The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  I waited while she went upstairs, then went through the rooms, angrily turning off the lights. I told myself I'd done the right thing. Sophie was scared and vulnerable, and things were complicated enough already.

  But I wasn't sure whether I was angry because of what had almost happened, or because I hadn't let it.

  I lay awake in the single bed, listening to the night-time silence of the house and thinking about Sophie. I finally fell asleep, only to be half-woken by a noise from outside, the sharp cry of either predator or prey. It didn't come again, and as sleep reclaimed me I forgot all about it.

  Chapter 17

  Next morning I woke early and padded downstairs in the cool and quiet house while Sophie slept. I made myself a cup of tea as the sky gradually lightened, thinking about the past twenty-four hours. Normally I'd have turned on the radio to listen to the news, or gone online. But I didn't want to disturb Sophie and the house didn't have Wi-Fi. Instead I sipped my scalding tea at the kitchen table and watched the day slowly begin.

  The morning chorus of birdsong reminded me of the owl. Pulling on my coat and boots, I went outside. The fog had lifted, although there was still an early haze, part drizzle, part mist. It frosted the branches of the apple trees, beading the cobwebs with quicksilver as I crossed the wet grass.

  The sitting-room window had a dusty smeared mark where the owl had flown into it, but the only other sign of the bird was a few delicate pale feathers on the floor of the kiln. They could have been dislodged by the impact, although there was another, less happy explanation. There was no shortage of foxes around here. With the kiln door left open the injured predator could easily have become prey.

  I wandered around the kiln. The scaffolding and props wedged against the walls had been here so long they might almost have grown out of the structure. Some sections of brickwork had been repointed with fresh mortar years ago, or even decades by the look of things. But most of it had been left to crumble away, and I guessed that the loose brick where Sophie kept her key was only one of many. Renovating the kiln, let alone getting it working again as she hoped, would be a big and expensive job.

  She would have to sell a lot of pots.

  Still, she was obviously talented. The crockery, bowls and vases stacked on the shelves were all simple yet striking designs. I ran my hand across the mound of hard clay on the workbench. It was made up of unused scraps that Sophie had slapped together and left to dry, but even that could have been an abstract piece of art.

  I gave it a pat and went back into the house.

  Sophie still wasn't up, which was good: she needed the rest. I was hungry and debated making breakfast but decided to wait for her. I was only a guest and wasn't sure how she'd feel about my making myself at home.

  It was late before I heard her moving about upstairs. By the time she came down I'd put the kettle on and had a mug of tea waiting.

  'Morning,' I said, handing her the mug. 'I wasn't sure if you were a tea or coffee person first thing.'

  She looked bleary-eyed and a little self-conscious. She was wearing an oversized sweater over her jeans, hair pulled back and still damp from the shower. 'Tea's great. I save my real caffeine fix till I'm working. Did you sleep well?'

  'Fine,' I lied. 'How are you feeling?'

  'My cheek's still sore, but other than that I'm OK.'

  'Can you remember anything yet about what happened?'

  'What? Oh… no, still blank.' She went to the fridge. 'How about the owl? Is it still there?'

  'No, I checked earlier. It's gone.'

  She grinned. 'See? I told you it'd be all right in the kiln.'

  I didn't mention the feathers on the kiln floor. If Sophie wanted a happy ending I wasn't going to spoil it for her.

  'No bread for toast, I'm afraid, but I can offer you bacon and eggs,' she said, opening the fridge. 'Scrambled all right?'

  I said it was. 'I thought I'd set off back before lunch,' I told her, as she cracked the eggs into a bowl.

  She paused, then continued beating the eggs. 'You're leaving?'

  'I might as well. The police'll have to relaunch the search for the Bennett twins now Monk's been digging on the moor.'

  I was surprised they hadn't contacted us already. Even if they hadn't found Monk after our sighting the day before, I'd have expected someone to have been in touch to take our statements.

  'I suppose so,' Sophie said. 'Not as if there's anything keeping you here, is there?'

  She had her back to me. The frying pan clattered on the range. The silence stretched and grew heavy.

