The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  '… not confident, sir… Yes… yes… Of course, sir. I'll keep you informed.'

  He ended the call as he saw me. The 'sir' had sounded ominous, and it didn't take a genius to guess he'd been reporting back to Simms. I wondered if Terry knew.

  'Enjoying the walk, Dr Hunter?' The DC grinned, falling in step beside me. 'Turning into quite a marathon, isn't it?'

  There was something about the man that grated. He couldn't be blamed for the rat-like teeth, but his grin was just a little too ready and too sycophantic for me to trust.

  'The fresh air does me good.'

  He bobbed his head, chuckling as though I'd cracked an afterdinner joke. 'A little too much of it for my taste, but there you go. So what do you think of Monk? He's something, isn't he? Face like a bloody Picasso.'

  You're no oil painting yourself. 'How did he get the bruises? Was he in a fight?'

  'Not exactly.' Roper's grin broadened, but his eyes were shrewd as they stared at Monk's back. 'He kicked off on one last night and had to be "restrained". Almost made us cancel the whole thing. One of his party pieces, apparently, having a tantrum after lights out. That's why the guards call him laughing boy. He seems to find it all very funny if no one else does. Hello, now what's happening?'

  There was a commotion up ahead. The German shepherd was being held back by its handler, barking at the group with Monk. At first I couldn't see what was happening for the surrounding uniforms, then two of them moved aside.

  Monk had fallen. The big man was down in the muddy grass, struggling to get up. Police officers and the prison guards swarmed round him, unsure whether to haul him to his feet or not.

  '… get the fuck off me!' He was clumsily trying to lever himself up in his handcuffs as his solicitor confronted Terry.

  'Now are you satisfied? This is completely unacceptable!'

  'He's not hurt,' Terry said, but he sounded sullen and defensive.

  'I hope not, because if he is I'm holding you responsible. There is absolutely no reason for my client to remain handcuffed out here. He doesn't pose any escape risk, and in this terrain it's positively dangerous.'

  'I'm not taking them off.'

  'In that case you can take us back to the van, because we're done here.'

  'Oh, for-'

  'I will not have my client injured because of police intransigence. Either the restraints come off or he stops cooperating with the search.'

  Monk was still lying in a heap, breath steaming as he glared up at them. 'You want to try walking with these on?' he demanded, holding out his cuffed hands.

  Terry took a step towards him, and for a second I actually thought he would launch a kick at his face. Then he stopped, his entire body clenched and rigid.

  'You want me to call the SIO?' Roper asked.

  If I hadn't heard him reporting back to Simms I might have believed he was trying to help. His suggestion decided Terry.

  'No.' Tight-lipped, he gave a nod to a police officer. 'Take them off.'

  The officer stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs. Monk's expression never changed as he climbed to his feet, clothes soaking wet and smeared with mud. He flexed his wrists, the big hands opening and closing like clamps.

  'OK?' Terry asked Dobbs. Without giving him a chance to answer he stepped up to Monk. They were of a height, but the convict somehow seemed twice his size. 'You want to make me really happy? Try something. Please.'

  Monk didn't speak. His mouth was still curved in its illusory half- smile, but the black eyes were stone dead.

  'I really don't think-' Dobbs began.

  'Shut it.' Terry didn't take his eyes off Monk. 'How much further?'

  The convict's big head turned to look back out at the moor, but then there was a distant shout.

  'Here! Over here!'

  Everyone looked round. Sophie was standing on a low rise some way away, waving her hands over her head. Her excitement was obvious even through the drizzle and mist.

  'I've found something!'

  Chapter 6

  A buried body always leaves signs. At first the body will displace the earth used to refill the grave, leaving a visible mound on the surface. But as the slow process of decay begins, causing flesh and muscle to leach their substance into the soil, the mound begins to settle. Eventually, when the body has rotted away to bone, a slight depression will be left in the earth to mark the grave's location.

