The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  But I knew.

  I made sure the front door was still locked and bolted, then went from room to room to check the windows. They seemed old and flimsy. The wooden frames wouldn't keep anyone out, but at least I'd hear if they broke in. I went back into the sitting room and stoked the embers in the stove before adding more kindling and another log. As the flames crawled over it, I closed the stove door and laid the poker within easy reach.

  Then I settled down to wait for morning.

  Chapter 21

  Even though I'd left a message for Roper, he wouldn't have been my first choice of police officer to call. But I didn't have Naysmith's mobile number, and I doubted the SIO would be at his desk in the middle of the night.

  I waited until a reasonable hour before trying him, only to be put through to yet another answering service. I briefly explained what had happened and gave Sophie's number rather than trust the poor mobile reception.

  Having done all I could, I set about trying to wake myself up. Despite my best intentions, I'd fallen asleep on the sofa as the chorus of birdsong had begun to sound outside. The hour's uneasy rest had left me feeling groggy and put a crick in my neck. Leaving Sophie to sleep, I stood under a hot shower until I began to feel a little more human.

  She was in the kitchen, wrapped in a thick towelling bathrobe, when I went downstairs. 'Morning. We're down to cereal today. I really have to go shopping later.'

  'Cereal's fine.'

  She rubbed her eyes. 'God, I feel wrecked. I bet I look it, too.'

  I'd been thinking just the opposite. Even with her sleep-tousled hair and loosely tied bathrobe there was a natural poise to her. She caught me looking.

  'What?' she asked, smiling.

  The harsh ring of the phone brought me round like ice-water. Damn. I'd been hoping to tell Sophie about the anonymous call before Roper or Naysmith phoned.

  'That might be for me,' I said quickly, but she'd already answered it.

  'Yes… Oh.' She made a moue of distaste and mouthed Roper. 'Yes, he is. Just a second.'

  She gave me a questioning look as she passed me the handset. I was uncomfortably aware of her standing there as I told Roper about the phone call.

  'What makes you think it was Monk?' he asked.

  'The fact he didn't speak, for one thing. People normally apologize if they call the wrong number, and…' I stopped, glancing at Sophie.

  'And?' Roper prompted.

  Oh, hell. I could feel Sophie's eyes boring into me. 'It was only an impression, but I thought he was… surprised. As though I wasn't who he'd expected.'

  'All this from a silent phone call?' I could hear his scepticism. But I'd had a lot of time to think it through while I'd been waiting for daylight. 'How do you even know it was a man on the other end?'

  'The breathing was too deep to be a woman's. And I could hear him wheezing, as though he were out of breath or asthmatic.'

  'Heavy breathing, eh? You sure this wasn't just a dirty phone call?'

  My hand had tightened on the receiver. 'Monk was having a suspected heart attack when he escaped. Perhaps he wasn't faking being ill.'

  I couldn't believe even Monk could have escaped if the attack had been genuine, but something must have convinced the prison doctors. An odd noise came down the line as Roper considered: he was tapping his teeth with a pen.

  'Can't hurt to check the number, I suppose,' he said. 'Tell you what, I'll call round and take your statement myself.'

  'Don't go to any trouble,' I said, my stomach sinking.

  Roper gave his nasal chuckle. 'Oh, it's no trouble, Dr Hunter. I'm in the area. And the ACC wants me to keep an eye on you and Miss Keller.'

  Which could be taken two ways, I thought as I hung up. Sophie was glaring at me, hands balled on her hips.

  'Monk rang here? And you didn't say anything?'

  'It was the middle of the night. I didn't want to disturb you.'

  'Don't you think I might have liked to know about it?'

  I was on a short fuse myself. 'Fine! If he rings again I'll ask him to wait while I come and get you!'

  'You know what I mean! This is my house, I don't need protecting!'

  'I wasn't-' But I stopped myself: there was no point in arguing. 'Look, I'm sorry. I was about to tell you when Roper called. And I'm only guessing that it was Monk.'

  'God.' She pushed her hands through her hair, troubled. 'Could it have been Terry Connors?'

