I hadn't expected to be here more than a few days, but the convict's surprise offer to show us where Zoe and Lindsey Bennett were buried had changed all that. While Wainwright would remain in charge of any excavation, Terry had told me Simms wanted me on hand when - if — any more bodies were found.
'Are you nervous? About meeting Monk, I mean?' Kara had asked the night before.
'No, of course not.' I had to admit I was more curious than anything. 'It isn't every day you get to meet someone like him.'
'So long as you don't get too close.'
'I don't think there's much danger of that. We're all supposed to keep our distance. Besides, I'll be the one hiding behind the police.'
'I hope so.' Kara didn't laugh. 'How's Terry?'
'He's OK, I suppose. Why?'
'I called Deborah last night. I haven't spoken to her in ages, so I thought I'd see how she was. She sounded funny.'
'Funny how?'
'I don't know. Distracted. Down. She didn't want to talk. I wondered if everything was OK between them.'
Terry wouldn't have told me even if it wasn't. We'd never had that sort of relationship. 'I haven't had much chance to speak to him. He's under a lot of pressure, though. Perhaps it's just that.'
'Perhaps,' Kara said.
Whatever might be going on in Terry's home life, the strain of this operation was beginning to tell. He had an intense, overwound look about him that spoke of too little sleep and too much caffeine. It was hardly surprising, since as far as I could tell Simms was delegating everything to his deputy. Except for press conferences, which he insisted on doing himself. He'd claimed the glory for identifying Tina Williams, and it seemed that every time I turned on the news I saw his wax-like features holding forth in front of flashing cameras and microphones. There was one quote from him which had been aired repeatedly:
'The man responsible for the deaths of Angela Carson, Tina Williams, and Zoe and Lindsey Bennett might be behind bars, but this investigation isn't over. I won't rest until all of Jerome Monk's victims have been found and returned to their families.'
It was suspiciously similar to what Simms had said in the forensic tent on the first day I wondered if he'd been trying out potential soundbites even then. And while his superior courted the cameras and became the public face of the investigation, Terry was left to carry the brunt of the search operation himself. He'd been no stranger to high-profile cases while he'd been at the Met, but nothing like this.
I hoped he was up to it.
He glanced nervously at his watch yet again as we clattered along the boards. 'Everything OK?' I asked.
'Why shouldn't it be? We've got one of the most dangerous men in the country about to be let loose and I've still no idea why the bastard's suddenly decided to cooperate. Yeah, everything's fucking great.'
I looked at him. He scowled, passing his hand over his face.
'Sorry. I just keep going over all the preparations, trying to make sure we've not overlooked anything.'
'You don't think he's serious about showing us where the graves are?'
'Christ knows. I'd feel happier if. . . Ah, screw it. We'll soon find out.' He stiffened as he looked ahead of us. 'Oh, great.'
Sophie Keller had emerged from the trailer serving as a mobile canteen, carrying a polystyrene container of steaming coffee. Bundled up in bulky overalls, the BIA looked like a young girl dressed in her father's workclothes. The thick hair was tied back with a no-nonsense band, the drizzle misting it with fine silver beads. A middle-aged man I didn't recognize was with her, stocky and pleasant-faced. She'd been nodding at something he said, but a coolness crossed her features when she saw Terry.
The two of them had made little secret of their dislike for each other. Whether it stemmed from something that had occurred on a previous investigation or was simply bad chemistry, they were textbook cat and dog. Terry's face hardened into cold planes as we approached.
Sophie ignored him as she gave me a warm smile, resting a hand lightly on my arm. 'Hi, David. Have you met Jim Lucas?'
'Jim's our POLSA,' Terry said, blanking her in return. 'He's been trying to keep some order in this three-ring circus.'
The police search advisor's handshake was just the right side of bone-breaking. His thick grey hair looked like a wire pan scourer. 'Pleased to meet you, Dr Hunter. Ready for the big day?'
'I'll tell you later.'
'Wise man. Still, not every clay someone like Jerome Monk decides to work on the side of the angels, is it?'
'If that's what he's doing,' Sophie said, looking at Terry. 'I'd have a better idea if I'd been allowed access to him.'
Here we go again, I thought as Terry's jaw muscles bunched. 'We've already been through this. You get to accompany the team with Monk, but there's to be no direct contact. If you don't like it, take it up with Simms.'
'He won't return my calls.'
'I wonder why.'
'But it's ridiculous! I could assess Monk's state of mind, gauge if his change of heart is genuine, but instead—'
'The decision's been made. Monk's not talking to anyone, and for the time being the priority's getting him to show us the other graves.'
'You mean Simms' priority.'
'I mean the priority of this investigation, and last time I checked you were a part of it. You want that to change, then say the word!'
The cords on Terry's neck stood out as they glared at each other. Lucas looked as uncomfortable as I felt. It was a relief when Roper came over. The DCs gaze flicked between Terry and Sophie, missing nothing.
