The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  I'd told Sophie about the archaeologist's condition. Not that there was much chance she'd have wanted his help anyway. She brushed away my argument.

  'Wainwright couldn't see past his own ego. He was more interested in preserving his reputation than anything else. Even back then you were just as capable as he was.'

  'I'm flattered you think so, but even if that's true you've got to be realistic. No one enjoys failure, but we did everything that could be done last time.'

  'I don't accept that.'

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. 'Sophie…'

  'Look, I'm not saying we'll be able to actually find them, not by ourselves. All I want to do is try to come up with enough for the police to launch another search. One day, that's all I ask. Give me one day, and if you still think we're wasting our time you can walk away.'

  'I just can't see how-'

  'One day. Please.'

  I should have said no. We couldn't hope to achieve anything in a single day, and there was no point in building up her hopes. The refusal was on my lips, but even in the firelight I could see the need in her eyes. She sat with her hands clenched, waiting for my answer. This is a mistake.

  'One day,' I heard myself say.

  Now I was regretting it. The face in the bathroom mirror that morning had looked like an older, tireder version of me. I'd slept badly, turning restlessly in the small bed in the spare room and determinedly trying not to think about Sophie lying on the other side of the wall. When I'd finally fallen asleep it had been to wake gasping, convinced that Monk was breaking in. But the darkened house had been silent, and the only sound from outside was the cry of an owl.

  Before we'd set off on Sophie's mysterious trip, I'd given her the card with Terry's mobile number. She'd promised to tell the police about writing to Monk if I agreed to help her search for the graves, and however much they disliked each other it made sense for it to be him. I'd pretended to need something from my room while she made the call, waiting until her murmured voice had stopped before going downstairs.

  'Voicemail,' she said, handing me his card. 'I left him a message.'

  Her face was studiedly neutral. I tucked the card back in my wallet without saying anything. Perhaps she had called Terry, but it hadn't sounded like she'd been leaving a message.

  It had sounded like a conversation.

  We had to wait for a local joiner to come out to repair the front door, so it was early afternoon before we finally set off. The atmosphere in the car was awkward from the outset, and grew more so as we neared wherever it was we were going. Sophie directed me into a cul-de-sac where the road curved round on itself.

  'Pull up here.'

  I switched off the engine. The semi-detached houses lined both sides of the road. I looked at her, waiting. She gave me a strained smile.

  'Just bear with me. Please?'

  You've come this far… I locked the car and followed her through the wrought-iron gate of the nearest house. A short path led to the front door past a well-kept lawn and flowerbeds. Sophie's nervousness was evident as she pressed the plastic doorbell. Westminster chimes sounded from inside, and a moment later the door was opened.

  The woman who answered was in her late forties or early fifties, blond-haired and pleasant-faced but with a drawn look about her. She was smiling, but the expression seemed forced.

  'Hi, Cath. Sorry we're a bit later than I thought,' Sophie said.

  The woman's hand went to her mouth as she stared at the bruising on Sophie's face. 'Never mind that, what happened to you? Are you all right?'

  'Oh, I'm fine, I just slipped in the bathroom,' she said quickly. 'Cath, I'd like you to meet Dr David Hunter. David, this is Cath Bennett.'

  The name hit me like cold water. Bennett. As in Zoe and Lindsey. Now I knew who Sophie had been talking to on the phone earlier, when she'd pretended to call Terry.

  She'd brought me to meet the murdered twins' mother.

  The woman turned her brittle smile to me. 'Pleased to meet you, Dr Hunter.'

  I murmured something polite. Sophie avoided looking at me as we went inside, but from the flush spreading up her throat she knew how angry I was. I couldn't believe she'd done this, not without warning me first. You don't meet the families. Ever. It was hard enough staying objective as it was, without that added emotional burden. Sophie knew that, yet she'd still brought me here.

  I wondered what else she might be keeping from me.

  I struggled to keep my feelings under control as we went down the hallway. The house was almost obsessively clean, the air sharp with the smell of bleach and air-freshener. Swirling patterns from the vacuum cleaner were carved in the carpet's thick pile, like crop circles in a field of lilac wheat.