  'I don't think so. If it was Terry why didn't he say something?'

  'Why does he do anything?' she said dully, rubbing her temple. She made an attempt to smile. 'Terry Connors or Jerome Monk. Talk about spoiled for choice.'

  'There's more good news. Roper's calling round later.'

  Sophie stared at me, then burst out laughing. 'Right, just for that you get to make breakfast.'

  It was late morning by the time Roper arrived. We were in the kiln, Sophie having decided she needed to work. 'I haven't done anything for days. I'm supposed to have an order for a restaurant finished by the end of the month.'

  I watched as Sophie started the potter's wheel. She wore a pair of men's work overalls, faded and streaked with clay. Her hands were strong and dexterous as she worked on the wheel, manipulating the clay so easily it seemed to form shapes of its own volition.

  'Do you want to try it?' she asked.

  'No thanks.'

  'Coward.'

  She trimmed the loose edges from the rim of the plate she'd just thrown and slapped them on to the big clay ball on the workbench.

  'What's that?' I asked.

  'This?' She gave an embarrassed laugh, smoothing in the lump of clay she'd just added with her thumb. 'Nothing. Just a bad habit. I used to throw all the waste into a bin, but then I got lazy. And it sort of grew. I quite like it, though. It isn't trying to be anything, and it's always changing. Plus it's therapeutic.'

  She gave it a hard slap, then wiped her hands on a cloth she'd hung from the end of a scaffolding pole.

  'Now, I need to get on.'

  I took the hint and left her to it, going back out into the garden. A thin haze of mist and drizzle hung in the air. I cut across the wet grass to the small orchard. The trees were gnarled and ancient, probably as old as the house itself. One or two wizened fruit still hung like forgotten Christmas ornaments from the bare branches, unpicked and forlorn. The grass underneath was dappled with windfall apples, sweetening the air with the cider scent of their rot.

  The distant drone of a car engine broke the stillness. I waited for it to appear as it slowly grew louder, the sound deceptive in the mist. A flash of grey appeared through the hedgerows higher up the lane, and then the car was pulling up at the bottom of the garden.

  Roper climbed out, squeezing out from behind the seat with a grunt. 'Thought I was never going to get here,' he grumbled, pushing open the gate. 'Not an easy place to find, is it?'

  'I thought you were in the area?'

  He bared his teeth in a grin, but his eyes were taking in the house and surroundings. 'Relatively speaking, Dr Hunter. Where's Miss Keller? Or should I say Trask these days?'

  I ignored the jibe. 'In the kiln.'

  He looked doubtfully at the rusting scaffold protruding from the old brickwork. 'Is it safe?'

  'So long as you don't sneeze.'

  We started towards the entrance, but Sophie came out before we reached it, wiping her hands on the cloth.

  'Afternoon, Miss Keller,' Roper said, looking beyond her into the kiln. 'Interesting workplace you've got here.'

  She pulled the ill-fitting door shut behind her, cutting off his view. 'I'm busy at the moment. Is it just David you need to talk to?'

  'Actually, it was both of you.' Roper's grin flickered out. 'There's been a bit of a development.'

  The visit wasn't just about the phone call, I realized. 'What's happened?'

  The DI looked uncomfortable. 'Wainwright's wife gave us a description of the man who killed her husband. It was Monk.'

  'I'm not goin
g!'

  Sophie stood in the kitchen, arms folded in front of her like a barred gate. She was still wearing her work overalls, three empty mugs next to her waiting for water from the cooling kettle. I didn't think they were going to be filled any time soon, but right now that was the least of anyone's problems.

  Roper wore the dogged expression of a man at the end of his tether. 'It'll only be for a few days. You can come back as soon as Monk's in custody.'

  'Last time it took you three months to catch him,' Sophie retorted. 'If you think I'm going to put my life on hold until then you can forget it.'