  Vegetation, too, can provide useful clues. Plants and grasses disturbed by the digging will take time to re-establish themselves, even when they've been carefully replaced. As months pass and the corpse begins to decompose, the nutrients it releases will feed the flora on the grave, causing faster growth and more luxuriant foliage than in the surrounding vegetation. The distinctions are subtle and often unreliable, but there if you know what to look for.

  Sophie was standing by a low mound that lay in the centre of a deep hollow, perhaps fifty yards from the track. It was covered in marsh grass, the tangled, wiry stalks rippling in the wind. I went over with Wainwright and Terry, leaving Roper with Monk and the other officers. The three of us had to detour around a thicket of gorse and an impassable section of bog to get to her. She made no attempt to meet us, staying impatiently beside the mound as though she were afraid it might disappear if she turned her back.

  'I think this could be a grave,' she said breathlessly, as we slithered down the sides of the hollow.

  She was right: it could be a grave. Or it could be absolutely nothing at all. The mound was about five feet long and two wide, perhaps eighteen inches tall at its highest point. If it had been in a flat field or parkland it would have been a lot more likely to be significant. But this was moorland, a rugged landscape full of random depressions and hummocks. And the grass covering the mound looked no different from that growing anywhere else.

  'Doesn't look like much to me.' Terry turned doubtfully to Wainwright. 'What do you think?'

  The archaeologist pursed his lips as he considered the mound. This was more his territory than mine. Or Sophie's, come to that. He prodded it disparagingly with his foot.

  'I think if we're going to get over-excited about every bump in the ground it's going to be a very long search.'

  Sophie coloured up. 'I'm not over-excited. And I'm not an idiot. I know what to look for.'

  'Really.' Wainwright put a wealth of meaning into the word. He hadn't forgiven her for the earlier snub. 'Well, I beg to differ. But then I only have thirty years of archaeological experience to draw on.'

  Terry turned away to go back. 'We don't have time to waste on this.'

  'No, wait,' Sophie said. 'Look, I might not be an archaeologist-'

  'That's something we agree on,' Wainwright put in.

  '-but at least hear me out. Two minutes, that's all, OK?'

  Terry folded his arms, his face shuttered. 'Two minutes.'

  Sophie took a deep breath before plunging on. 'Where Monk's taking us, it doesn't make any sense. Tina Williams' grave was exactly where I'd have expected it to be-'

  'Easy to say, now we know where it is,' Wainwright sniffed.

  She ignored him, concentrating on Terry. 'It wasn't far from the track, which meant it was relatively easy to get to. And it followed the contours of the land: anyone leaving the track around there would naturally find themselves at that point. It made sense for it to be where we found it.'

  'So?'

  'So Monk won't specify where the other graves are. He's just leading us further out into the moor, which means he'd have to have carried the bodies all this way across moorland, in the dark. I don't care how strong he is, why would he do that? And he says he can't recall any landmarks to guide him back to where they were buried.'

  Terry frowned. 'What's your point?'

  'I'd expect him to remember something at least. When people hide something they use landmarks to align themselves, whether they realize it or not. But where Monk's heading just seems random. Either he's forgotten or he's deliberately leading us in the wrong d
irection.'

  'Or you could just be wrong, 'Wainwright said. He turned to Terry with a supercilious smile. 'I'm familiar with the Winthrop techniques that Miss Keller refers to. I've used them myself on occasion, but it's mainly common sense. I find them overrated.'

  'Then you're not doing it right,' Sophie shot back. 'I went back to the track to find the most likely spots where anyone carrying a body could have left it. Where the going is nice and easy, not too steep or permanently boggy. I've found a few of them over the past few days, but this time I tried a little further out.'

  She levelled a finger back towards the track, some distance from where we'd left it to go to Tina Williams' grave.

  'There's a spot back there where the moor slopes gently away from the track. It's a natural point for anyone struggling with the weight of a body to access the moor. The way the ground runs funnels you to that big patch of gorse. It's easier to go around the bottom side of it than the top, and then you find yourself in a gulley that brings you right here. To a concealed hollow, where there just happens to be a grave-sized mound of earth.'

