The Marks of Cain Page 22

  Officer Sarria took it, and unfolded it; the paper was white in the sun, the blue stars almost pretty; he nodded, and glanced at his colleague, then he refolded the paper, and placed it on the table.

  ‘I have seen this map before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is your father’s map, Monsieur Martinez. I returned it to your grandfather. After the murder.’

  ‘I know it’s Dad’s map, but I don’t understand –’

  But even as he said this, the truth began to reveal itself in his mind. David stammered:

  ‘You were – you mean –’

  ‘I mean this.’ He gazed at David. ‘Monsieur Martinez, I may be a senior flic with grey hair, but once I was a young officer. In Navvarenx. In Gurs. Fifteen years ago.’

  The reality kicked in; David’s grief was painful in his chest.

  ‘When my parents were killed?’

  ‘I suspected it was ETA from the start. It had the hallmarks, if that is the word, of an ETA operation. The sabotaged car, a nasty explosion, it was similar to other ETA killings we investigated at the time. And I also suspected the young Miguel Garovillo was involved, we had eye witnesses.’

  ‘So why the fuck didn’t you arrest him?’

  Sarria frowned.

  ‘When I was at the Navvarenx police station we had a visit from the senior officer of the region.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It does not matter. What matters is this – he told me to conclude the case. He ordered me to finish the investigation, and mark it – unsolved. Yet we had evidence. I was very angry.’

  ‘Why? Why would they do this?’

  Sarria looked Amy’s way. ‘At first my immediate reaction was GAL.’

  David also looked at Amy.

  ‘Sorry? Who is gal?’

  She replied:

  ‘It’s not a person, David. It’s GAL.’ Her face was white with anxiety. ‘Capital G capital A capital L. GAL. They were a group set up by the Spanish state to kidnap and execute Basque radicals. In the 1980s and 90s. They had covert support from…elements inside the French government.’

  ‘Exactly, Miss Myerson.’ Sarria’s nod was curt. ‘This was the obvious answer. And my senior officer dropped hints, in that direction. A GAL killing – so you leave it alone. The authorities implied, to us, that your parents were Basque terrorists, Monsieur Martinez. Their death was therefore not a tragedy for the French State.’

  David waited. Sarria sighed.

  ‘But this made no sense to me. No sense at all. From what I could tell your parents had no link to terrorism. An American man and a British woman touring the area? And why would a known Basque radical, perhaps the fiercest ETA terrorist of all, Otsoko, the Wolf – son of the great José Garovillo – why would he suddenly be working for GAL? Suddenly a traitor to his entire cause?’

  The question hung in the air, like the tang of salt from the sea, a hundred metres west.

  ‘So…’ Amy said, quietly. ‘Why?’

  ‘That is the question. Why the three murders.’

  David interrupted:

  ‘Three murders?’

  ‘Yes. Of course…’ Sarria’s frown darkened. ‘You…did not know?’

  ‘I was fifteen. No one told me anything. Know what?’

  ‘The autopsy. Your mother was five months pregnant with a daughter…when she died.’

  The table was silent. David’s soul churned with emotion. All his life he’d been an only child. Yearning for a sibling. And when he’d been orphaned, that loneliness, that hunger for a brother or a sister, had only intensified. And now this. He’d almost had a sister.

  His anguished memories wove themselves, out of desperation, into a speculative reverie. Was this why Mum and Dad had gone on their strange holiday to France? Some desire to explore their roots? Following the revelation of her long-awaited second pregnancy?

  Sarria spoke.

  ‘I am very sorry, Monsieur Martinez. You can see I am here to help you. I knew your face as soon as I saw you a moment ago. Just like your father. In the car when we found him.’ He looked briefly towards the sea, then returned his gaze to David. ‘I would very much like to put Miguel Garovillo in a French prison cell, for the rest of his life. But before I tell you any more. I need to know your story.’

  He shifted his little coffee cup to the side, and leaned his uniformed elbows on the table. ‘Désolé. You may not wish to trust me. I am sure you do not trust me. But I remember what it was like, discovering your mother and father. Believe me, that kind of memory, it does not fade. So my advice is tell me everything, now, and tell me quickly.’ He paused, heavily. ‘Because, let us face the truth: what other choice do you have?’