  'I can stay longer. If you're bothered about being here by yourself, I mean.'

  'Why, just because someone attacked me?' She slapped rashers of bacon into the pan, the hot fat setting up an angry hissing. 'I expect I'll get used to the idea. I don't have much choice, do I?'

  'It was probably just a burglary that went wrong, like the police said.'

  'Well, that makes me feel much better, doesn't it?' She stabbed a fork into the bacon and flipped it over as though it were to blame. 'I used to feel safe here. Even though it was the middle of nowhere, I never once felt threatened like I did living in a city. But that's my problem, not yours.'

  'Look, I know how you must feel-'

  'No you don't.'

  I hesitated. This wasn't something I'd planned to go into, but I knew that if Sophie wasn't careful the assault could become a trauma she'd never recover from.

  'Actually, I do. I was stabbed after a case the other year.'

  She turned to look at me. 'You're not serious?'

  So I told her about the events on Runa, and how Grace Strachan had turned up on my doorstep months later, returning from the dead to plunge a knife into me.

  'And they never caught her?' Sophie asked, her eyes wide. 'She's still out there?'

  'Somewhere. The police think she left the country soon afterwards. She and her brother were rich, so she probably had access to bank accounts no one knows about. Chances are she's in South America or somewhere by now.'

  'That's awful!'

  I shrugged. 'Looking on the bright side, she probably thinks I'm dead. So there's no reason for her to try again.'

  I felt a superstitious unease as soon as I'd spoken. Don't tempt providence.

  Sophie had moved the pan from the heat. She looked down at it, troubled. 'I'd no idea. And now I've dragged you into all this.'

  'You didn't drag me into anything. And the reason I'm telling you this is because everything points to your attack being a one-off. Whoever did it can't have really wanted to hurt you, or… Well, you'd have got more than a fractured cheek.'

  'I suppose.' She looked thoughtful, but there was still a shadow in her eyes. Abruptly, it was gone. She turned the heat back up under the pan and gave me a mischievous grin. 'Anyway, let's have breakfast. Then before you go you can show me your scar.'

  But her good mood didn't last. She grew distracted again, pushing the food around listlessly on her plate. I offered to help with the dishes, but she declined. I got the impression she wanted some time to herself, so I left her in the kitchen and went to shower and pack my things.

  I wondered if it was only now dawning on her that she wouldn't be part of any search operation this time round. For whatever reason, finding Zoe and Lindsey Bennett's graves had become a personal crusade, but Sophie wasn't a BIA any more. Her involvement had effectively ended the moment we'd found the holes left by Monk at Black Tor. Now the police would take over and she'd be nothing more than an onlooker.

  Letting go was never easy.

  I took my bag downstairs. The radio was playing when I went into the kitchen. Sophie was standing by the sink, her hands motionless in the water.

  'Is there anything-' I began.

  'Shh!' She silenced me with a quick shake of her head. For the first time I paid attention to what was being said on the radio.

  '… police haven't released the victim's identity, although they confirm the death is being treated as suspicious. I
n other news. ..'

  Sophie's face was white. 'Did you hear?'

  'Only the last part.'

  'There's been a murder. They haven't said who it is, but it's in Torbay. Near Sharkham Point. Isn't that…'

  I nodded, realizing I wouldn't be leaving yet after all.

  That was where Wainwright lived.

  Chapter 18

  It was less than an hour's drive to Sharkham Point from Padbury. Sophie had insisted on going, and I didn't put up much of an argument. I wanted to find out who the victim was just as much as she did. I'd called Terry straight away, but he wasn't answering his phone. That wasn't surprising: odds were he'd have been called out to the scene. I told myself it might not have anything to do with Wainwright. Murders happen every day, and so do coincidences.

  But I couldn't quite believe it.

  Two days before when I'd driven to Torbay there had been a vaulting blue sky and bright autumn sunshine. Now grey clouds turned the countryside drab and colourless. The fields we passed were shorn to an untidy stubble or ploughed into muddy ridges of soil, while the dead leaves that clung to the bare trees gave them the ragged appearance of scarecrows.

