The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  I was taken more sedately to Emergency, where I was given a robe and put on an IV drip. My cuts and abrasions were cleaned, the worst of them dressed with antiseptic-smelling gauze. I told my story again and again, to a succession of first uniformed and then CID officers. Finally, after I was moved to a curtained cubicle, I was left alone. I can't remember ever feeling so tired. I was sick with worry for Sophie, but none of the police officers who'd questioned me seemed to know anything. Intending only to rest for a moment, I put my head back and was instantly asleep.

  The whisk of the curtains being opened woke me. I sat up, disorientated and aching all over as Naysmith stepped into the cubicle.

  The tall SIO's throat was mottled with fresh razor burn and his eyes were red and lined with fatigue, but he seemed tense and alert.

  'How's Sophie?' I asked before he could speak.

  'Still in surgery. There's a build-up of blood on her brain, so they need to release it. Other than that, I can't tell you.'

  Even though I'd expected it the news hit me hard. There were different types of haematoma, but recovery – and survival – depended on how quickly surgery was carried out. This is your fault. You should have realized sooner.

  Naysmith fished something wrapped in plastic out of his pocket. 'You might need this,' he said, setting my muddy wallet on the bedside trolley. 'We found it a couple of hours ago. We were just about to send a search team down the mine when the helicopter picked you up.'

  'What about Miller and Cross?'

  If he blamed me for abandoning them he didn't show it. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'Miller's got a fractured skull, busted ribs and some internal bruising. He's unconscious but stable. Cross has a broken jaw and concussion. She was already conscious when the back-up arrived, so she could tell them what happened. Sort of.'

  I was relieved. It could have been a lot worse, although I wasn't sure the injured police officers would agree. 'And Monk?'

  'Nothing yet. We're sending teams down and we've got police guarding both entrances. But there could be others we don't know about. Cutter's Wheal Mine's been sealed up for years, and no one had any idea there were any caves connected to it. From what we've seen it's a big system, almost as big as Bakers Pit at Buckfastleigh. If Monk's still down there we'll find him eventually, but it's going to take time.'

  And if he isn't he could be anywhere by now. Naysmith crossed his legs, a man getting down to business.

  'So, do you want to tell me what happened?'

  I knew he'd have been briefed already, but I went through my story again. He listened without comment, even when I told him about Monk's claim that he'd been framed by a police officer. When I finished he heaved a long sigh.

  'Well, he was telling the truth about Wainwright, at least. He broke his neck falling downstairs. The post-mortem found carpet burns from the stair carpet and there were patches of his blood and hair on the banister. Either he took a tumble in the dark or missed his footing from the shock of seeing Monk. Can't say I'd blame him.' He paused, his face expressionless. 'How much of the rest of it did you believe?'

  It was hard to say any more. The whole of the previous night had begun to take on a surreal quality. I made an effort to focus.

  'I believe what he said about the blackouts. And about his relationship with Angela Carson. He was too ill to pretend, and the seizure or whatever it was I saw him have, that was real.'

  'You really think he might have killed her during one?'

  'From what I saw I'd say it could have happened like that.'

  'What about the other girls?'

  'I don't know. I suppose it's possible he killed them all during blackouts, but I think that's stretching it. He'd have to have disposed of their bodies as well, which doesn't seem likely. He genuinely doesn't seem able to remember anything about them, but that isn't what bothers him.'

  'Monk's a callous bastard. That's not new.'

  'No, I mean he isn't interested in clearing his name or even having his sentence reduced. That's what makes me think he's telling the truth. The only reason he escaped was because he's desperate to convince himself he didn't kill Angela Carson.'

  'He was found in a locked flat with her body, blood on his hands and her face pulped in. I don't think there's much doubt, do you?'

  'Not about that, no. But for the past eight years he's had to live with knowing he killed the only person he's ever been close to, and he can't even remember doing it. He's not the most stable of personalities anyway. Can you blame him for clutching at straws?'