  Roper looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her himself. For once I couldn't altogether blame him. Jean Wainwright had recovered from shock enough to relate what had happened. She'd been woken in the middle of the night by a commotion inside the house. She and her husband slept in separate rooms, the sort of personal detail I imagined she would hate to reveal. Thinking he was wandering – something that many dementia sufferers were prone to do – she'd thrown on a dressing gown and hurried on to the landing. She'd turned on the light to find Wainwright lying at the foot of the stairs, in the wreckage of the china cabinet.

  Standing over him was Monk.

  She'd passed out, and had still been only semi-conscious when the cleaner arrived. Preliminary forensic tests had confirmed her story. Monk's fingerprints were all over the house, and DNA from the sputum found on the floor had also matched the convicts. It was hard to see that as anything other than a clear statement of contempt. Monk had made no attempt to cover his tracks.

  He'd gone beyond that.

  None of which would have involved Sophie, except for the anonymous phone call to her house. It had been made from a lonely public phone box on the outskirts of Princetown, a small town surrounded by high, open moors. It was also the site of Dartmoor prison, where Monk had spent the early years of his sentence. That could have been a coincidence, but there was a more compelling reason why the location might have appealed to him.

  There was an old tin mine nearby.

  The cave team who had gone down had reported that, like the larger mine at Black Tor, it was flooded and impassable after the recent rains. Even so, it still had to be checked out.

  'Wouldn't surprise me if the bugger made the call from there deliberately, knowing we'd waste time. He conned us into taking him out on the moor looking for graves, so he's not as stupid as he looks,' Roper said. 'There's only so many mines he can go down, though, and now we know what he's up to he's on a hiding to nothing. It's only a matter of time before he's caught. The question is what sort of damage he can do before then.'

  Which was the real reason for his visit. After what had happened to Wainwright, Monk's attempt to contact Sophie was being taken seriously. So seriously that Simms had arranged for her to stay at a police safe house. Or perhaps 'instructed' was more accurate.

  The conversation had gone downhill from there.

  'We don't suggest this sort of thing for fun,' Roper persisted. 'It's for your own good.'

  'I'll decide what's for my own good, thanks. I'm not going to some grubby safe house because of some… some stupid phone call you don't even know for sure was from Monk. This is my home!'

  'That didn't stop someone from waltzing in and knocking you unconscious a few days ago.' Roper raised his eyebrows in mock enquiry. 'Don't suppose you've remembered anything about that yet, have you?'

  Sophie's hand made an involuntary movement towards the bruise on her face. She lowered it. 'Don't you think I'd have told you if I had? Anyway, that was nothing to do with Monk. The police said it was just a burglary.'

  'Yes, so I gather. Except I don't think you've reported anything stolen, have you?'

  Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it. 'There was some cash I'd left lying around and a few pieces of cheap jewellery. It didn't seem worth bothering with.'

  That was news to me: she hadn't said anything was missing. Roper regarded her for a moment.

  'Look, love-'

  'I'm not your "love". And I'm not leaving. You can't expect me to just drop everything, I've got a business to run!'

  'You should have thought about that before you chose a murderer as a pen pal,' Roper snapped. 'To someone like Monk that's as good as an invitation.'

  Sophie folded her arms. 'I'm not going.'

  Roper sighed, looking at me as though to say, Well? 'He's right,' I told her. 'It doesn't have to be a safe house. Like I said, we could go to a hotel for a few days. Or you could stay at your sister's-'

  That was a mistake. 'Oh, no! No way.'

  'It would only be for-'

  'No. I'd rather face Monk.' She turned to Roper. 'Sorry you've had a wasted trip. Now if you don't mind I've got work to do.'

  She banged out. Roper stared after her. 'Well, that's that.'

  'Isn't there something else you can do?' I asked.

  He pulled at his lip unhappily. 'I suppose I can see about having a panic button installed. Not that it'll do much good, the time it'll take a response team to arrive.'

  'Can't you arrange for police protection here?'

  'We're not a private security service. She's been offered a safe house, but if she wants to stick her head in the sand that's up to her.' He got to his feet, shaking his head. 'The ACC isn't going to like this.'

  'He's going to like it even less if Monk hurts anyone else.'

