The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  Sophie thrust her hands into her pockets, scowling in frustration. 'I can't see how he can, but I'd feel happier if he'd at least give us a bloody clue where the graves are. But no, he insists he'll only come out and show us. And Simms is letting him! He's so fixated on finding the Bennett twins so he can announce he's got the full set he's letting Monk dictate his own conditions. That's plain stupid, but I can't get anyone to listen.'

  Not for lack of trying. I had the sense to keep that to myself, though. 'Even if the other graves are around here we'll be hard pressed to find them without Monk. I hate to sound like I agree with Simms, but what choice does he have?'

  Sophie raised her eyes in exasperation. 'He could do what I've been suggesting for the past two days. I've already mapped out a few of the likeliest sites, but without more to go on I'm working blind. If he got Monk to just give us some idea of where the Bennett twins are buried, even a landmark, I might be able to find them myself.'

  I looked at the blasted landscape of dead bracken, heather and rock spread out before us. It stretched for miles. I didn't say anything, but I must have looked sceptical. Twin patches of red bloomed on her cheeks.

  'You don't think I can do it either.'

  Oh, hell. 'No, it's just… Well, it's a big area.'

  'Have you ever heard of Winthropping?' I hadn't, but she didn't give me chance to answer. 'It's a technique the army developed in Northern Ireland to find hidden arms caches. Anyone looking to make a hide – or bury a body – automatically follows the contours of the land, or uses reference points like a tree or distinctive rock to help them get their bearings. Winthropping's a way of reading a landscape to find the most likely places something would be hidden.'

  'And it works?' I said without thinking.

  'Amazingly enough, yes,' she said tartly. 'It isn't foolproof, but it's useful in situations like this. I don't care how well Monk's supposed to know the moor, it's still been a year since he killed the Bennett sisters. Their graves will be overgrown by now and he probably buried them at night anyway. Even if he wants to, I can't see him being able to remember exactly where they are. Not without help.'

  As a rule I liked my science more clear-cut, not verging into crystal-ball territory. But she made a convincing argument. Still, it was academic now anyway. We both fell silent as we saw a distant convoy of vehicles creeping along the road towards us.

  Monk was here.

  Chapter 5

  After the drama of the decoy's arrival, the real thing was almost an anticlimax. There were no flashing lights or motorcycles, no waiting helicopter. Just an unmarked van escorted by two police cars. A stillness seemed to fall as they headed for where Terry was waiting with Roper and a group of uniformed officers. A dog-handler stood with them, the intent-looking German shepherd kept on a short leash. The van and cars pulled up well away from the other vehicles. In the silence after their engines died the sound of the doors clunking open carried clearly in the damp air. Unlike those with Monk's 'double', none of the police officers were armed: there had to be a realistic threat of escape to merit that. But they were all big, bulky men, whose hands immediately went to the batons clipped to their belts as they fanned out around the rear doors of the van.

  'Very melodramatic,' Sophie commented.

  I didn't answer. There was movement in the shadowy recesses of the van. Something round and pale solidified into a bald head as it emerged into the light. A crouched figure filled the opening, ignoring the step-board below the doors to jump down. Then it straightened, and I had my first look at Jerome Monk.

  Even from where we stood, twenty yards away, there was no mistaking his sheer, hulking presence. His hands were cuffed awkwardly in front of him, and I realized with a shock that he was also wearing leg restraints. Neither seemed to bother him, and the hunched shoulders looked powerful enough to snap the handcuff chain without effort. His upper body was immense, yet the shaved head still seemed outsized.

  'Ugly brute, isn't he?'

  I'd been so preoccupied I hadn't noticed that Wainwright had joined us. The forensic archaeologist was dressed in well-worn but expensive outdoor gear, a scarf thrown flamboyantly around his neck. He made no attempt to keep his voice down, and his words carried clearly in the still air. That's torn it, I thought, as Monk's moon head swivelled towards us.

