‘Well…I wasn’t sure. You’re the expert.’

‘So now you are sure. And I am very tired.’

Christine picked up the grass. ‘Thank you, Ivan.’

‘It is nothing.’ He was already standing. ’Goodbye.’

They were escorted briskly to the door. At the threshold Ivan glanced left and right along the landing as if he was expecting to see someone he didn’t want to see. Then he slammed the door shut.

‘Well that was friendly,’ said Rob.

‘But we got what we came for.’

They buzzed the lift and descended. All the mystery was irritating Rob. ‘OK,’ he said as they breathed the warm, dieselly air of the street. ‘Come on, Christine. Einkorn wheat. What the hell?’

Without turning to face him she said, ‘It is the oldest form of wheat in the world. The original wheat, the first ever cereal if you like.’

‘And?’

‘It only grows around here. And it was crucial to the switch to agriculture. When man started farming.’

‘And?’

Christine turned. Her brown eyes were shining. ’Franz thought it was a clue. I’m sure he thought it was a clue. In which case I think it’s a clue.’

‘A clue to what?’

‘It might tell us why they buried the temple.’

‘But how can a piece of grass do that?’

‘Later. Come on. Let’s go. You saw the way Ivan was watching at the door. Come on. Now.’

‘You think we’re being…followed?’

‘Not followed exactly. Maybe watched. I don’t know. Maybe it’s paranoia.’

Rob remembered Franz, skewered on the pole. He jumped into the car.

Forrester woke in an almost feverish sweat. He blinked at the dingy curtains of his Douglas hotel room. For a moment the nightmare lingered: giving a palpable yet absurd savour of evil to the hotel fixtures: the wardrobe door had swung half-open, showing the blackness within; the television lurked, squat and ugly, in the corner.

What had he dreamed? He rubbed the sleep from his face and remembered: he’d dreamed the usual, of course. A small body. A bridge. Then the bump-bump-bump of cars, driving over a ’tyre’.

Bump bump bump.

Bump bump bump.

He got up, walked to the window and drew the curtains. To his surprise it was light: very light. The sky was white and blank and the streets were busy; he was going to be late for the press conference.

He made it just in time. The sizeable hall was already bustling. The local police had commandeered the biggest room in St Anne’s Fort. A handful of local journalists had been joined by a dozen national hacks. Two news crews with digicams, big headphones and long grey microphones were loitering at the back. Forrester saw a familiar head of blonde hair: it was the London correspondent for CNN. He’d seen her at several media briefings before.

CNN? Someone had obviously tipped off the London media about the macabre nature of the murder. From the back of the hall, he surveyed the room. Three policemen were sitting at the front; Deputy Chief Hayden was in the middle, flanked by a couple of younger guys. A big blue screen above them said Isle of Man Constabulary.

The Deputy Chief Constable raised a hand. ‘If we could begin…’ He talked the journalists through the circumstances of the crime, citing the discovery of the body, and laconically describing the way the man’s head had been buried in the soil.

One journalist gasped.

Hayden paused, allowing time for this gruesome detail to sink in. Then he appealed for witnesses to come forward. His presentation concluded, he scanned the room. ‘Any questions?’

Several hands shot up.

‘The young lady at the back?’

‘Angela Darvill, CNN. Sir, do you think there is a link between this murder and the recent case in Covent Garden?’

This was unexpected. Hayden winced visibly, then flashed a glance at Forrester, who shrugged. The Scotland Yard officer didn’t know what to advise. If the media knew about the link already there was nothing anyone could do about it. They would have to ask the media to keep it quiet so the murderers didn’t know the police had linked the cases; but you couldn’t unsay what someone had obviously said.

The DCC acknowledged Forrester’s shrug then returned his gaze to the American journalist. ‘Miss Darvill, there are certain shared peculiarities. But anything beyond that is mere speculation at the moment. I wouldn’t like to comment further. We appreciate your discretion on this, as I am sure you realize.’ With that, he looked around the room seeking a different questioner. But Angela Darvill raised her hand again.

‘Do you think there is a religious element?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The Star of David. The carving in the chest. In both cases?’

The local journalists turned to stare at Angela Darvill. The question had thrown them; it had unsettled the whole room. Hayden hadn’t mentioned the ‘design’ of the knife cuts.

The room was hushed as Hayden replied. ‘Ms Darvill. We have a brutal and very serious crime to investigate. The clock is ticking. So. I think I should take a few more questions from…others. Yes?’

‘Brian Deeley, The Douglas Star.’ The local hack speculated about possible motive and Hayden said they had no motive at present. The two men batted some more questions and answers between them. Then a national newsman stood up and asked about the victim’s circumstances. Hayden told them that that the victim was a wellliked local man with a wife and children living in town. He was a keen sailor. The DCC gazed about the room, staring at each face in turn. ’Some of you might even know his boat, The Manatee. He used to go sailing with his son Jonny.’ He smiled sadly. ‘The lad is just ten years old.’

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

The Manx police, Forrester thought, were doing a good job. The blatant emotion was deft. That was how you got witnesses to come forward: appeal to the heart not the head. And they really needed witnesses. Because they had no evidence, no DNA, no prints. Nothing.

Hayden was gesturing at a balding man in an anorak. ‘The chap in the corner? Mr…?’

‘Harnaby. Alisdair. Radio Triskel.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think the crime is linked to the unusual history of the building?’

Hayden’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. ‘I’m not aware of any unusual history.’

‘I mean the way the castle was first built. Is it perhaps important? You know, all the legends…?’

The policeman’s fingers stopped drumming. ‘As of this moment, Mr Harnaby, we are following all lines of investigation. But I hope we aren’t pursuing legends. And that’s all I can tell you. Now.’ He stood up. ‘I think we have some work to do, so if you would excuse us, I do believe there’s coffee in the tent at the front.’

Forrester looked around. It had been a good, professional press conference: but he still felt unsettled. Something was bothering him. He looked at Harnaby. What was this guy talking about? The ‘unusual history’ of the building? It chimed with Forrester’s thoughts. Something was wrong here. The architecture: the pastiche effect of the building: something was wrong.

Alisdair Harnaby was reaching under his chair for a blue plastic shopping bag. ‘Mr Harnaby?’

The man turned, his thin-rimmed spectacles shiny in the striplight.

‘My name is DCI Forrester. I’m with the Met.’

Harnaby looked nonplussed. Forrester added: ’Scotland Yard? Do you have a minute?

The man put down his plastic bag and Forrester sat beside him. ‘I’m interested in what you said. About the unusual history of the building. Can you elaborate?’

Harnaby nodded, his eyes twinkling. He gazed about the empty hall. ‘What you see today is actually a rather crude copy of the previous building.’

‘Right, so…’

‘The original fort, St Anne’s Fort, was demolished in 1979. It was also known as Whaley’s Folly.’

‘And it was built by?