  She folded her arms, defying Terry to find a hole in her argument. His cheek muscles jumped as he looked back at the mound.

  'This is a nonsense,' Wainwright blustered, no longer bothering to hide his animosity. 'It's wishful thinking, not science!'

  'No, just common sense like you said,' Sophie retorted. 'I prefer it to pig-headedness.'

  Wainwright drew himself up to respond but I beat him to it. 'There's no point standing round here arguing. Let's get the cadaver dog to check it out. If it finds something then we'll need to open it up. If it doesn't, we've only wasted a few minutes.'

  Sophie flashed me a smile while Wainwright looked more constipated than ever. I couldn't resist twisting the knife a little further.

  'Unless you're absolutely certain there's nothing here?' I asked, trying not to enjoy his discomfort too much. 'You're the expert.'

  'I suppose it wouldn't hurt to make sure…' he conceded, as though it had been his idea.

  Terry stared down at the mound, then sighed and strode up to the top of the hollow. 'Get over here!' he shouted at Roper and the rest, then turned to Sophie. 'I want a word.'

  The two of them moved out of earshot. I couldn't hear what was being said, but it seemed heated. Meanwhile Wainwright prowled around the mound, testing it with his feet.

  'Definitely softer,' he muttered. He was wearing a thick leather work belt, the sort used by builders to hold tools. He took a thin metal rod from it and began opening it out. It was a lightweight probe, a metre-long extendable tube with a point at one end.

  'What are you doing?' I asked.

  He was frowning in concentration as he unfolded short handles, so the instrument resembled a slender spade without a head. 'I'm going to probe, of course.'

  Disturbed soil was usually less compacted than the surrounding ground, and often another indication of a grave. But that wasn't what I meant.

  'If there's anything buried in there you're going to damage it.'

  'We need air holes for the dog anyway.'

  That was true enough. Even though cadaver dogs could sniff out decay through several feet of soil, the holes would help them detect the gases produced by decomposition. But there were less invasive ways of making them.

  'I don't think-'

  'Thank you, Dr Hunter, but if I want advice I'll ask for it.'

  Gripping the probe by its stubby handles, Wainwright jabbed it forcefully into the mound. Knowing he wasn't going to listen, I clenched my jaw shut as he wrenched it free and rammed it back in. Probing was a basic archaeological technique, but it had its drawbacks in a forensic situation. While it was possible to distinguish between damage to bone inflicted before death and that caused by a pointed metal probe afterwards, it was an unwelcome complication. Wainwright knew that as well as I did.

  But then it would be my problem, not his.

  Sophie and Terry broke off their discussion as Roper and the others reached us. Neither of them looked happy. Terry went straight to Monk and his solicitor, standing on the edge of the hollow so they could see the mound.

  'This ring any bells?'

  Monk stared down at it, hands hanging loosely at his sides. His mouth still seemed twisted in a mocking smile, but I thought there was a wariness in his eyes now.

  'No.'

  'So this isn't one of the graves?'

  'I told you, they're over there.'

  'You seem pretty sure all of a sudden. Not long ago you said you couldn't remember.'

  'I told you, they're over there!'

  The bearded guard clapped a hand on Monk's shoulder. 'Don't raise your voice, laughing boy, we can hear you.' 'Fuck off, Monaghan!'

  'You want the cuffs back on?'

  Monk seemed to swell, but Sophie spoke before he could do anything else. 'Excuse me, Jerome?'

  She smiled as the big head snapped round. This time Terry made no attempt to interrupt, and I guessed her involvement was what at least part of their discussion had been about.

  'Nobody's doubting you. But I just want you to think about something. You must have dug the graves out here at night, is that right?'

  It was a safe bet: few killers risked burying the bodies of their victims in broad daylight. But Monk's solicitor wasn't having any of it.

  'You don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I've already made it clear-'

  'Shut up.'

  Monk didn't so much as glance at him. His button eyes seemed muddied as they fixed on Sophie. After a few seconds he jerked his head in a nod.