  The photographs I'd seen hadn't done him justice. The indentation in his forehead looked far worse in the flesh, as though he'd been struck with a hammer and somehow survived. Below it, the skin of his face was pitted with scar tissue. A scabbed, yellowing graze on one cheek suggested that at least some of it was recent, while the crooked mouth was curled in the same half-smile he always seemed to wear. It seemed to acknowledge and mock the revulsion he provoked.

  But it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. Small and unblinking, they were flat and empty as black glass.

  I felt chilled as they settled on me, but I warranted only a fleeting interest. The dead eyes went to Sophie, lingering on her for a moment before shifting to Wainwright.

  'The fuck you looking at?'

  The accent was local but the voice was a surprise: gruff and disconcertingly soft. Wainwright should have let it go. But the archaeologist wasn't used to being spoken to like that. He gave a derisive snort.

  'My God, it can talk!'

  Monk's leg restraints snapped taut as he stepped towards him, feet swishing awkwardly through the wet grass. That was as far as he got before the two prison guards grabbed his arms. They were big men but the convict dwarfed them. I saw them brace themselves, tensing with effort as they tried to hold him.

  'Come on, Jerome, behave yourself,' one of the guards said, an older man with grey hair and a lined face. The killer continued to stare at Wainwright, handcuffed hands dangling loosely. His shoulders and upper arms were massive, as though he had bowling balls packed inside his jacket. His black eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on Wainwright.

  'You got a name?'

  Terry had looked startled at the sudden confrontation, but now he moved forward. 'His name's none of your business.'

  'It's all right. If he wants to know who he's dealing with I'm more than happy to tell him.' Wainwright drew himself up, using his full height to glare at the convict. 'I'm Professor Leonard Wainwright. I'm in charge of recovering the bodies of the young women you murdered. And if you've any sense, then I strongly advise you to cooperate.'

  'Jesus,' I heard Sophie breathe beside me.

  Monk's mouth curled. 'Professor,' he sneered, as though trying out the word. Without warning his eyes flicked to me. 'Who's this?'

  Terry seemed at a loss, so I answered. 'I'm David Hunter.'

  'Hunter,' Monk echoed. 'Name to live up to.'

  'So's Monk,' I said automatically.

  The black eyes bored into me. Then there was a slow wheezing, and I realized Monk was laughing.

  'Smart-arse, aren't you?'

  Only now did he turn to stare at Sophie. But Terry didn't give him a chance to ask about her.

  'Right, you've been introduced.' He motioned to the guards to lead him away. 'Come on, we're wasting time.'

  'You heard the man, laughing boy.' The other prison guard, a thickset man with a beard, tried to haul Monk away. He might as well have tugged at a statue. The convict swivelled his head, levelling that basilisk stare at him.

  'Don't fucking pull me.'

  The atmosphere was already tense, but now the air suddenly felt charged. I could see Monk's chest rising and falling as his breathing grew more rapid. A bubble of spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. Then a man pushed his way through the encircling police officers.

  'Detective Inspector, I'm Clyde Dobbs, Mr Monk's solicitor. My client's agreed to cooperate in the search voluntarily. I hardly think assaulting him is called for.'

  He had a thin, nasal voice that managed to sound bored and wheedling at the same time. I hadn't noticed him before. He was in his fifties, sparse grey hair swept across an expanse of pink scalp. His briefcase loo
ked ludicrously out of place with his Wellingtons and waterproof jacket.

  'No one's assaulting anyone,' Terry snapped. He shot the bearded guard a look. The man grudgingly let go of Monk's arm.

  'Thank you,' the solicitor said. 'Please carry on.'

  Terry's jaw muscles tightened. He jerked his head at the guards. 'Bring him.'

  'Fuck off!' Monk yelled, as the guards strained to pull him back. His eyes were suddenly manic. I watched, stunned, unable to believe this could go wrong so quickly. I waited for Terry to do something, to take charge, but he seemed frozen. The moment stretched on, taut and ready to shatter into violence.

  And then Sophie stepped forward.

  'Hi, I'm Sophie Keller,' she said easily. 'I'm going to help you find the graves.'

  For a second there was no response. Then the black eyes flicked from Terry to her. They blinked as Monk's mouth worked, as though remembering how to form words.

  'Don't need any help.'

