After fighting their way inside, Luc and Sara eventually got the attention of a nurse to tell her they were friends of one of the blast victims. ‘Hang on a minute, luv,’ they were told and then they were left hanging for half an hour as a people chaotically pulsed around them. After several attempts, a young man pushing an empty wheelchair took pity on them and pulled them through the casualty doors to search the stretcher-choked corridors for their Mr Prentice.
It was quite a scene, a hospital at its breaking point. Luc followed along as Sara gazed at each victim, searching for Fred’s face. Past the Radiology Department she found him, his arm and shoulder in an elaborate plaster cast. Both feet were also casted to the calves. He was in his early forties with widow-peaked hair and a complexion as colourless as the plaster. He had the squint of a man who had lost his glasses.
‘There you are!’ he said to Sara.
‘Oh, Fred! Look at you! I was so worried.’
He was sweet and caring as usual. He insisted on exchanging polite introductions with Luc, as though they were meeting at his conference table. ‘Thank goodness both of you were late,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, you’d have been caught up in all this mess.’
He had been in the lavatory. He was embarrassed because his pants had been around his ankles when she rang.
The next thing he remembered he was being stretchered out by a fire crew with unbearable pain in his feet and his shoulder. A morphine jab in the car park cheered him up no end, he assured them, and other than the mental torture of not knowing the fate of several colleagues and friends, he was doing well enough.
Sara held his good hand and asked if she could do anything for him.
He shook his head. ‘You came all the way from France to see me. I can’t have you leave without hearing what we found.’
‘Don’t be crazy, man!’ Luc exclaimed. ‘You’ve been through hell. We’ll talk in a few days. Please!’
‘I had a PowerPoint presentation for you,’ Fred said wistfully. ‘Everything’s gone ka-boom. My computer, my lab, everything. Oh well. But, let me at least
tell
you about our results. Maybe we’ll be able to reproduce them one day. Our lawyer was upset at me because I analysed your sample without putting the proper paperwork and agreements in place. You see, we obtained some important data and it wasn’t clear who would own the intellectual property. She wouldn’t let me put any of in a letter or email. It all seemed so critical last week.’ His voice tailed off. ‘I was told she died this morning – that lawyer. Her name was Jane.’
‘I’m sorry, Fred,’ Sara said, squeezing his hand.
He asked for water from his bendy-straw. ‘Well, that liquid of yours had some really interesting biology. It lit up our screens like a Christmas tree. Where to start? Okay, then, did you have any idea it was swimming in ergot alkaloids?’
‘You’re kidding!’ Sara said. Then when she saw Luc’s puzzled expression, she explained, ‘They’re psychoactive compounds. Nature’s LSD. How’d ergots get in there? I gave you the list of plants, Fred.’ And then the answer hit her and she blurted out, ‘
Claviceps purpurea
!’
‘Exactly!’ Fred said.
She was slowed down by the need to explain things to Luc. ‘It’s a fungus. It contaminates wild and cultivated grasses, like our wild barley. The fungus produces the ergot compounds. In the Middle Ages tens of thousands of Europeans came down with ergotism from naturally contaminated rye, causing hallucinations, madness, sometimes death. The Aztecs chewed Morning Glory seeds which contain natural ergots. It was their way of communicating with their gods. Christ, I studied ergotism in grad school! Ergot contamination of livestock grain is still a major problem.’
‘I’m a hundred per cent sure it was
Claviceps
-derived,’ Fred said with an excited look, seemingly forgetting his circumstances. ‘The predominant ergots were agroclavine and elymoclavine.’
She shook her head knowingly. ‘Did you find anything else?’
‘You bet I did. Ergots were only the beginning. Wait till you hear the rest!’
Luc’s mobile phone rang. When he opened it, someone with a hospital badge told him he couldn’t use it inside.
Luc excused himself and limped down the corridor towardsathe casualty department. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Professor Simard?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘It’s Father Menaud, from Ruac. I need to speak with you.’
‘Yes, one moment. Let me get outside.’
On the way out, Luc saw two large men heading towards him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and he thought he heard one of them say ‘Oui,’ which struck him as out of place in the corridors of the Nuffield Hospital. One was wearing a sweatshirt, the other a padded jacket. Both looked haggard. When he looked at them, he had the impression they deliberately looked away but it happened quickly and he was out the door.