  Naysmith was silent for a moment. 'What about this story about him being framed?'

  Now we're coming to it. I sighed. Hearing Monk tell it in the caves was one thing; discussing it in the cold light of day was something else entirely. It would have been easier to dismiss it as the rambling of a deranged mind, or the invention of a guilty one.

  The problem was I couldn't believe it was either.

  'I don't think he was making it up,' I said.

  'That doesn't mean Darren Walker wasn't. There's no record of any

  DI called Jones, either now or eight years ago. Walker could have been spinning him a line, trying to fob him off. Christ, if I was cornered by Monk I'd probably do the same.'

  'Why would Walker spread a story like that in the first place?'

  'A petty thief like him would be out of his depth with the hard- cases in Belmarsh. He wouldn't be the first to make something up to bolster his reputation.'

  'Monk believed him. And from what he told me I don't think Walker would have been in any condition to lie.' Not after what I did to him.

  'There's still nothing to corroborate any of this,' Naysmith said irritably, as though he'd been arguing the point with himself. 'We've only Monk's word to go on, since he conveniently beat Darren Walker to death. And you'll have to forgive me if I don't put much faith in that, or believe that a police officer planted evidence on the say-so of a lowlife like Walker. I checked his records. He was suspected of any number of thefts and burglaries but he had more lives than a bloody cat. Always managed to slip off, until last year. And why wait till then before he started mouthing off?'

  I didn't know. I couldn't quite believe myself that I was defending Monk. But I'd had time to think as I lay on the hospital trolley. I might not like the new picture that was emerging, but I couldn't ignore it.

  'Perhaps because he had been caught. You said yourself Walker would be out of his depth somewhere like Belmarsh. People can do anything when they're scared.'

  'Doesn't necessarily follow,' Naysmith said. 'Where would this phantom DI have got anything belonging to the Bennett twins from anyway? There's no way he could have lifted evidence from a highprofile murder investigation without it being noticed. Especially not if it turned up again at Monk's caravan.'

  'Unless he didn't get it from the evidence locker.'

  The words lay heavily in the small cubicle. Naysmith looked at me for a long while, his eyes lidded. 'You know what you're saying, don't you?'

  'Are you telling me it hasn't occurred to you as well?'

  He didn't answer. He didn't have to. We'd skirted around it so far, but I knew the same question would be preying on his mind as on mine.

  If Monk didn't kill the other three girls, who did?

  Naysmith kneaded the bridge of his nose. 'We're going to want to talk to you again. What are your plans when you're discharged? Will you be going back to London?'

  I hadn't given it much thought. 'Not yet. I'll probably pick up my things from Sophie's and book into-'

  The curtain was suddenly swept aside as Simms stepped into the cubicle. With his crisply braided uniform and peaked cap, the ACC looked ridiculously smart in the drab hospital setting. But the waxlike features were flushed a deep crimson, and his mouth was set in a thin line.

  Naysmith warily got to his feet. 'Sir. I didn't know you were-'

  Simms didn't look at him. He clenched his black leather gloves so tightly in his fist it looked like he was cho
king them.

  'I'd like to speak to Dr Hunter. Alone.'

  'He's already been interviewed. I can-'

  'That'll be all, Detective Chief Superintendent.'

  Naysmith looked furious but managed to restrain himself. He gave me the barest nod before brushing out. The distant sounds of the hospital only heightened the silence inside the cubicle. Simms glared at me.

  'What the hell do you think you're trying to do?'

  I wasn't in the mood for another inquisition. I felt drugged with fatigue and worry and was very conscious of lying propped up in the ridiculous hospital gown.

  'I was trying to sleep.'

  The pale eyes were cold and hostile. 'Don't think you're going to come out of this with any credit, Dr Hunter, because I can assure you that you won't.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I'm talking about these… these wild allegations you're making! That Jerome Monk is innocent, that a police officer fabricated evidence against him. You can't seriously think anyone will believe that?'

