the already rather inedible cake for our main patrons. The Greeler Foundation, Kellerman Namcorp, and so on. They pulled the plug. And that was the end of GenoMap.’

  Fazackerly gazed out of the window.

  ‘Such a shame for the staff. We had some great people here. A fiendishly clever girl from Kyoto University. And a quite outstanding Chinese Canadian. And of course…’

  They looked at each other. The journalist said:

  ‘Angus Nairn.’

  ‘Young Angus Nairn. Perhaps the best young geneticist in Europe. He had already published some quite startling papers.’

  ‘But…then he disappeared?’

  ‘After we were closed down. Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You have no idea where he’s gone, or why? Or where?’

  ‘No.’ Fazackerly shrugged. ‘I did wonder if he may have ended his life, like a good Socratic. The figures for suicide in young men are quite alarming. Personally I suspect he was too…ambitious…to throw himself off Tower Bridge.’ The yellow smile was notably sad. ‘It is an authentic mystery. I am sorry. I cannot help.’

  ‘But what about the connection with these…murders? You said on the phone you’d read my articles. So you know this. Angus Nairn was testing Basques just before he disappeared.’

  ‘The Basques are of tremendous genetic interest.’

  ‘But, coincidentally, one of these Basques was recently murdered. A woman called Charpentier…’

  The lab was silent. Fazackerly suddenly stood, and asked:

  ‘Look, I do have a theory. About Nairn. But I don’t have much more time to talk with you. So. Can we step into the square
?’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’

  ‘Good. Maybe I can show you something there – something that will explain the concept.’

  The two men turned and walked out of the now deserted laboratories; the mellow autumn sunshine magnified the emptiness of the rooms.

  Fazackerly’s stride was brisk for an old man. He led his guest down the steps and out of the building, across the unbusy road, through the wire gates and into the Septembery green and gold of Gordon Square Gardens. Students, tourists and office workers were taking lunch on the lawns, eating sandwiches from clear plastic packets, chopsticking sushi from little plastic trays. The faces of the lunchers were white and black and all other possible shades.

  This, Simon thought, was London at its very best: the best hope of the world. All races coming together. And yet all the time people like this lizard Fazackerly were trying to divide humanity up, once again: put them in different boxes, make everyone mistrust each other all over again.

  Simon could see why people would object. It felt wrong and depressing: racially parcelling the world. And yet it was just science, and science that could save lives. The paradox was complex. And challenging.

  ‘Here,’ said Fazackerly. He was bending to the soil. The professor reached down an old liver-spotted hand and picked something up.

  In his lined old palm was a red ant, crawling for freedom.

  ‘Watch this, Mister Quinn.’ He leaned closer to the ground.

  Flat paving stones surrounded a drain. The flagstones were inhabited by a multitude of black ants, many of them gathered around a discarded and glistening apple core.

  Fazackerly delicately dropped the red ant amongst the dense crowd of black ants. Simon leaned further, even though he felt slightly ludicrous. He wondered if the students were laughing at them, as they in turn watched the ants.

  Fazackerly explained.

  ‘I am sure you must have done this as an inky-fingered schoolboy. Such a fascinating process. Observe.’

  The red ant, evidently confused by its sudden translocation, was turning this way and that – then it began heading for the soil of the flower bed. But the route was barred by the black ants.

  Simon watched.

  The red ant butted into a black ant.

  ‘And now…’ prompted Fazackerly.

  Immediately the ants began fighting. The black ant had the slightly larger red ant in its pincers. The red ant fought back, toppling the black ant onto its back – but the other black ants were mobilized now: they had gathered around the solitary and terrorized red ant, and they were ripping the legs off the red ant, leg by leg; a final black ant gripped the enemy with its pincers and pulled the red ant’s head clean away. The dying ant twitched.

  ‘There,’ said Fazackerly, standing up again.

  ‘What?’ asked Simon, also getting to his feet. ‘So what?’

  ‘What you have just witnessed is interspecific competition.’

  ‘And that is, precisely?’

  ‘Ferocious rivalry, between closely related species, that occupy a similar evolutionary niche. It is just one kind of Darwinian struggle. But very destructive. Very fierce.’ Fazackerly was walking to a nearby bench. He sat down on the warm old wood; the journalist did the same. The older man shut his leathery eyes and tilted his face to the sun. And continued.

  ‘Intraspecific competition can be almost as vicious. Sibling rivalry. The Cain Complex. The murderous hatred of one brother for another.’

  ‘OK.’ Simon breathed in and out, trying not to think about Tim. Trying very hard. ‘OK, I get it, and this is all rather interesting. Thank you. But what’s this got to do with Angus Nairn?’

  The professor opened his eyes. ‘Angus was a scientist. He hungrily accepted the bitter truth that…you civilians will not or cannot accept.’

  ‘And that truth is?’

  ‘The universe is not as we wish. It is not a large version of Sweden, run by a giant social worker with sandals. It isn’t even a kingdom, with a capricious sovereign. The universe is a violent and purposeless anarchy, full of pitiless struggle.’ He smiled, cheerily. ‘Natural selection may feel like progress, but it isn’t. Evolution is random, it is not…going anywhere. The only law is competition, and killing, and struggle. The war of all against all. And we are no exception. Humanity is subject to the same laws of pointless competition as the animals, as the ants and the toads and the noble cockroach.’