  David gave Amy a long and significant look, her fingers interlinked with his across the table. She said:

  ‘We have to. We have to be honest.’

  She was, of course, correct. Their choices were narrowing down to nothing. So David nodded and drew a breath, and he told the policeman – everything – the whole story. The link to the British, French and Canadian murders. The journalist in England. The Cagot doors. The whole surreal roadtrip, crimsoned with blood every inch of the way.

  By the end of this monologue, Sarria had taken off his kepi and laid it on the white paper tablecloth. His eyes had remained fixed on David the whole time.

  ‘So…As I thought. Les églises…La Societé.’ He was almost talking to himself – staring above their heads, searching for an answer in the sky over Biarritz.

  Then he snapped from his thoughts and explained.

  ‘It is the churches. It is not just the mobile phones, how he traced you. Monsieur Martinez. It is the churches. As the priest at Navvarenx implied.’

  Amy spoke. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘After I was taken off the Martinez murders, after the case was closed…I did some of my own…investigating. I looked into the background of those who had been stopping me. See if I could find this connection with GAL. Of course there was no such connect. Mais –’ He paused, then continued: ‘But there was a link with the church. Specifically, the Society of Pius the Tenth.’

  Amy’s face showed surprise.

  ‘I’ve heard of them. Yes. And – and – and José was linked to them. He had that crucifix blessed by Pope Pius. Yes –’ She clutched at David’s arm. ‘The priest, at Navvarenx.’

  David recalled. ‘He mentioned a Society. Said he had been asked to warn them…or someone…about us. And there were portraits of that pope in some of the churches.’ David struggled with the idea, he was at a loss. ‘But who are they?’

  Sarria elaborated.

  ‘A large splinter group from the Catholic church, with strong support in the South of France. And in the Basque Country. Very traditionale. They were founded by Archbishop Lefebvre. They have links to the Front Nationale, to hard right-wing politics. Some of their bishops have denied the Holocaust. They have sympathizers across the state. They are…’ He frowned. ‘They are also active abroad. In Bavaria and Quebec, South America. In Poland they have political friends, the League of Polish Families. And the hard right in Austria. It is guessed there are eight hundred thousand members. Their own priests, their own seminaries, their own churches.’

  Amy said: ‘You are sure they are linked?’

  ‘Quite sure. Everywhere I looked I found, mademoiselle, connections to the Society. Un réseau, une conspiration! My superior officer was a confirmed sympathizer. Very right wing.’

  David gazed at the policeman, still deeply confused.

  ‘But why would they be involved in this?’

  The officer nodded, uncertainly.

  ‘It seems to me the Catholic church wants to…suppress some knowledge. Which dates back to the war. Maybe to Gurs. Your parents were accidentally revealing the same…mystery. Perhaps by mistake. Accidentellement.’

  ‘You say the Society is involved, but now you say the whole Catholic church?’

  A shrug. ‘This is my…hunch, is that the right word? My
hunch. I have researched the Society ever since the first killings in Gurs. Some years ago the Society of Pius the Tenth was…excommunié…by Pope John Paul for rejecting the Second Vatican Council. And for their extreme views. But recently there have been signs that the Pope will take the Society back…into the warmth of Catholic communion. Peace overtures have been noted.’ Sarria was faintly smiling. ‘But I am thinking the church has asked the Society to do something, in return for healing the schism.’

  ‘Close down this mystery. The mystery of Gurs. Once and for all?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Yes. Who better than the Society? They already know the whole story because their roots go back to Vichy, and l’occupation. When this began. Right-wing French priests were chaplains at Gurs. They tortured Cagots, and Jews, despite themselves.’

  The picture, at least half of it, was now revealed to David. He gazed through the dark potted firs, at the blue Bay of Biscay. He talked to himself, quietly:

  ‘Everywhere we went…we went into churches. Navvarenx, Savin, Luz. Eloise’s house was opposite a church. She went into the church at Campan…’

  ‘Exactement. The Society has maybe asked for help in their search for you…from the wider church. Priests and nuns and ecclesiastical officials, are maybe identifying you as you move from place to place. Let us say the average priest does not even know why he has been asked to do this. But he will do it because he is obedient. Loyalty means much, in this part of the world.’