  Neither Sophie nor I spoke much during the journey. She sat staring out of the window, as wrapped up in her thoughts as I was in my own. Only when we reached the coast and saw the distant bellying of the sea beyond the cliffs did she stir. I knew what she was thinking: we'd know soon, one way or another.

  Then we were passing a signpost for Sharkham Point. Not far ahead of it we could see a fairground strobing of blue lights on the road.

  Sophie's hand went to her throat. 'Oh, God. Is that Wainwright's house?'

  A heaviness settled in my stomach. 'Yes.'

  A cordon of police tape stretched across the road, fluttering in the wind. Beyond it police cars and trailers were parked on either side of the gates, along with a few press and TV vans. An ambulance was on the driveway outside the house, but the absence of flashing lights or sirens testified that there was no longer any urgency.

  I parked a little way before the cordon. 'What should we do?' Sophie asked. Her usual confidence seemed to have abandoned her.

  'We've come this far. No point going back now,' I said, and climbed out of the car.

  There was a stiff wind blowing from cliffs overlooking the sea. It carried a faint hint of saline, tainted by exhaust fumes. I could hear the chug of a generator from somewhere nearby. A policeman in a bright yellow reflective jacket moved to block us as we approached.

  'The road's closed.'

  'I know. My name's David Hunter. Is DI Connors here?' I asked.

  He regarded us for a few seconds, then spoke into his radio. 'Got a David Hunter here, asking for…'

  'DI Terry Connors,' I said as he looked at me for confirmation.

  He repeated it and waited. The pause seemed to go on a long time, then there was a crackling voice. He lowered the radio.

  'Sorry.'

  Sophie spoke up before I could say anything. 'Does that mean he isn't here or he won't see us?'

  The policeman regarded her stonily. 'It means you're going to have to leave.'

  'Who's dead? Is it Professor Wainwright or his wife?'

  'Are you relatives?'

  'No, but-'

  'Then you can read about it in the papers. Now, last time: go back to your car.'

  'Come on, Sophie,' I said, taking hold of her arm. I knew the police well enough to know we weren't going to get anywhere like this.

  She pulled free, facing up to the PC. 'I'm not going anywhere until I know what's happened.'

  I'm not sure how it would have gone, but at that moment there was a flurry of activity from the house. A group of police officers came down the driveway. At their head was a man whose smart uniform and peaked cap marked him as police hierarchy. The uniform was new, and the hair and moustache were more grey. But the chipped ice of the eyes was the same, and the bland, unlined features hardly seemed to have aged.

  Simms didn't so much, as glance in our direction as he strode towards an unmarked black BMW, but someone else did. One of his entourage was staring at us: middle-aged, overweight and balding. It was only when I saw the prominent teeth that I realized it was Roper.

  He hurried over and spoke to his superior. Simms stopped, his pale eyes turning to us. Now for it, I thought as they came over, Roper trailing behind like a pet dog.

  The PC who'd stopped us stood rigidly to attention. 'Sir, I was just-'

  Simms paid him no attention. His eyes touched on Sophie without interest or recognition before pinning me again. There had always been an aura of arrogance about him, but it was more pronounced now. His insignia identified him as an Assistant Chief Constable, a rank few CID officers ever made. I wasn't surprised. If ever a man had been born to wear a uniform, it was Simms.

  Roper also seemed to have prospered. The crumpled suits had been replaced with well-tailored clothes and the nicotine-stained teeth had been artificially whitened. He'd put on weight, too, at least from the waist up. While the DC's upper body had the paunchy, well- fed look of a man who took his food and drink seriously, his low-slung trousers still flapped loosely around skittle-thin legs.

  Neither of them seemed pleased to see us. Simms had a pair of black leather gloves clenched in one hand, tapping them impatiently against his thigh.

  'Dr Hunter, isn't it?' he said. 'May I ask what you're doing here?'

  Sophie didn't give me a chance to answer. 'What happened? Who's been killed?'

  Simms regarded her for a beat, then pointedly turned to me again. 'I asked what you were doing here.'

  'We heard about the murder and wanted to find out if Professor Wainwright and his wife were involved.'