  The breeze shivered the oak trees behind them.

  ‘And Angus Nairn?’

  ‘People don’t want to know this truth. Darwin has been around a hundred and fifty years and still people deny the ruthless truths he revealed. Even people who accept natural selection prefer to delude themselves that it is teleological, that it has a purpose, a direction, a journey to higher forms.’ He tutted. ‘But this is, of course, arrant nonsense. Yet no one wants to know. So our task is a thankless one. And I wonder if maybe Angus became disheartened by this. Maybe he just gave up, and went off to some beach somewhere. I wouldn’t blame him.’ A sad sigh. ‘He was a brilliant geneticist, in a world that doesn’t wish to hear the verities that are so richly revealed by genetics.’ The old man exhaled again. ‘Though there is a generous irony here, of course.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nairn was religious.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes. Bizarre. Despite his natural brilliance in genetics, he…had a profound faith, of sorts.’ Fazackerly shrugged. ‘I believe Nairn was brought up to be religious, a lay preacher father, so he acquired a great deal of rather arcane knowledge. Of course we used to have quite splendid arguments; but I’m not sure I would want his faith even if I could believe it. Angus Nairn saw no conflict between pitiless evolution and a rather…malevolent deity.’

  Simon thought of his brother, momentarily. Condemned by a cruel god? The insight was fleeting, and troubling, and painfully irrelevant. He concentrated on the interview.

  The old man had extracted a crimson silk handkerchief; he was delicately wiping some sweat from his brow. He spoke:

  ‘Angus would talk about such subjects rather a lot. Towards the end. When we had…guests…some of our sponsors, they would have intense debate. The Bible and the…the Torah. Is that the word? I quite forget. The Jewish holy book.’

  ‘The Talmud.’

  ‘Yes. All rather astrological if you ask me. Runes and horoscopes! – the consolations of the foolish, like lottery tickets to the poor. But Angus did get very het up discussing the intricacies of his faith. Some strange doctrine called Serpent Seed, the Curse of Cain and so forth.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘I don’t know the recondite details. If you want to know – speak to Emma Winyard. Try her. She was very important to him. The last few weeks he was super-saturated in all this, and he would quote her. Write this down.’

  ‘I don’t understand…sorry…’

  ‘I’m going to give you her name! She may be able to tell you more.’

  Simon apologized, and poised a pen. Fazackerly spoke slowly, his aged face grey in the sunlight:

  ‘Emma Winyard. King’s College. Theology Department.’

  ‘KC London?’

  ‘Yes. I know he used to converse with her, towards the end. Perhaps she’s important. And perhaps, quite possibly, it is nothing.’

  The journalist made his notes. They were quiet for a few minutes. Then the old man said, with an air of distinguished sadness, ‘The truth is…I rather miss him, Mister Quinn. I miss Angus. He made me laugh. So if you find him, do keep me informed. And now I must return to my packing. You have ants crawling up your trousers.’

  It was true. A couple of ants were ascending his jeans. He brushed them off. Fazackerly was already walking swiftly away.

  For a while Simon sat there. Then he got up and walked to the station and caught the train home, his mind full of images of ants. Fighting. Killing. The war between species, the war of all against all.

  As he emerged from his suburban st
op his phone rang. It was DCI Bob Sanderson, talking excitedly.

  ‘Money!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The monies! We have a lead.’

  Sanderson sounded very animated, he was talking about Edith Tait’s strange inheritance. The journalist was glad for the distraction; he paid close attention. Sanderson said:

  ‘I got a hunch when you told me. About Charpentier. So I did some old-fashioned detecting. They all had money. The Windsor victim left eight hundred grand. The Primrose Hill victim more than a mill.’

  Simon felt a need to play devil’s advocate.

  ‘But a lot of old people have money, Bob. A decent house in a nice part of Britain and that’s half a million.’

  ‘Yeah sure, however…’ Sanderson drawled, merrily. ‘Let’s look a bit closer. Eh? Why didn’t they spend it? Charpentier especially. She lived in that minging little croft in Foula, as far as we know, ever since she arrived in the UK. Yet she had a ton of dosh.’

  ‘It is odd.’

  ‘And she had the money when she emigrated.’

  ‘In 1946?’

  ‘Exactly, my old papaya. Exactly. In 1946. A bunch of French people, all of Basque origin. They fetch up in Britain just after the war, having lived in Occupied France, and they all have money and they all get killed nearly seven decades later.’

  ‘Which means…?’

  ‘Which means, Simon…’ Sanderson was half laughing. ‘Something happened to all these people…’

  A tiny chill shivered through Simon, despite the autumn sun. He inhaled, quickly and deeply.

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Got it. Someone gave them the loot – or they found it – in Occupied France.’

  ‘You think it’s something to do with the war, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep,’ he answered. ‘I’m thinking blood money. Or…’ He paused, as if for effect. ‘Or Nazi gold.’

  18

  The girl was shouting at them. ‘Qui est-ce? Qui est-ce?’

  David turned to Amy.

  ‘Don’t move. She has…a shotgun.’

  Amy was pale and rigid but she spoke for them both, in French. David listened keenly, trying to understand. Amy called to the girl, giving their names.