  Amy spoke up: ‘And then the information would be passed to the Society? And then to Miguel?’

  ‘Et voila‘. But what else do we know? I do not have to explain one thing, do I? Miguel’s motivation.’ The policeman sipped his coffee, and flicked a glance towards the sea, then returned his attention to the table.

  ‘Garovillo fils must have been brought up a Basque radical. Violently proud of his Basque heritage. And then – then one day, he discovers from his father that he is not Basque, but a Cagot, a despised Cagot. Miguel Garovillo would have been shattered, destroyed. And then he must have resolved.’ Sarria frowned. ‘Resolved that he would do anything to keep this secret hidden, kill anyone who threatened to reveal the humiliating truth about his father – and about Miguel himself. Along the way his wishes happily coincided with the wishes of the Society. Maybe they recruited him at that point, maybe the two Garovillo men were already members. So it all folded into place.’

  David spoke up. ‘And on top of that his ETA status helped him. Right? He would have the guns and the bombs and the expertise. To kill.’

  ‘Vraiment. And one day, Miguel found out that your parents were in France, researching the Cagots, and staying near Gurs. Asking questions at the Brasserie d’Hagetmau. That would have scared Miguel, alerted him to danger. The Wolf took action. Alors.’

  The frail laughter of a child carried on the coastal breeze. A brief glimpse of personal emotion, of sincere sadness, crossed Sarria’s face. He added:

  ‘But this, of course, is all too late for your family, Monsieur Martinez. I am sorry I could not do more. I tried. Please forgive me?’

  David quietly nodded. But he didn’t really mean it: he didn’t want to forgive, he didn’t want contrition: he wanted answers. As many answers as possible. His determination was returning, he wanted vengeance for his mother and his father. For his unborn sister. But to do that he needed to see the whole picture. Before Miguel could destroy the evidence.

  He spoke up: ‘But, Officer Sarria, the link with Gurs? What happened there?’

  Sarria shrugged his ignorance. ‘That I cannot tell you – because I simply do not know. No one seems to know. What I can say is this…’

  He leaned to the centre of the table, his voice low and concerned: ‘I can only protect you so far. You are in danger. Very serious danger. The Society, and its powerful political sympathizers, they still want you dead. They need you dead.’

  ‘So what the hell do we do?’ Amy said. Her arms were crossed. ‘Where can we go? Britain’s too dangerous. Spain likewise. Where else?’

  ‘Anywhere. You do not know what danger you are in…’ Sarria glanced significantly at David and Amy. ‘Maybe this can assist. If you need motivating.’

  He reached in a briefcase, and pulled out a large brown envelope. He opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of photographs.

  ‘These are the photos from the Gurs murder. Eloise’s grandmother, Madame Bentayou. I was not sure whether to show them to you. But…but maybe you need to see them.’

  David picked up a few of the glossy photos. Hesitantly. He was about to see what Eloise had seen through the window at the bungalow. What she could not, would not describe: the unspeakable murder of her grandmother.

  He steeled himself, then looked at the biggest photo.

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  The photo showed the entire murder scene.

  Madame Bentayou’s body was lying on the kitchen floor, a floor that was smeared with her own blood. Her body was identifiable from the clothes – and the tartan slippers; but there was no face to confirm this identification. Because her head had been cut off.

  Not only had it been cut off, it seemed to have been pulled off. The jagged nature of the grotesque wound, the shredding and ribboning of the skin, the stretched elastic of the tormented ligaments, they all implied that her head had been wrenched away; as if someone had sawn halfway through her neck, then given up in anger, impatience – or blood lust. David tried not to imagine the scene: the terrorist pulling at the living head, until the neckbone split and the ligaments snapped.

  And that was not all. Someone – Miguel – surely Miguel – had also cut off the hands: the old woman’s wrists were bleeding stumps, trailing veins and muscles. Puddles of blood extended from the stumps like flattened red gloves.

  And then the hands had been nailed to the door. Several more photos showed the hands, impaled.