  Roper gave me a sharp look. 'I'm sure he'll take that under consideration, Dr Hunter.'

  I saw him out, watching as he drove away, then I fetched my coat and went across to the kiln. I could hear the whirr of the potter's wheel before I opened the door. Sophie sat behind it, intently shaping a bowl from a piece of wet clay.

  'I'm not going to change my mind,' she said, without looking up.

  'I know. I just wanted to see if you were all right.'

  'I'm fine. 'The bowl on the wheel was uneven, but she didn't seem to notice.

  'You didn't say anything before about money and jewellery being missing.'

  'There was nothing valuable. It wasn't worth mentioning.'

  I waited. She kept her attention on the wheel. 'If there's anything you need to tell me…'

  'I just need to be alone for a while, OK?'

  The bowl had begun to wobble and lose its shape. It was beyond salvaging, but Sophie carried on as though it might somehow correct itself. Not knowing what else to say, I went out. The damp and misty air caught my throat as I headed back to the house.

  I couldn't understand why Sophie was being so stubborn. But then I didn't really know her. So why are you staying? Just for her? That was part of it, although there was another reason as well, one that had been nudging at me ever since I'd heard about Monk's escape. And perhaps even longer: it had been lying dormant but this went back eight years, to the abortive search on the moor.

  I wanted answers.

  I'd just reached the house when my phone beeped with an incoming message. The signal was unreliable around here, subject to the vagaries of weather and geology, but something had obviously got through. I took it out and saw I'd got a text. It was short and to the point.

  Trencherman's Arms, 2pm.

  It was from Terry.

  Chapter 22

  The mist thinned as I neared the higher ground at Oldwich, but as though to compensate the drizzle gave way to rain. It was the sort of monotonous downpour that seemed as though it could go on for ever, making the moor look lifeless beneath the incessant grey sky.

  The Trencherman's car park was empty except for one other car. I didn't know if it was Terry's or not, but the grubby paintwork and litter-strewn interior made me doubt it. Although the yellow Mitsubishi must have been long gone by now, Terry had always been as fastidious about his car's appearance as he was about his own.

  But when I went into the pub and saw he was the only customer I realized the car must be his after all. He was sitting at a secluded corner table. His clothes were crumpled and unwashed, and even from across the room I could
see the untidy stubble on his chin. He stared into his half-empty beer glass, an expression on his face I'd not seen before. It was one I didn't associate with Terry.

  He looked lost.

  Then he noticed me and it vanished. His shoulders straightened as I went over. He sat back, regarding me with something more like his old arrogance.

  'I wasn't sure you'd come.'

  I almost hadn't. The sensible thing would have been to tell Roper, or to ignore the message altogether. I'd considered both, but whatever mess Terry had got himself into was a disciplinary matter rather than a criminal one, and running to Simms went against the grain.

  Besides, I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  I pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. A sour smell of sweat and unmetabolized alcohol came across the table. 'What did you want to see me about?'

  'Aren't you having a drink?'

  'I won't be staying long.'

  I'd told Sophie I was going to buy food. That was no lie: I'd stopped off at a local shop on my way here to stock up on groceries. I didn't like leaving her alone at the house, but after Roper's visit we both needed some time to ourselves. Still, I didn't plan on being away any longer than I had to.

  'I think we've had this conversation before.' Terry took a drink himself. 'You tell anyone where you were going?'

  'No.'

  'How about Sophie?' His grin was vicious. 'Don't tell me you've not got your feet under that table. Sympathetic shoulder and all that. Or are you still pretending to be just good friends?'

  'Why don't you tell me what you want, Terry?'

  'More than friends, eh? That didn't take long.' I stood up to go. He held up his hands. 'All right, all right. Christ, I'm only joking.'

  I sat down again. 'Either you tell me what's going on or I'm leaving.'

  'OK.' He drained the rest of his beer and set his glass down. 'I heard about Wainwright. Monk doesn't mess about, does he?'

  'How did you know?' There had been no mention of Monk being a suspect on the lunchtime news, so I guessed Simms was still stalling for time.