  'They aren't my allegations. And I didn't say-'

  'In the past week Monk has caused the death of a helpless man and almost killed two police officers. Or have you forgotten that?'

  I felt a stab of guilt. 'There was nothing I could-'

  'A former police consultant is fighting for her life because of him, yet you still seem intent on exonerating a convicted rapist and murderer. It's no secret that people around you have a habit of getting hurt, Dr Hunter, but I never expected this sort of recklessness, even from you!'

  I must have pushed myself upright in the bed but I couldn't recall doing it. 'I'm not trying to exonerate anyone. I'm just saying what happened.'

  'Oh, yes, this "fit" that Monk conveniently threw in front of you. I supposed it never occurred to you that he might be doing it deliberately? Or that he'd already fooled the prison doctors into believing he was having a heart attack?'

  'What I saw wasn't faked. And he didn't fake the cardiac symptoms either: he induced them. There's a difference.'

  'You'll have to forgive me if I don't share your credulity, Dr Hunter. It's obvious Monk manipulated you. He spoon-fed you this… this cock and bull story and then let you go, hoping you'd do exactly this!' He slapped the gloves against his thigh. 'Have you any idea of the damage this could do?'

  'To your reputation, you mean?'

  I regretted losing my temper straight away, but the words were out. Simms' pale eyes bulged. The hand clutching the gloves twitched, and for a second I thought he might actually strike me. But when he spoke his voice was controlled.

  'I apologize, Dr Hunter. Perhaps I should have waited to see you. You're obviously overwrought.' He pulled on his gloves as he spoke, working his fingers into the tight leather. 'I hope you'll give some thought to what I've said. We're on the same side, and it'd be a shame for a professional disagreement to get out of hand. People are quick to talk, and I know police consultancy work is hard to come by.'

  His face was completely expressionless as he stared down at me. Using the sleeve of his coat, as though even his gloves weren't proof against contamination, he swept aside the curtain and went out.

  I watched it swaying behind him as his footsteps receded into the background hubbub. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I was too tired to care very much.

  But I knew a threat when I heard one.

  Chapter 29

  It was late afternoon before I was discharged. I'd managed to sleep after Simms left, but only fitfully, slipping in and out of wakefulness in the small cubicle. Still, I felt better for it, more alert if nothing else. At some point my clothes had reappeared, unwashed but dried and neatly folded in a plastic bag. The mud and bloodstains were proof that the previous night had been real, much as I might wish otherwise.

  No one could tell me anything about Sophie, but I persuaded one of the nurses to check. She reported that she was out of surgery but still critical. I told myself that was only to be expected after an emergency craniotomy: the doctors would have had to remove a flap of bone from her skull to drain the build-up of blood.

  But the news did nothing to lift my spirits. I dressed and sat fretting in the cubicle until a junior doctor finally told me I could go.

  'Where's the ICU?' I asked her.

  The intensive care unit was quieter and less bustling than Emergency, with an air of strained urgency about it. The desk nurse wouldn't let me in to see Sophie, but given the state of my torn and dirty clothes I probably wouldn't have either. Feeling a sense of deja vu, I explained that I only wanted to find out how she was. It made no difference: the nurse was adamant she could only give out information to next of kin.

  'If you told me you were her husband or fiancй, perhaps… ?' she added pointedly. It was a deliberate opening, but I hesitated.

  'Dr Hunter!'

  The voice was Sophie's. I turned, ridiculously hoping to see her miraculously recovered. But it was another woman who was walking down the corridor towards me. Her face was blotched from crying, so that it took me a moment to recognize Sophie's sister.

  'What are you doing here?' she demanded, without giving me a chance to speak. She was quivering with emotion, her hands whiteknuckled on the wadded-up tissue she clenched.