  The door whispered over them as Cath Bennett led us into a pristine sitting room. A sofa and matching chairs were positioned with clinical precision, the glass coffee table polished to a mirror finish. Ceramic figurines and animals gleamed on the mantelpiece, free from any taint of dust.

  Framed photographs of the dead girls were everywhere.

  'Please, take a seat,' their mother said, with rigid politeness. 'My husband's at work, but he isn't very good at this anyway. He still can't talk about it. Would you like tea or coffee?'

  Sophie was still avoiding looking at me. 'Some tea would be lovely.'

  'And how about you, Dr Hunter?'

  I managed a smile. 'Same for me, please.'

  She bustled out, leaving us alone with the photographs of her murdered daughters. They smiled at us from all over the room, two identically pretty, dark-haired girls. I tore my eyes from them and stared at Sophie.

  'Please don't be mad,' she said in a rush. 'I'm sorry to spring it on you, but I knew you wouldn't come otherwise.'

  'You're right. What the hell were you thinking?'

  'I wanted to remind you what's at stake. What all this is really about.'

  'You think I don't already know?' I made an effort to calm down. 'Sophie, this is wrong. We shouldn't be here.'

  'We can't go now. Just half an hour. Please?'

  I didn't trust myself to speak. We sat in silence until Cath Bennett returned, carrying a tray set out with tea things. Best cups and saucers, and a plate of neatly arranged biscuits.

  'Help yourself to milk and sugar,' she said, taking a seat on the sofa. 'Sophie says you're a forensic anthropologist, Dr Hunter. I'm not sure what that is, exactly, but I appreciate what you're doing.'

  What you're doing? Sophie flashed me a look of mute appeal. 'David was involved in the original search on the moor eight years ago,' she said quickly.

  'Eight years.' Cath Bennett reached for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. 'I still can't get used to how long it's been. They'd have been twenty-seven this year. In May.'

  She handed me the photograph. I took it reluctantly, feeling as though I were accepting a pact. It wasn't the same picture that had been used in the newspapers, which I'd seen again on the internet only days before, but it looked to have been taken around the same time. Not long before the two seventeen-year-olds had been abducted and murdered by Jerome Monk, less than three days apart. Both sisters were in it, side by side, each an almost perfect reflection of the other. But there was still a subtle difference between them. Although both were laughing, one of them was grinning brazenly at the camera, shoulders thrown back as she stared at the camera with a look of challenge. By contrast her twin seemed more subdued, head a little downcast, with a self-conscious look about her.

  'They had their dad's colouring,' her mother went on. 'Zoe took after Alan in most ways. Always an extrovert, even when she was a little girl. She kept us busy, I can tell you. Lindsey was the quiet one. They might have looked the same, but they were like chalk and cheese in every other way. If they'd-'

  She stopped herself. Her smile was tremulous.

  'Well. No good playing "what if ". You've met him, haven't you? Jerome Monk.'

  The question was aimed at me. 'Yes.'

  'I wish I'd had
the chance. I always regretted not going to the trial. I'd like to have stood in front of him and stared him in the eye. Not that it'd have done much good, by all accounts. And now he's escaped.'

  'I'm sure they'll catch him soon,' Sophie said.

  'I hope they kill him. I know you're supposed to forgive and move on, but I can't. After what he did, someone as evil as that, I just hope he suffers. Do you have any children, Dr Hunter?'

  The question caught me by surprise. I felt the weight of the photograph in my hand.

  'No.'

  'Then you can't know what it's like. Jerome Monk, he didn't just murder our daughters, he killed our future. Seeing Zoe and Lindsey married, grandchildren, it's all gone. And we don't even have a grave we can take flowers to. At least Tina Williams' parents have that.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said, although I didn't know what I was apologizing for.

