Rob laughed, despite himself. Steve always had the ability to cheer him up with his naked Fleet Street cynicism, his ruthless humour. ‘Cheers, Steve.’

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, feeling a lot better. He had a job to do, a story to write, a lead to investigate. And then he could go and see his daughter.

Exiting the quiet of the parks, Rob walked out into the Kurdish street. Where taxi drivers were shouting at each other. Where a man was tugging a donkey as it pulled a cart stacked high with watermelons. It was so busy and noisy Rob could barely hear his phone. He felt its vibration instead.

‘Yes?’

‘Robert?’

Christine. He stopped on the dusty pavement. Poor Christine. She’d had to drive Franz to the hospital. She wouldn’t let anyone else do it. Rob had seen the blood all over her car, the blood of her friend. Gruesome and harrowing. ‘Are you OK? Christine?’

‘Yes, yes, thank you. I’m OK…’

She didn’t sound OK. Rob tried to make sympathetic conversation; he didn’t know what else to do. Christine wasn’t interested. Her speech was clipped, as if she was holding in the emotion. ‘Are you still flying out tonight?’

‘No.’ Rob said. ‘I’ve got more to write. I’m staying on for a week or two, at least.’

‘Good. Can you meet me? At the caravanserai?’

Rob was perplexed. ‘OK, but…’

‘Now?’

Still confused, Rob agreed. The phone went dead. Turning left, Rob strode back up the hill, right into the hubbub of the covered market.

The souk was a classic Arab market, the kind that was fast disappearing from the Middle East. Full of gloomy passages, grimy blacksmiths, beckoning carpet sellers, and entrances to tiny mosques. The brilliant sunlight came down in javelins through holes in the corrugated roof. In dark, ancient corners, knife grinders squirted golden sparks into the spice-scented air. And there, in the middle of it all, was a real old-fashioned caravanserai: a cool and spacious courtyard with café tables and beautiful stone arcades. A place for trade and gossip, a place where merchants had haggled for silk, and men had wived their sons, for maybe a thousand years.

Stepping into the busy open plaza, he scanned the many tables and groups of people. Christine wasn’t hard to spot. She was the only woman.

Her face was drawn. Rob sat down opposite her. She looked deep into his eyes as if she was seeking something. Rob had no idea what. She was silent; awkwardly so.

‘Look Christine I’m so…sorry about Franz I know you were close and…’

‘Please. No.’ Christine was looking down. Stifling tears, or anger, or something. ‘Enough. It’s very kind of you. But enough.’ She looked up again, and Rob became uncomfortably aware of the topaz brown of her eyes. Deep and languishing. Beautiful, and brimming with tears. She coughed to clear her throat. Then she said, ‘I think Franz was murdered.’

‘What?’

‘I was there, Rob. I saw. There was an argument.’

The clapping sound of pigeons, flying away, filled the caravanserai. Men were sipping Turkish coffee and sitting on vermillion rugs. Rob turned back to Christine. ‘An argument doesn’t mean murder.’

‘I saw, Rob. They pushed him.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Exactly. And it wasn’t an accident: they pushed him deliberately right onto that pole.’

Rob frowned. ‘Have you been to the police?’

Christine waved the idea away, like an irritating fly. ‘Yes. They don’t want to know.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I was practically marched out of the police station. A mere woman.’

‘Wankers.’

‘Maybe.’ Christine forced a smile. ‘But it is difficult for them, too. The workers are Kurds, the police are Turkish. The politics are impossible. And yesterday there was a bomb in Dyarbakir.’

‘I saw the TV news.’

‘So,’ Christine said, ‘just walking in and arresting a load of Kurds for a murder…that isn’t so simple, right now. Oh God…’ She leant her forehead on her folded arms.

Rob wondered if she was going to cry. Behind her a minaret rose above the arcading of the caravanserai. It had big black loudspeakers wired to the top, but they were silent for the moment.

Christine regained herself, sat back again. ‘I want to know, I want to do some…investigating.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to know everything. Why he was digging at night, why they wanted to kill him. Franz was my friend. So I want to know why he died. Will you come with me? I want to go to Gobekli and look at Franz’s notes, his materials, the works…’

‘But surely they have taken all that? The Turkish police?’

‘He kept a lot of stuff secret,’ Christine said. ‘But I know where. In a little locker in his cabin at the site.’ She leaned forward, as if she confessing something. ‘Rob we need to break in. And steal it.’

The flight to the Isle of Man, across the Irish Sea, was bumpy but brief. At Ronaldsway airport Forrester and Boijer were greeted in the arrivals lounge by the Deputy Chief Constable, and a uniformed sergeant. Forrester smiled and shook hands. The four policemen swapped names: the DCC was called Hayden.

They walked out into the car park. Forrester and Boijer exchanged glances-and shared a brief, knowing nod at the Manx sergeant’s rather odd white helmet. Very different to anything on the mainland.

Forrester already knew of the Isle of Man ’s special status. A Crown colony, with its own parliament, its own flag, a heritage of ancient Viking traditions, and its own unique police force, Man was not an official part of the United Kingdom at all. They’d abolished flogging only a few years ago. Forrester’s SIO back in London had briefed Forrester carefully on the slightly unusual protocols involved in visiting the Isle.

The car park was cold, with a hint of rain in the air; the four men walked briskly to Hayden’s big car. Silently they sped through farmland, down to the outskirts of the main town, Douglas, on the western coast. Forrester buzzed down his window and looked out, trying to get a feel for the place: a sense of where he was.

The lush green farmland, the rainy oak woods, the tiny grey chapels: they looked very British and Celtic. Likewise, as they reached Douglas, the huddled houses along the beach, and the flashier office blocks, reminded Forrester of the Scottish Hebrides. The only indication they were outside the UK proper was the Manx flag; the symbol of a three-legged man on a bright red background, which rippled in the drizzly wind on several buildings.

The silence in the car was broken by occasional chit chat. At one point Hayden turned and looked at Forrester and said, ‘Of course we’ve kept the body at the scene. We’re not amateurs.’

It was a strange remark. Forrester guessed these policemen, from this tiny force-two hundred officers or fewer-might resent his presence. The big man from the Met. The interfering Londoner.

But Forrester had a serious task in hand; he was very keen to see the crime scene. He wanted to get to work straight away. Protocols or no protocols.

The car swerved out of the town and threaded down a narrower road with high woods to their right and the choppy Irish Sea to their left. Forester noted a jetty, a lighthouse, some small boats bobbing on the grey waves, and another hill. And then the car dived between some rather grand gates and swept up to a very big, old, castellated white building.

‘St Anne’s Fort,’ said Hayden. ‘It’s offices now.’

The place was roped off with police tape. Forrester saw that a tent had been erected on the front lawns and glimpsed a policeman carrying an old Kodak fingerprint camera into the building. Climbing out of the car Forrester wondered about the capabilities of the local force. When had their last homicide been? Five years back? Fifty? They probably spent most of their time busting dope smokers. And underage drinkers. And gays. Wasn’t this the place where homosexuality was still illegal?