  'I wanted to find out how Sophie is-'

  'How she is? My sister's lying in intensive care! They cut open her skull, that's how she is!' Her face crumpled. 'There could be brain damage, or… or…'

  'I'm sorry-'

  'Sorry? Don't you dare! You said you'd look after her! I wanted her to come home with me, where she'd have been safe. Instead she's… she's…' She turned on the desk nurse. 'I don't want this man going near my sister! If he comes back, don't let him in!'

  She spun round and hurried back down the corridor. The nurse looked embarrassed.

  'Sorry, but she's next of kin…'

  I nodded. There was nothing else I could do there. The heavy doors to the ICU swung shut behind me with finality as I headed back to the main wards.

  There was one more person I had to see.

  I was batted between wards before I finally found where Cross had been taken. At first I thought the policewoman was asleep. She had her eyes shut, and a cowardly part of me was relieved. But as I approached her bed she opened them and looked directly at me.

  She looked a mess. The blonde hair was plastered darkly against her head. Her face was even more shockingly bruised and swollen than Sophie's had been, and a painful-looking assembly of wire and screws clamped her jaw shut.

  Now I was there, I didn't know what to say. We just looked at each other for a moment, then she reached for something on the bedside table. It was a writing pad: she wrote briefly and then turned it round for me to see.

  Looks wrse than it is. Morphine great.

  I wouldn't have thought I could laugh, but I did. 'I'm glad to hear it.'

  More slow scribbling, then the pad was turned round again.

  Sophie???

  I chose my words. 'Out of surgery. She's in intensive care.' The pen scratched once more. Miller conscious. Nrses say making bad jkes.

  I smiled. It was the first good news I'd had in what seemed an age. 'That's great.' I took a deep breath. 'Look, I…'

  But she'd started writing again. It was more laborious this time as she began to tire. When she'd finished she tore out the sheet from the notepad and folded it in half. Her eyelids were already starting to droop as she held it out for me. I think she was asleep again before it left her hand.

  I waited until I was in the corridor before I opened it. Cross had written just a short message: U did right thing.

  My eyes blurred when I read that. I had to pause for a while before I tucked it away. I desperately wanted to get out of the hospital, to breathe fresh air and clear my head, but that would have to wait.

  There was something else I needed to do first.

  My car was still at Sophie's with the rest of my things. I could have phoned for a cab, but I decided
to pick one up outside. The walk would do me good, and I didn't want to stay at the hospital any longer than I had to.

  A receptionist directed me to the nearest taxi rank, but I hadn't gone far from the entrance before a car pulled up alongside. I looked round as its window was wound down.

  It was Terry.

  'Thought I might find you here,' he said. I carried on walking. 'David! Jesus, hang on a minute, will you?'

  The car pulled forward until it was alongside again.

  'Look, I only want to talk. I heard what happened last night. How's Sophie?'

  Reluctantly, I stopped. No matter what I thought about him, Terry had once had a relationship with her. Feelings don't stop just because it's over.

  'She's in intensive care. I don't know any more than that.'

  'Christ.' His face had paled. 'I know I'm the last person she'd want to see. But she's going to be all right?'

  'I don't know.'

  He looked stunned.

  'Where are you going?' he asked, subdued.

  'I need to collect my things from Sophie's.'

  He leaned over and opened the passenger door. 'Come on. I'll give you a lift.'

  I didn't want to spend any more time in Terry's company, but talk of Sophie made my anger against him seem unimportant. The past was the past. Life was too short to bear grudges. Besides, I was so tired I could hardly stand.

  I got in.

  Neither of us spoke for the first few miles. It was only as the city and suburbs gave way to open countryside that he broke the silence.

  'Do you want to talk about it?'

  'No.'

  He fell quiet again. I stared out of the window as the moor began to swallow us up. The car heater was on, and the warmth and drone of the engine began to take effect. I felt myself start to drift off.

  'At least we know now who attacked Sophie the other day,' he said.

  I sighed: Terry never could take no for an answer. 'I still don't think that was Monk.'