The forecourt to the Casualty Department was crowded with ambulances, police cars and satellite trucks. Luc tried to find a relatively quiet spot.
‘How can I help you, Dom Menaud?’
It wasn’t a good connection. Syllables were dropping. ‘I’m afraid they’re all gone. I don’t know any other way to tell you.’
Luc was confused. ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean, gone?’
‘All your people at the camp. All of them are dead. It’s a terrible tragedy. Please, professor, come as soon as you can!’
TWENTY-TWO
Monday
Luc left Sara speechless and trembling at Fred Prentice’s side with nothing more than a few hurried words to tell her there’d been an accident in France.
Maybe it was a cruel thing to do to her, to leave so abruptly, but his mind wasn’t focused on anything but getting back across the Channel. He hailed a taxi and persuaded the driver to take him all the way to Heathrow for the cash in his wallet. He left his bag at the hotel; it was the last thing he cared about. He used his mobile until the battery went dead then sat in the cab with his hands in his head. The rest of the journey was a long, slashing blur, a journey to hell.
Hell was roped off with yellow incident tape.
The abbey grounds were the site of a major gendarmerie investigation. In the parking area, an officer recognised Luc and escorted him through the forensic cordon. In the distance, Luc saw the monks heading to the church. Which office of the day was it? He’d lost track of time. Then he noticed the sun was setting. Vespers. Nothing was going to interrupt the cycle of prayer.
Luc was like a foetus, suspended in murkiness, aware of his own heartbeat, his breathing, but primitively unaware of what was happening outside the womb.
Colonel Toucas was strutting around, very much in charge. By the cold ash of the camp fire pit, he immediately started peppering Luc with questions and confronting him with grim facts. The way he was so energised, almost giddy in the midst of all this calamity, angered Luc and brought him crashing back to the here and now.
But Luc had trouble looking into Toucas’s animated face when the policeman started describing the location of bodies, the nature of the wounds. Instead, he found himself staring furiously at the objects that adorned the colonel’s sky-blue shirt – his epaulets, his service patches, the dark-blue tie with its emblematic clip.
Luc began to fully absorb the horror. The three male under-graduate students and Jeremy were shot dead in the office, execution style. Marie, the female undergrad, raped and shot in one caravan. Elizabeth Coutard, raped and shot in another.
Finally, Luc was able to look at Toucas’s fleshy lips. ‘What about Pierre?’ he asked in little more than a whisper.
‘Who’s Pierre?’ the officer asked.
After Luc explained who Pierre was and that he was certainly there on Sunday night, Toucas began barking at his men, demanding an explanation for the incomplete body count, haranguing them to make another search of the camp site. Luc offered up the make and model of Pierre’s car and an officer was dispatched to locate it.
Toucas all but forced Luc to enter the Portakabin to give an accounting of what was missing. Mercifully, the bodies were covered, but the shrouds couldn’t hide all the blood.
‘My God,’ Luc muttered. ‘My God. Who could have done this?’
‘Who indeed,’ Toucas said. ‘We’ll find them, you can be sure of that.’
The office was completely ransacked. The computers were gone as were the scientific gear, the microscopes and environmental monitors. The file cabinets and desk drawers had all been emptied out into a great pile and by the looks of it, the intruders had set the pile on fire. About a quarter of the papers were burned through or singed.
‘Why would they burn the files?’ Luc asked numbly.
Toucas pointed to the charred remnants. ‘Perhaps they were using the papers to set the building off and destroy the evidence. The fire must have burned out on its own. These coated file folders don’t ignite easily. There’s no sign of accelerants. You light a match, start the fire, run away and it dies out. That’s what I think happened.’
An officer poked his head in. ‘That car isn’t around, Colonel.’
‘So where is this Pierre? What’s his last name, professor?’
‘Berewa.’
‘What kind of name is that?’
‘He’s from Sierra Leone.’
‘Ah,’ Toucas said suspiciously, ‘An African.’
‘No, a Frenchman,’ Luc responded.
Toucas half-smiled. ‘Well, we need to find Pierre Berewa. Do you have his mobile number? Can you call him?’