  'Don't be. I know you did your best to find them eight years ago. And I appreciate whatever you can do now. We both do. Alan… well, he doesn't like to talk about it much. That's why I told Sophie to call during the day, while he's at work. Nothing can bring our girls back, but it'd be a comfort to both of us to know they're somewhere safe.'

  I set the framed picture down on the coffee table. But I could still feel the dead girls' eyes on me, staring from every photograph in that sad and spotless room.

  There was an icy gulf between Sophie and me as we drove back to Dartmoor. I felt furious with her, with Monk, with myself. And behind the anger was the rawness opened by Cath Bennett's unwitting words.

  Do you have any children? Then you can't know what it's like.

  The streets and houses gave way to country roads before Sophie broke the silence.

  'I'm sorry. It was a bad idea, OK?' she blurted. 'I got in touch with her a few months ago, and… well, I thought if you met her…'

  But I was in no mood to let her off that easily 'What? That I wouldn't be able to say no?'

  'I didn't commit you to anything, I only said you might be able to help. She must have just assumed-'

  'What did you expect? Her daughters were murdered! There isn't going to be a day goes by when she doesn't wonder if she'll hear they've been found. Raising her hopes like that's just cruel.'

  'I was only trying to do the right thing!' she flashed. 'I'm sorry, all right?'

  I bit back my response. The car fishtailed slightly on a muddy stretch of road as I took a bend too fast.

  'Careful,' Sophie said.

  I eased my foot off the pedal, letting the speed bleed off. Some of my anger went with it. Of all people, I should have known better than to lose control when I was driving.

  'I shouldn't have shouted,' I said.

  'It's my fault.' Sophie stared out of the window, rubbing her temple. 'You're right, I shouldn't have done it. I thought… Well, it doesn't matter.'

  'Is your head hurting?'

  'No.' She dropped her hand. We were approaching a turn-off for Padbury. 'Go straight on here,' she said, as I indicated to take it.

  'Aren't we going back to your house?'

  'Not yet. There's one more place I'd like to go first. Don't worry, it doesn't involve meeting anyone else,' she added when I gave her a look.

  I'd assumed Sophie's attempt to persuade me had ended with the visit to meet Cath Bennett. It was only when we passed the overgrown earthworks that once housed the old tin mine's waterwheel that I realized where we were heading.

  Black Tor.

  Where Tina Williams had been buried.

  I took the turning without having to ask. It was like driving back in time. I passed the point where the policewoman had stopped me eight years ago and parked at the end of the dirt track that cut across the moor to the tor. The last time I'd been here this whole area had bustled with trailers, vans and cars. Now, except for a few distant sheep, the moor was empty.

  I switched off the engine. 'Now what?'

  Sophie gave a weak smile. 'I thought we'd take a walk.'

  I sighed. 'Sophie…'

  'I just want to go and see where the grave was. That's all. No more surprises, I promise.'

  Resigned, I got out of the car. A cold breeze plucked at my hair. The air was fresh, underlaid with a faintly sulphurous whiff of bog. I felt the past overlay the present as I looked out at a landscape I'd last set eyes on nearly a decade before. The moor stretched for miles, a wintry patchwork of gorse, heather and dead bracken. There was no corridor of police tape, no distant blue forensic tent. But for all that it was hauntingly familiar. Here was the same pattern of rocky tors, the same undulating hummocks and troughs. The years still seemed to fall away, leaving me feeling hollow at how long had passed since the last time I'd stood here.

  And how much had changed.

  Beside me, Sophie stood with her hands jammed in her coat pockets, eyes scanning the moor. If she felt at all daunted by it, she gave no sign.

  'It's a long walk. Are you sure you're up to it?' I asked. Coming here had snuffed my earlier anger. As perhaps she'd hoped it would.

  'I'm fine.' She looked up at the grey sky. 'We'd better hurry. It'll be dark soon.'

  She was right: the afternoon was already shading into a dusky twilight. A thin mist was starting to form, rising from the ground like steam from a horse's back. Before I locked the car I took the torch from the glove compartment. We should be back long before dark, but I'd been lost on a moor at night once before. It wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat.

