Tom Knox - The Genesis Secret

They watched.

Cloncurry's initial slicing movement was quick. With a professional ease, as if he was practised at butchery, Cloncurry stabbed the knife into Christine's exposed stomach, and ripped the blade laterally. Blood seeped out, down the blade and onto Christine's lap. A moan was distinctly audible, despite the gag and the hood, muffling Christine's voice. The blood was seeping slowly, and the pink and red inner organs were beginning to ooze and poke out of the horizontal slash, like the smeared pink heads of weird babies.

'Well lookie here,' said Cloncurry, forcing open the huge wound to peer inside. 'Who's that pushing in front. Mrs Uterus? Come on gal, give someone else a chance.'

Dropping the knife, the murderer reached his hands, deep into the lateral gash in Christine's stomach. Rob couldn't help noticing how pale Christine's stomach was. Her tan had faded from her imprisonment; her skin looked almost white.

But the whiteness was coloured by the slowly dripping blood. And the moans were escalating into whines of pain, as Cloncurry gently drew out Christine's intestines: coils of pastel grey and greasy blue, like links of obscenely raw sausages.

Carefully Cloncurry extracted more of Christine's organs, still attached to her body by veins, arteries and muscles, and grey-white ganglions; then he carried the great handful of innards to the pot, and he dropped the organs with a plop, into the steaming vat of water.

Christine writhed.

'Now you see how clever those Swedes were. You can extract all the lower organs, but the victim lives on. Because she's still attached to her major organs, so she's still metabolizing. It's just that she's also being boiled to death.' Cloncurry was smirking. 'Hey. Shall we pop some pepper in? Make it spicy. A lovely hotpot of girlfriend.'

Christine's muffled voice was a strange, sobbing, urgent moan of pain. Smothered by the gag and the hood, it was a noise Rob had never heard anyone make before.

Cloncurry had picked up a large wooden spoon from somewhere and was stirring Christine's innards in the pot. The stirring went on for a few searing minutes, punctuated by the victim's desperate groaning. Cloncurry sighed in frustration. 'Jesus. She's a bit of a moaner, isn't she? She never moaned like this when I fucked her. Do you think she's enjoying it? Hmm.' He smiled. 'I know, let's cheer her up with a proper Swedish singsong!' Cloncurry started humming, then burst into song. 'Mamma Mia don't you let me go, my my, how could I forget you! Yes, I was broken-hearted, blue since the day we parted, but now you've-put me in a pressure cooker!'

He stopped singing. The moaning became a low murmur, then virtually a whimper. Cloncurry gave the pot another stir. 'Chin up, Christine, not long to go now. Think the gravy is thickening.' He smiled. 'Ah look, what's this here? Look at this! Mr Kidney.'

Cloncurry turned to the camera and held up the wooden spoon. Balanced in the bowl of the spoon was one of Christine's dark brown kidneys, draped with veins and arteries, like blood-red spaghetti.

Forrester stared down at the floor.

'That's it,' said Rob. 'The video ends around now. Christine slumps. She just…she just dies.'

Boijer leaned forward and shut down the email. Then he turned to Rob. He said nothing, but there was a definite wetness in his eyes.

For a while the men sat around the room. Barely able to speak. Rob shrugged, desolately, at the policemen; and he got up to go.

And then the phone rang.

Forrester took the call. His gaze met Rob's across the room, as he spoke, low, on the phone. At last, the detective put the phone down. 'It may be too late for…for Christine. But we can still save your daughter.'

Rob stared at him, from the open door.

Forrester nodded, grimly. 'That was the Gardai. In Ireland. They've found the gang.'

Forrester and Rob met at Dublin Airport. The policeman was accompanied by several Irish officers with gold star cap badges.

There was little small talk. Forrester and the Irish police led Rob straight through the arrivals lounge into a breezy car park; they climbed wordlessly into a minivan.

It was Rob who broke the sombre and frightening silence. 'My ex-wife is here?'

Forrester nodded. 'Arrived on the flight an hour before you. She's at the scene.'

'It was the last seat on that flight,' said Rob. He felt a need to explain himself. He felt guilty all the time now. Guilty about Christine's death; guilty about Lizzie's impending fate. Guilt about his own lethal stupidity. 'So…' he said, trying to control his emotions. 'I got the next flight. I let her go first.'

The cops all nodded. Rob didn't know else what to say. He sighed and bit his knuckles and tried not to think about Christine. Then he lifted his gaze and told Forrester and Boijer about Isobel and her attempts to find the Black Book. He hadn't heard from her in a day or more, he told them, and he couldn't get her on the phone; but that silence might mean that she was close to her prize. Out there in the desert, beyond the reach of a signal.

The policemen shrugged as if trying to be impressed, but failing. Rob couldn't blame them: it seemed a long shot, and pretty obscure, and so very far away, compared to the reality of cold, rainy Ireland. And a cornered gang of murderers. And an eviscerated corpse. And a daughter about to be dismembered.

At last he said, 'So, what's the latest…?'

The senior Irish officer introduced himself. He had greying hair and a serious, firm-jawed face. 'Detective Liam Dooley.'

They shook hands.

'We've been staking them out. Obviously, we can't go straight in. Heavily-armed buncha guys. They've killed…the woman…your friend. I'm sorry. But the girl is still alive and we want to save her. We will save her. But we have to be careful.'

'Yes,' said Rob. They were struck in traffic on the busy Dublin ringroads. He gazed through the rainsmeared van windows.

Dooley leaned forward and tapped the police driver's shoulder: he turned on the siren and the Gardai minivan swung through the traffic, which peeled away to let the police vehicle pass.

'OK,' said Dooley, talking loudly above the siren. 'I'm sure DCI Forrester has filled you in but this is the scene now. We snatched one of them, the Italian-'

'Marsinelli,' said Forrester.

'Yes, him. Marsinelli. We snatched him yesterday. Of course that's alerted the rest of the gang: they know we are surrounding them and they're heavily armed.'

Rob nodded, and sighed, then he gave into his feelings and slumped forward, his head hard against the seat in front. Thinking of Christine. The way she must have heard her own organs boiling…

Forrester put a calming hand on Rob's shoulder. 'We'll get them, don't worry, Rob. The Gardai know what they are doing. They dealt with Irish terrorism for thirty years. We'll get Lizzie out.'

Rob grunted: he wasn't just feeling sad and scared, he was also feeling a rising resentment, at the police. The police had snatched just one gang member, and his daughter was still inside the cottage, still in the hands of Cloncurry. And Christine was already dead. The Irish cops were screwing up. 'What you're telling me then,' he said, 'is that it's a total stalemate? You've got the place surrounded so they can't get out but you can't get in either, in case they do anything to my daughter. But he's already butchered my girlfriend! And we know he has killed before. So how do we know he isn't killing Lizzie right now? Right this fucking minute?'

Dooley shook his head. 'We know your daughter is OK. Because we are speaking to Cloncurry all the time.'

'How?'

'By webcam. He's got another webcam set up-a two-way webcam this time. We've seen your daughter and she's OK. Uninjured. Tied up. As before.'