  'And that concerned you how, exactly?'

  ACC or not, his attitude was beginning to rankle. 'Because I thought Jerome Monk might have killed them.'

  Roper glanced uneasily at Simms. The ACC's expression didn't change but his eyes were glacial.

  'Let him through,' he told the PC.

  I hid my surprise and ducked under the tape. Sophie moved to do the same.

  'Just Dr Hunter,' Simms said.

  The PC stepped in front of her. 'Oh, come on!' Sophie protested.

  'Dr Hunter's a police consultant.' Simms gaze lingered dispassionately on her bruised cheek. 'As far as I'm aware you no longer are.'

  Sophie drew herself up to argue. 'I'll see you back at the car,' I said quickly, knowing Simms wouldn't change his mind. She shot me a furious look, then snatched the keys off me and strode back down the road.

  Simms was already heading towards the house, polished black shoes crunching on the gravel driveway. Roper fell into step beside me. The wind plucked at his thinning hair. He still used too much aftershave, but like everything else about him it was more expensive now.

  'Turning into quite a reunion, isn't it?' His grin was almost a nervous tick. He motioned with his head back at Sophie. 'Not happy, is she? What happened to her face?'

  I was surprised he didn't know. But then I'd no idea if he and Terry still worked together. 'Someone broke into her house and attacked her.'

  'She needs better locks. When was this?'

  'Four days ago.'

  The grin left his face as he made the connection: four days made it right after Monk's escape. 'Did they get who did it?'

  I'd all but forgotten Terry's warning – or threat – that I might be a suspect myself. It wasn't a comfortable thought. 'Not yet. She can't remember much about what happened.'

  'Was she raped?'

  'No.'

  'Anything stolen?'

  'No.'

  Roper gave a huff of amusement. 'Bloody lucky, eh?'

  I changed the subject. 'When did Simms make ACC?'

  'Must be… oh, four or five years ago now. Around the same time I made DI.'

  He gave me a little sideways look as he said it. Roper? A detective inspector? I wouldn't have thought he'd have made detective sergeant. Hitching his wagon
to Simms' star obviously hadn't done his career any harm.

  'Congratulations,' I said. 'Who's SIO here?'

  'Steve Naysmith. He's a bit of a highflier, only made Detective Chief Super last year.' Roper's tone made it clear he didn't approve. I took that as a point in Naysmith s favour. 'But the ACC's taking a very personal interest. The SIO's got to run everything by him.'

  Naysmith must love that. But then Simms had known Wainwright well. He wasn't about to sit this one out.

  Especially if Monk was the main suspect.

  Simms had stopped by the entrance to the house, where a trestle table had been set up with boxes of protective gear.

  'I wasn't anticipating having to do this again,' he said irritably, tearing open a sealed packet of overalls. 'I don't have long to spare. I have a press conference soon.'

  Some things don't change. I didn't know why Simms was doing this, but I doubted it was just for my benefit. As he struggled into the overalls I thought he looked even less comfortable in them now than he had eight years ago, and suddenly I realized why. The smooth features were so bland that it was only his clothes that gave them character. The white, all-in-one suits robbed him of that, making him look peculiarly unfinished.

  'Need me for anything else, sir?' Roper asked.

  Simms didn't so much as glance at him as he pulled on overshoes and gloves. 'Not right now, but stay here until Dr Hunter and I have finished.'

  Without waiting to see if I was ready, he went inside.

  The genteel quietude of the house I remembered had been shattered. White-suited CSIs were packing away equipment, but evidence of what had happened was everywhere. Every surface was finely coated with fingerprint powder, as though the house had been gathering dust for years. Glass from a broken window was scattered on the parquet floor amongst the spilled soil from an overturned potted plant. The house still smelled of chrysanthemums, but beneath it was a faint taint of faeces and drying blood, a lingering essence of violent death.

  'The intruder forced open the kitchen door,' Simms told me, skirting a line of muddy footprints that were being photographed by a CSI. 'No attempt at concealment, as you can see. We've also found several patches of sputum, which should enable a DNA analysis.'