  'It's always night.'

  I wasn't sure what that meant. Judging by Sophie's slight pause neither did she, but she covered it well.

  'Things get confused in the dark. It's easy to make mistakes, especially when you try to remember later. Is it possible you could have dug at least one of the graves here? Or even both of them?'

  Monk's eyes went from Sophie to the mound. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. 'Might be…'

  For an instant he seemed confused. Then Terry spoke and whatever I thought I'd seen was gone.

  'I don't have time for this. Which is it, yes or no?'

  Suddenly the heat and madness were back in the convict's eyes. The curved smile looked manic as he faced Terry.

  'No.'

  'Wait, Jerome, are you-' Sophie began, but she'd had her chance.

  'Right, that's it. Let's get back over there,' Terry said, starting to leave the hollow.

  'But the body dog's here now,' she protested. 'At least give it a chance.'

  Terry paused, indecision on his face. I think he might have overruled her if it hadn't been for Wainwright. The archaeologist had carried on probing the mound while the scene played out.

  'Almost done,' he said, thrusting the probe into the soil again. 'The ground here feels less resistant, although since it's peat I doubt-'

  There was an audible crunch as the probe hit something. Wainwright stopped dead. He composed his features into a thoughtful expression, avoiding looking at me.

  'Well, there seems to be something here.'

  Terry went over. 'A stone?'

  'No, I don't think so.' Wainwright beckoned to the dog-handler, quickly asserting control. 'Start with the hole I've just made.'

  The dog-handler, a young policewoman with red hair and windchapped pale skin, took the springer spaniel towards the mound.

  'No! We're in the wrong place!' Monk shouted, his huge fists balled.

  'Tell your "client" if I hear one more peep out of him he's back in handcuffs, 'Terry snapped at Dobbs.

  The solicitor looked reluctant, but the threat worked. Monk's mouth twitched as he cast a look behind him at the open moor and unclenched his fists.

  'No handcuffs,' he mumbled.

  The spaniel was almost falling over itself in its eagerness as it snuffled across the mound. There were only a few cadaver dogs in the country, and I'd heard nothing but good things about them. Still, I had
my doubts now. Peat inhibited decomposition, sometimes virtually halted it. No matter how sensitive a dog's nose, it couldn't smell something that wasn't there.

  But the spaniel's ears pricked up almost immediately. Whining with excitement, it began scrabbling at Wainwright's last probe hole. The handler quickly pulled it away.

  'Clever girl!' Fussing the dog, she looked at Terry. 'No two ways about it. There's something there.'

  A sense of anticipation ran through the hollow. Terry seemed nervous, but given the pressure he was under I didn't blame him. His career could be changed by what we found here.

  'What do you want to do, chief?' Roper asked. The solemnity of the moment had wiped the nervous grin from his face.

  Terry seemed to snap back to himself. 'Let's take a look.'

  Wainwright clapped his hands together, his earlier scepticism evidently forgotten. 'Right, let's see what we've got, shall we?'

  A CSI brought a holdall containing mattocks, spades and digging tools into the hollow, dumping it on the grass with a clank. Wainwright unzipped it and took out a spade.

  'I'll help,' I said, but I was wasting my time.

  'Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I'll let you know if I need any assistance.'

  He made 'assistance' sound like a snub. The archaeologist had become suddenly proprietorial now that it looked as though we'd found something. If this was a grave I could guess who'd take credit for it.

  There was nothing for the rest of us to do but watch as Wainwright used a spade to cut the outline of a narrow rectangle across the mound. Sinking an exploratory trench was a much more effective way of opening up a potential grave than excavating the whole thing at once. It would give us a better idea of what we were dealing with, allowing us to see which way the body was aligned and how deeply it was buried before the real digging started.

  Wainwright made it look easy, though I knew from experience it was anything but. The spade's blade chopped into the earth with brisk efficiency, levering out neat slabs of turf.

  'Signs of disturbance to the peat,' he grunted. 'There's been something going on here.'