something quite astounding by the end. Though they wouldn’t tell anyone what it was. But it must’ve been something that the Kellermans really wanted.’
‘So how do you know about it?’
‘Fazackerly started boasting about it! In his cups.’ Sanderson mimed a drinking hand. ‘Zhenrong says Fazackerly was a terrible boozer. There was a genomics conference in Perpignan about six months ago when Fazackerly got ratarsed. And he told everyone that him and Nairn, they were gonna publish something that would amaze everyone, that would make Eugen Fischer look like a nonce. That’s not how Zhenrong phrased it, by the way, that’s me.’
‘Eugen Fischer? I heard that name. Recently.’ Simon frowned. Exhausted by the mystery. ‘The young guy in France, Martinez, he mentioned him.’
‘That right? Well, Fischer was a race scientist. Worked in Namibia, and then for Hitler, one of the founders of eugenics. A real bastard. Thought Germans were supermen.’
‘Namibia.’
‘Namibia.’
‘I remember…’ Simon said, ‘I remember there was, ah, a picture in Fazackerly’s office of Francis Galton. He was a eugenicist…and he worked in Namibia.’
‘You see?’ Sanderson was broadly smiling. ‘It all connects. The Namibian Connection! I’m only telling you all this because you had a detective sargeant’s premolar embedded in your face this morning. Please keep shtoom for now. I guess you will wanna write a book when we’re done, won’t you?’
Simon found himself blushing.
‘Hah.’ Sanderson chuckled. ‘Fucking writers can’t resist. Make sure you give me a good haircut. Six foot two. Strong jaw. You know. And here’s another thing. Nathan Kellerman, the Jewish heir to all those diamond billions, he and Nairn became very close. Kellerman and Nairn would have these…chinwags, apparently, when he used to come and visit London, see how money was being spent.’
‘Conversations?’
‘Yes. About the Bible.’ Sanderson shrugged. ‘The Curse of Canaan. Genesis 3 or whatever. Zhenrong listened in. Sometimes. To their…chats.’
‘The doctrine of the Serpent Seed? The Curse of Cain?’
‘Yeah. All the stuff you got from Winyard. Odd, eh?’
‘When you say he and Kellerman were close…how close?’
‘Well they weren’t boyfriends. But a couple of years back Nairn started visiting Namibia.’
The car was now stalled on Baker Street. The sun was properly out; the streets were lively with people. Three Arab wives in turquoise hijabs were walking several paces behind the husband – attired in jeans and baseball cap.
‘Right. And?’
‘It’s a pretty expensive place to go, the other side of the world. Nairn wasn’t rich.’
Simon saw the clear light of logic.
‘Kellerman paid for his trips!’
‘Yup. We’re pretty sure he paid, because Nairn went several times, in three years. Never told anyone why or what he did there.’
‘Holidays?’
Sanderson’s expression narrowed. ‘Long way to go surfing.’
‘You believe he’s in Namibia now, don’t you?’
The DCI smiled with a trace of smugness. ‘I do. I even tried writing to him, on his email address. See if I could coax him out, tell him about the case. If he’s down there he’s probably still receiving emails. Reckon.’
Simon sat back. Sanderson confessed: ‘I didn’t get very far. Not good coppering. Tut fucking tut. But hey, at least I saved your Danish – just in time.’
The policeman’s weary smile was warm: genuine and warm. Simon felt a little better. Then he remembered the expression on Tomasky’s face. The growling anger. Ferocious. He felt worse.
Simon was quiet for the rest of the journey to New Scotland Yard. He was subdued during the debriefing; he was almost silent when he got home and hugged Suzie and embraced Conor with a fierce paternal love that almost broke his own heart, and his son’s ribs.
The subdued feeling hung around like an unwanted, overstaying visitor, like the bloodstain that couldn’t be removed from the hallway floor, no matter how many times it was sanded and polished. The journalist was melancholic and disquieted. He watched the fat housewife put out her fat housewifely washing. The fat black crow hopping along the garden. A policeman came to live with them, sleeping in the spare room. His radio buzzed loudly at odd times. He had a gun. He read football magazines.
Meanwhile, Simon researched Catholic sects and Polish skinheads. He drank too much coffee and researched genetics. He emailed David in France, and got a couple of emails in return. The emails were fascinating, and full of information, but they also added to his sense of danger and guilt. Simon felt guilty that he’d told the police about David: because Martinez and his friend – Amy – were, it seemed, suspicious of police involvement. Everywhere and everyone was suspect, unreliable, a menace.