Luc’s phone was dead. He used the Colonel’s to no avail. Suddenly, he looked at his own desk. The drawers were tipped out. ‘We kept the spare key to the cave entrance in that drawer.’
‘See if you can find it,’ Toucas said. ‘But put these gloves on please.’ He pointed to a box of latex gloves left there by the forensics squad. ‘Fingerprints.’
Luc began rummaging through the files.
‘How many keys did you have?’ Toucas asked.
‘Two. Pierre had my key.’
‘Ah, Pierre, again.’
After an exhaustive search Luc declared the spare key missing and said, ‘I think we should check the cave.’
‘Very well, let’s do that.’
Lieutenant Billeter drove. On the way, Toucas took a call, mostly listening. When he was done he turned to Luc in the back seat. ‘The coroner tells me there was something interesting about the rape samples from the female victims.’
Luc didn’t want to hear but Toucas wasn’t attuned to his sensibilities.
‘The rapist had abnormal sperm. Short tails, apparently not good swimmers. The doctor used the term, ‘immotile’. Maybe this will be helpful, we’ll see.’
Luc could see Marie and Elizabeth in his mind. For the first time that day tears began to stream down his face.
At the end of the lane, they saw Pierre’s red car in the gravel parking area. Luc ran to it, but Billeter warned him off. ‘Don’t touch anything!’
They peered in but it was empty.
Luc led them down the ladder. On the ledge of the cliff the sight of the gate wide open sent him into fury. ‘Someone’s been in there! Christ!’
Billeter used his walkie talkie to radio for more men.
‘Take us in there, Professor,’ Toucas said, unbuttoning his stiff leather holster.
There was still a cardboard box of shoe covers in the cave mouth. Luc hit the universal power switch and the entire cave lit up, front to back.
‘We should have protective clothes,’ Luc mumbled.
‘To protect us?’ Toucas asked.
‘No, the cave.’
‘Under the circumstances, let’s not worry about that,’ the colonel commanded.
Toucas and Billeter seemed irritably distracted by the cave art, as if it was put there to confuse a crime scene. Luc moved forward cautiously, checking each treasure, fearful he would find graffiti, or some ruinous act. Anyone capable of debasing human life would certainly be capable of that.
‘What are these?’ Toucas asked, pointing at a Roman Numeral III, affixed to the wall.
‘There are ten chambers in the cave. This is the third, The Chamber of the Red Deer.’
‘Which is the most important?’
‘They’re all important. But if I had to answer, I’d say the tenth chamber.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
They finally got to Chamber 9. Luc took some comfort in seeing all the art untouched, as perfect as ever.
They entered the tunnel on hands and knees.
When they emerged from the tunnel into the tenth chamber and the Vault of Hands, Luc immediately saw Pierre’s long arm in the Chamber of Plants.
He shouted, ‘Pierre!’ and ran to him.
He was lying face-down.
His black skin was as cold as the cave floor. Billeter went through the motions of trying to find a pulse and declared that rigor mortis had already set in.
‘Search him,’ Toucas ordered, and Billeter donned gloves and began the task while Luc collapsed on his haunches to watch the nightmarish scene.
Another student murdered.
At the feet of the bird man.
In this mystical place.
He heard Abbot Menaud’s words in his head: ‘I’m afraid they’re all gone.’
Billeter was saying something that he missed. Luc looked up and asked him to repeat it. ‘I said he had one key in his pocket. Is this the original or the copy?’
‘It’s the original. It’s my keychain.’
Billeter resumed his inspection. ‘There’s a stab wound in his right flank. We’ll see what the coroner says but that’s the probable cause of death.’
‘What do these mean, these plants and that man or whatever he is with this erection of his?’ Toucas asked.
‘I don’t know if we’ll ever know what they mean,’ Luc answered wearily. ‘I’m sure people will have theories.’
‘What’s
your
theory?’
‘Right now, I couldn’t say. My best student is dead. My people are dead. The women . . .’
Toucas didn’t pretend to be empathic. ‘This isn’t idle chatter, Professor. I’m conducting an investigation! Do you want justice? I’m sure you do! How well did you know this man?’ He pointed at Pierre with a jut of his chin.