  Two decomposing hands. Nailed. On the kitchen door.

  Amy was hiding her face behind her fingers.

  ‘Horrible. Horrible horrible horrible…’

  Sarria murmured, ‘I know. I am sorry. And there is more.’

  David swore. ‘How can there be more? How much worse can it be?’

  The officer opened the envelope again, and pulled out a final photo. It was a close-up of one of the severed hands. He pointed to the left of the photo, with his pen.

  David squinted, and scrutinized. There seemed to be…an arc of marks on the flesh. Faint, but definitely there. A curved row of small indentations in the pale flesh.

  ‘Is that…’ He fought his own revulsion. ‘Is that…what I think it is?’

  ‘Oui. A human bite. A bite mark. It looks a little experimental…as if someone has just, impulsively, tried to bite the human flesh. To see what it tastes like.’

  Silence ensued. The waves were lullaby rhythms on the beach. And then the other policeman leaned in. And spoke for the very first time.

  ‘Allez. Go. Anywhere. Before he finds you.’

  29

  The house was suitably quiet. The bored, yawning police constable – their guard and protector – was lying on the bed in the spare room, reading Goal. Suzie was working at the hospital: she’d refused to give up her work but allowed herself to be escorted on her commute. The au pair had fled back to Slovenia, two days ago, unnerved by the blood on the floor; Suzie’s mother had come to stay, to help look after Conor.

  And Simon was reading about Eugen Fischer.

  The online biography of the German scientist was stark:

  ‘Eugen Fischer (July 5, 1874 – July 9, 1967) was a German professor of medicine, anthropology and eugenics. He was a key proponent of Nazi scientific theories of racial hygiene that legitimized the extermination of Jews, sent an estimated half a million gypsies to their deaths, and led to the compulsory sterilization of hundreds of thousands of other victims.’

  Simon sat ten inches from his screen, a metal savour of distaste in his mouth. Three intriguing aspects stood out
in Fischer’s extended life story. The first was Fischer’s strong links with Africa.

  ‘In 1908 Eugen Fischer conducted field research in German Southwest Africa, now Namibia. He studied the offspring of “Aryan” men who had fathered children by native women. He concluded that the offspring of such unions – so-called “mischlinge” – should be eradicated after their usefulness had ended.’

  Eradicated? Usefulness? Concluded?? The words were all the more powerful for being so dry and antiseptic.

  Simon breathed in, and breathed out. And momentarily closed his eyes. Immediately, an image of Tomasky’s surging anger filled his mental gaze, and he snapped open his eyes once again. He could hear Conor playing in the room next door, vroom vrooming his favourite toy car into its toy garage.

  Listening now to his son’s chatter, the boy talking to himself, Simon felt the fierce undertow of parental love: the painful protectiveness. Protect Conor. Protect him from all the evil in the world.

  But the best way of doing that was by staying focussed. He returned to work.

  ‘Hitler was an avowed admirer of Eugen Fischer, especially the professor’s magnum opus Menschliche Erblichkeitslehre und Rassenhygiene (Human Heredity and Racial Hygiene). On his accession to power in 1933, Hitler appointed Fischer rector of Berlin University.

  ‘The Nazi conquest of Europe (1939–1942) gave Fischer, with the ardent encouragement of Adolf Hitler, the opportunity to extend his racial research, which he had begun decades before in Namibia. In the concentration camp of Gurs, in Nazi-occupied southwest France, Fischer commenced a series of detailed studies of various European races: Basques, gypsies, Jews, etc.’

  Simon was scribbling urgently now. Eyes on the screen, eyes on the pad in front of him. And more:

  ‘The Nazi regime poured money into the “medical division” at Gurs. Rumours at the time spoke of significant discoveries achieved by the so-called Fischer experiments. However, the data recovered by Fischer at Gurs was lost in the chaos of the Allied invasion of Europe and the destruction of the Nazi regime (1944–1945). It has never been conclusively proved whether the Fischer experiments yielded scientifically valuable results. The consesnsus, today, is that the rumours of “racial discoveries” were Nazi propaganda in themselves, and that Fischer revealed nothing of importance.’