  We set off along the track that led to Black Tor. About halfway along it she stopped, turning to face the moor off to our left.

  'OK, this is where the police tape was strung out to the grave.'

  'How can you tell?' As far as I could see, nothing about where we stood looked very different from anywhere else.

  Sophie gave me a sideways glance, mouth quirking in a smile. 'What's wrong? Don't you trust me?'

  'I just don't see how you can remember. It all looks the same to me.'

  She leaned nearer to me, her hand resting lightly on my arm as she pointed. 'The trick is to memorize landmarks that aren't going to change. See that other tor about two miles away? That should be at right angles to where we are now. And then if you look over there.. .'

  She turned, standing close against me so I turned with her. 'There's a sort of cleft in the ground. If we're at the right place the end of it should line up with that hummock with the flat rock on top. See?'

  I nodded, but I wasn't really concentrating on what she'd said. She was still pressed against me. She brushed a windblown strand of hair away from her face as we looked at each other, then she moved away.

  'Anyway… this is a natural entry point into the moor as well,' she said. 'There's a steep bank running along most of the track, but it's easier to negotiate just here. Shall we?'

  'OK'

  I was glad to start walking again. Keep your mind on what you should be doing. The embankment running down from the track might not be so steep here, but it was a lot more overgrown than I remembered. I scrambled down, then turned to help Sophie. She came down in a rush, flashing me a self-conscious smile as I steadied her.

  'Are you sure you can find where the grave was without a map?' I asked as we started picking our way across the tangled heather.

  'I'm sure,' she said.

  It was hard going. Even when the heather gave way to spiky marsh grass it was still impossible to see where we were treading. My boots alternatively squelched into mud or twisted on some hidden rock or hole. But Sophie seemed confident of where she was going, skirting the clumps of thorny gorse and boggier patches of ground as if following an invisible path. It took me a while to realize that she wasn't just reading the landscape any more.

  'You've been here recently, haven't you?' I asked.

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes. 'Once or twice.'

  'Why?' There couldn't be anything to see, not after all this time.

  'I don't know. It feels… sanctified, almost. Knowing what happened, that someone wa
s buried here. Can't you feel it?'

  I felt something, but it was more of a prickling sense of unease. Like we're being watched. That was stupid, but I was uncomfortably aware of how alone we were, how far we'd come from the road. And the light was still dropping, wisps of wraith-like ground mist obscuring the dips and hollows. I found myself glancing at the nearest patches of gorse and rocks.

  'How much further?' I asked.

  'Not far. In fact it's just…' She tailed off, staring directly ahead.

  The moor was pitted with holes.

  They'd been hidden by the grass and heather until we were right on top of them. I counted half a dozen, each one about eighteen inches deep and about twice that long, roughly hacked out with clods of peat scattered around them. They seemed to have been dug at random, with no pattern or scheme.

  I looked at Sophie. 'You didn't…'

  'No, of course not! They weren't here last time I came!' Her indignation was real: this wasn't another of her surprises. 'Could an animal have dug them?'

  I crouched down by the nearest hole. It was a little smaller than the rest, as though it had been abandoned partly dug. Its edges were marked with clear vertical cuts, and a neatly severed earthworm coiled blindly in the bottom. I could almost hear Wainwright s voice: Lumbricus terrestris. Overcomplicate at your peril.

  'These were dug with a spade,' I said, straightening. 'Where was Tina Williams buried?'

  'Just over there.' Sophie pointed. The patch of ground was undisturbed, overgrown with heather. The holes were unevenly spread out all around it.

  'Are you sure?'

  'I'm sure. The first time I came back out here I brought the original Ordnance Survey map I'd marked the coordinates on. I didn't need it after that.' She came and stood closer. 'It was Monk, wasn't it?'

  I didn't answer: we both knew there was only one person who would have done this. None of the holes was big enough to be a grave. They were more like crude attempts at the exploratory trench Wainwright had dug when we'd found the dead badger.

  'I don't understand. Why would Monk have been digging out here?' Sophie asked, glancing round uneasily.