  'Great, then it'll be a lot easier for all of us. But I'm here just in case, OK?' She gave him a smile. It wasn't flirtatious, or nervous. Just a normal, everyday smile. 'Oh, and you'll probably want to lose the leg restraints. You're not going to get very far with those on.'

  Still smiling, she turned to include Terry in that last comment. I could see the other police officers exchanging glances. Terry's face was red as he gave a nod to the guards.

  'Just the legs. Leave the cuffs on.'

  He spoke brusquely, but there wasn't anyone there who didn't realize how close he'd just come to losing control. I saw Roper watching nervously as Terry tried to regain some semblance of authority, and there were knowing looks on the faces of the other officers. If it hadn't been for Sophie there was no telling what would have happened. Not only had she defused the situation, she'd also managed to establish at least a tentative rapport with Monk.

  After the outburst of a few moments ago, the convict seemed sullen and subdued. As he was led off down the track, the massive head turned to stare at Sophie.

  'It looks as though Ms Keller's got a new pet,' Wainwright said as we followed on behind, our breath steaming in the cold morning.

  'She did well.' Terry wasn't the only one to have just lost face, I reflected.

  'You think so?' Wainwright's eyes were unfriendly as he watched them walk ahead of us. 'Let's hope it doesn't decide to bite her.'

  The moor seemed to do its best to hinder us. The temperature dropped around the same time as the rain started to fall. It flattened the stalks of the grass and heather, a dull monotonous downpour that chilled the spirit as much as the flesh.

  Jerome Monk seemed oblivious. He stood by Tina Williams' empty grave, rain running across his bald skull to drip from features that could have graced a medieval church gargoyle. He seemed to neither notice nor care.

  The same couldn't be said for the rest of us.

  'This is hopeless!' Wainwright snapped, brushing the rain from his face. The archaeologist had pulled on heavy-duty overalls that made his big frame look more outsized than ever. Stretched over his clothes and smeared with black mud, they were starting to look as frayed as the archaeologist's temper.

  For once I sympathized. My own overalls chafed at my wrists and neck, making me sweat despite the chill. Water dripped from the top of my hood in silver beads, a cold trickle occasionally finding its way inside. The police tape was still draped around the area but the forensic tent had been taken down, and the empty grave was already filling with muddy water. In the days since I'd last been out, foul weather and the constant tramp of feet had turned the ground around it to a treacherous mire. There was cursing from the police officers as we picked our way out there, and once Wainwright slipped and almost fell. The archaeologist snapped a curt 'I'm all right' when I reached out to steady him. Even Monk seemed to be having difficulties, his balance hampered by having his hands cuffed together.

  Except for his solicitor, the civilians – Wainwright, Sophie and myself – stayed a little way away from the group surrounding the convict, a token concession to our instructions not to approach. We'd been joined by a cadaver dog and its handler. The springer spaniel was trained to sniff out even the faintest taint of gases produced by decomposition, but first we had to find a grave. And Monk seemed in no hurry to help us with that.

  Flanked by the two guards, he stared down at the shallow pit where Tina Williams had been buried, lips curled in his habitual sneer as though at some private joke. But I'd come to realize that it was just the natural set of his mouth: it bore no more relation to whatever thoughts went on behind those button eyes than the sickle grin of a shark.

  'Bring back memories, Monk?' Terry asked.

  There was no response. The convict could have been carved from the same granite as the rocks of Black Tor for all the notice he took.

  The bearded guard prodded him. 'You heard the man, laughing boy.'

  'Keep your fucking hands to yourself,' Monk grated without looking round.

  His solicitor gave an exaggerated sigh as the guard bridled. 'I'm sure I don't have to remind anyone that my client is here voluntarily. If he's going to be subjected to harassment we can call this off now.'

  'Nobody's harassing anyone.' Terry's shoulders were hunched, but not from the rain: tension snapped from him like static electricity. 'It was your "client" who wanted to come out here. I'm entitled to ask why.'

  Dobbs's wispy hair flapped in the wind, giving him the look of an irate baby bird. The solicitor still had his briefcase. I wondered if it contained anything important or whether he just carried it out of habit.

