He stood back. Forrester was lifting off the black leather lid, with the printed gold lettering. They all peered into the depths of the historic box and found themselves looking down at the Black Book, the first time it had been seen in two hundred and fifty years.

Except that it was not a book that stared back at them; but a face.

‘Jesus!’ said Dooley.

Sitting at the bottom of the box was a skull.

It was a very strange skull. Obviously human, yet not quite human. It had slanting cheekbones, and almost birdlike, snakelike eyes, handsome and Asiatic, yet oddly broad, and cruelly smiling.

Rob recognized it immediately. ‘That’s exactly what I saw in Lalesh. The same kind of skull. Sort of half man…half bird. What the hell is that? Christine, you’re an osteo…expert. What is it?’

With a confident dexterity, Christine reached inside the black leather case, and took out the skull. ‘It’s very well preserved,’ she said, examining the cranium and the lower jawbone. ’Someone has had it treated it to prevent it from decaying.’

‘But how old is it? What is it? Is it human? What’s with the eyes?’

Christine walked to the light of the long sash windows. She held the skull up, in the slanting sunshine. ‘It’s definitely hominid. But it’s hybrid.’

The door to the office pushed open. It was Sally and Boijer. They stared in shock, at the skull in Christine’s hands.

‘That’s it?’ said Boijer. ‘That’s the Black Book? A human skull?’

Rob nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Not quite human.’ Christine twisted the skull in her hands. ‘It’s hominid, but there are stark differences between this and a normal Homo sapiens skull. Here, look. The large braincase size, the sagittal size, and the orbitals, very intriguing…’

‘So it’s a crossbreed between humans and…and what?’ asked Rob.

‘No idea. Not Neanderthals. Not Homo habilis. This seems to be some unknown human type; and one with a very large braincase.’

Rob was still in the dark. ‘But I thought humans couldn’t breed with other species? I thought different species couldn’t breed?’

Christine shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. Some species can interbreed. Tigers and lions, for instance. It’s rare but it happens. And this kind of hybridization is not unknown in human evolution. Various experts think we interbred with the Neanderthals.’ She set the skull on the table. Its white teeth glittered in the lamplight. The skull was yellowy cream, and very large.

Dooley was still looking in the musty leather case. ‘There’s something else.’ He reached in, and pulled out a folded document. Rob watched, transfixed, as the Irish detective carried the document to the principal’s desk and laid it next to the skull.

The document was weathered and creased, and made from some form of robust parchment. Yellowed and old: maybe hundreds of years old.

Very carefully, Rob unfolded it; as he did so, the parchment creaked and gave off a distinct and not unpleasant fragrance. Of sadness, and age, and funeral flowers.

They leaned over the parchment as Rob flattened it out. Christine looked down, frowning. The parchment was inscribed with very dark ink, showing a cursory map, and a few lines in a scrawled and archaic script.

‘Aramaic,’ said Christine, almost immediately. ‘It’s Aramaic. Seems to be a fairly unusual form…Let me have a proper look.’

Rob sighed with frustration: the passing of every second was painful. He glanced at the skull, sitting there on the desk next to the parchment. It seemed to be sneering at him. Sneering like Jamie Cloncurry.

Cloncurry! Rob shook himself. They had the Black Book! And Cloncurry needed to know this at once. Rob asked Matthewson if he could use the office computer and the principal nodded his assent.

Rob went to the principal’s desk, logged on the computer, and got straight through to Cloncurry. The videolink buzzed into life. The webcam was working. Within a few seconds Cloncurry came briskly and suddenly into view. He was grinning, maliciously. ‘Ah, so I suppose you have found it. In a bus stop perhaps? Maybe in a bingo hall?’

Rob silenced him by lifting up the skull.

Cloncurry stared. He swallowed, and stared. Rob had never seen the gang-leader nonplussed like this: but the killer seemed discomfited, anxious, almost stunned.

‘You have it, you actually have it.‘ Cloncurry’s voice was phlegmy with anxiety. He started again. ‘And what about…the documents, was there anything else? In the box?’

Sally handed across the parchment. Rob lifted it up and showed it to him. Cloncurry breathed out, long and hard, as if he had been relieved of a terrible burden. ‘All this time. All this time. And in Ireland! So Previn was wrong. I was wrong. Layard was a dead end. And it’s not even in cuneiform!’ Cloncurry shook his head. ‘So. Where was it exactly?’

‘Newman House.’

Cloncurry went quiet. Then he shook his head and laughed, bitterly. ‘Christ. Under the secret stairs!? Jesus Christ. I told them to search properly. Those rancid imbeciles.’ Now he stopped laughing and gazed insolently and contemptuously at the webcam. ‘Still, nothing to be done about it now. My colleagues are lying in coffins. But you can save your daughter’s life-as long as you bring me the Book-the skull and the document. OK? And I want it here within…oh God. Here we go again. Another deadline. How long will it take you morons to get here?’

Rob started to speak but Cloncurry lifted a hand. ’Shut up. Here’s the deal. I’ll give you three more days. That’s surely enough time. Possibly too generous. But that’s me for you, super generous. But please believe me, my patience is running out. Recall that I am psychotic.’ He chortled, and did an exaggerated facial tic, mimicking his own madness. ‘And, guys, when you come, don’t bother bringing your police chums. They’ll be of no use to you. Will they? Because they won’t get much help from Kiribali, or the Kurds. As I think you realize very well. So get on with it, Rob. Fly here, bring the Book, and you can have your Lizzie back, unpickled. You’ve seventy-two hours, and that’s that. The final deadline. Ciaociao.’

The screen went black.

Forrester broke the silence. ‘Of course, we will have to go through the local police, in Turkey. I’ll speak to the Home Office. We can’t have you guys just flying out there. This is a murder case. It’s very complex. As I’m sure you realize.’

Rob narrowed his eyes. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry if this seems bureaucratic, but we’ll be quick, very quick. I promise. It’s just that we need to be careful. And this guy is a nutcase, if you go in alone there’s no guarantee he won’t just, you know. We need local back up. And that means official involvement, approval from Ankara, liaisons with Dublin. All that.’

Rob thought about Kiribali. His lizardly smile. His threats at the airport. ‘Of course.’

Matthewson was hopping from foot to foot again. He evidently wanted this troublesome entourage out of his office but was too polite to say as much. Obediently they all filed outside, led by Rob, carrying the ‘Black Book’-the skull and the map in the old leather box. Sally and Christine came behind, talking quietly. The police, bringing up the rear, were animatedly conversing, almost arguing.

Rob watched the London detective jabbing a finger at Boijer. ‘What the hell are they arguing about?’

Christine shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ Her expression was sardonic. They walked on ahead.

Rob glanced to his left, at Sally, and to his right, at Christine. Then he said, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘The police will screw it all up.’

‘Exactly. All that “talk to the Home Office” stuff. Jesus.’ Rob felt the anger and frustration surge inside him. ‘And talk to bloody Kiribali? What are they on? Kiribali is probably in league with Cloncurry anyway. Who else is helping that bastard?’