  'The terms of my client's release clearly stipulate he's here to assist in locating the graves of Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and nothing more. If you wish to question him about anything else we can return to the prison so you can conduct a formal interview in the proper environment.'

  'Yeah, whatever.' Terry didn't try to hide his disgust. 'Time's up, Monk. You've done enough sightseeing. Now tell us where the other graves are, or you can go back to your cell.'

  Monk raised his eyes from the pit and stared out across the moor. His restraints chinked as he raised his hands and rubbed them over his skull.

  'Over there.'

  Everyone looked where he'd indicated. It was even further away from the road and track. Except for occasional smaller outcrops of rock or islands of gorse, there was nothing to see except a featureless plain of heather and grass.

  'Whereabouts?' Terry asked.

  'I told you. Over there.'

  'They're not near where you buried Tina Williams?'

  'I never said they were.'

  'Then what the hell did you bring us out here for?'

  The look in Monk's black eyes was impossible to decipher. 'I wanted to see.'

  Terry's jaw muscles bunched. I'd never seen him so edgy, but he couldn't afford to lose his temper now I wished Lucas was there. The older man was a calming presence, and it was becoming obvious that Terry was getting out of his depth.

  'How far away?' Terry asked, making a visible effort to restrain himself. 'Fifty yards? A hundred? Half a mile?'

  'I'll know when I get there.'

  'Can you remember any landmarks nearby?' Sophie asked quickly. Annoyance flickered across Terry's face, but he didn't interrupt. 'A big rock, a clump of gorse, anything like that?'

  Monk looked at her. 'Can't remember.'

  Wainwright gave a disdainful sniff. 'Hardly the sort of thing one would forget, I'd think.'

  Again, the archaeologist's bass rumble carried clearly in the damp air. Monk's head swivelled towards him.

  'What can you remember, Jerome? Perhaps if you tried to-' Sophie began, but Terry cut her off.

  'All right, let's get this over with. Just show us.'

  Sophie looked furious but people were already moving away, a cluster of uniforms surrounding Monk's unmistakable figure.

  'This is farcical,' Wainwright grumbled as we trudged after them, boots squelching on the boggy moor. 'I don't believe that
creature has any intention of telling us anything. He's making fools of us.'

  'It might help if you'd stop antagonizing him,' Sophie said, still angry.

  'You can't afford to show weakness to creatures like that. They need to know who's in charge.'

  'Really?' Sophie's voice was dangerously sweet. 'I tell you what. You don't tell me my job, and I won't tell you how to dig holes.'

  The archaeologist glared at her. 'I'll be sure to pass on your thoughts to DCS Simms,' he said, before walking on ahead.

  'Prick,' Sophie said under her breath, though not so softly that he couldn't hear. She glanced at me. 'What?'

  'I didn't say anything.'

  She smiled wryly. 'You didn't have to.'

  I shrugged. 'If you want to fall out with the whole task force, don't let me stop you.'

  'Sorry, but it's just so bloody frustrating. What's the point of me being here if they won't let me do my job properly? And as for Terry Connors…' She sighed and shook her head. 'They're handling this all wrong. We shouldn't just be letting Monk lead us around by the nose, not without pushing him for some indication where the graves are. How's he going to find them again if he can't remember any landmarks?'

  'You think he's lying?'

  'Hard to say. He seems vague one minute and certain the next. He's acting like he knows where he's going now but it's a hell of a long way for anyone to carry a body.' She frowned, staring at where Monk's pale head stood out amongst the dark uniforms up ahead. 'I'm going to have a wander round. I'll catch you up.'

  She struck off back towards the track that led to Black Tor. I could understand her doubts, but there was nothing I could do about them. The going became more difficult as we headed further into the moor. The rain-soaked peat sucked at our boots while the heather and long marsh grass snagged our legs. Monk was struggling more than ever, giving lie to the myth of how at home he was out here.

  Several times he stumbled and tripped, snarling at the guards as they steadied him.

  I noticed that Roper had dropped back and was talking on his radio. He kept his voice down, but as I approached the wind carried snatches of his words over to me.