'What?' Terry snapped.
'Just had the transport on the line. They'll be here in ten minutes.'
The anger drained from Terry. He straightened his shoulders. 'Right.'
'Hang on,' Sophie protested. 'What about—'
But Terry was already walking away, feet clumping on the duck- boards. Roper hesitated long enough to give Sophie a toothy smile that exposed a line of pale gum above his incisors.
'Never mind, love. He's got a lot on his mind.'
She shot him an angry look as he hurried after Terry. Lucas rubbed the bridge of his nose, embarrassed.
'Well, I need to get on as well.' He hesitated, giving Sophie an uncertain glance. 'Look, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't push too hard. There's a lot riding on today.'
'All the more reason why I should be able to do my job properly.'
Lucas looked as though he were about to say something else, then thought better of it. 'Just watch yourself. Monk's a dangerous bugger. You ask me, you're better keeping well away.'
For a second I thought Sophie was going to snap at the search advisor as well, but then she gave a reluctant smile. 'I can look after myself.'
Lucas kept his thoughts to himself. He gave me a nod. 'Dr Hunter.'
We watched him walk away. Sophie blew out an exasperated breath. 'God, sometimes I hate this job.'
Sophie had made no secret of her displeasure at being left out of the decision-making process. 'You don't mean that,' I said.
'Don't bet on it. I just can't understand why Monk's suddenly so keen to help. And please don't say it's his guilty conscience.'
'Perhaps he's planning an appeal and thinks it might help him get a reduced sentence.'
'He's got at least another thirty-five years to serve. I can't see him planning that far ahead.'
'You think he's hoping to escape?' I asked.
I wouldn't have dared mention that to Terry, not given the pressure he was already under to see that didn't happen. The most dangerous part of any prisoner transfer was the transit, but everyone was well aware of what Jerome Monk was capable of. Even so, it was hard to see how even he could hope to escape out here, surrounded by guards and with a helicopter standing by only minutes away.
Sophie thrust her hands into her pockets, scowling in frustration. 'I can't see how he can, but I'd feel happier if he'd at least give us a bloody clue where the graves are. But no, he insists he'll only come out and
show us. And Simms is letting him! He's so fixated on finding the Bennett twins so he can announce he's got the full set he's letting Monk dictate his own conditions. That's plain stupid, but I can't get anyone to listen.'
Not for lack of trying. I had the sense to keep that to myself, though. 'Even if the other graves are around here we'll be hard pressed to find them without Monk. I hate to sound like I agree with Simms, but what choice does he have?'
Sophie raised her eyes in exasperation. 'He could do what I've been suggesting for the past two days. I've already mapped out a few of the likeliest sites, but without more to go on I'm working blind. If he got Monk to just give us some idea of where the Bennett twins are buried, even a landmark, I might be able to find them myself.'
I looked at the blasted landscape of dead bracken, heather and rock spread out before us. It stretched for miles. I didn't say anything, but I must have looked sceptical. Twin patches of red bloomed on her cheeks.
'You don't think I can do it either.'
Oh, hell. 'No, it's just . . .Well, it's a big area.'
'Have you ever heard of Winthropping?' I hadn't, but she didn't give me chance to answer. 'It's a technique the army developed in Northern Ireland to find hidden arms caches. Anyone looking to make a hide - or bury a body - automatically follows the contours of the land, or uses reference points like a tree or distinctive rock to help them get their bearings. Winthropping's a way of reading a landscape to find the most likely places something would be hidden.'
'And it works?' I said without thinking.
'Amazingly enough, yes,' she said tartly. 'It isn't foolproof, but it's useful in situations like this. I don't care how well Monk's supposed to know the moor, it's still been a year since he killed the Bennett sisters. Their graves will be overgrown by now and he probably buried them at night anyway. Even if he wants to, I can't see him being able to remember exactly where they are. Not without help.'
As a rule I liked my science more clear-cut, not verging into crystal-ball territory. But she made a convincing argument. Still, it was academic now anyway. We both fell silent as we saw a distant convoy of vehicles creeping along the road towards us.
Monk was here.
* * *
Chapter 5
After the drama of the decoy's arrival, the real thing was almost an anticlimax. There were no flashing lights or motorcycles, no waiting helicopter. Just an unmarked van escorted by two police cars. A stillness seemed to fall as they headed for where Terry was waiting with Roper and a group of uniformed officers. A dog-handler stood with them, the intent-looking German shepherd kept on a short leash. The van and cars pulled up well away from the other vehicles. In the silence after their engines died the sound of the doors clunking open carried clearly in the damp air. Unlike those with Monk's 'double', none of the police officers were armed: there had to be a realistic threat of escape to merit that. But they were all big, bulky men, whose hands immediately went to the batons clipped to their belts as they fanned out around the rear doors of the van.
'Very melodramatic,' Sophie commented.
I didn't answer. There was movement in the shadowy recesses of the van. Something round and pale solidified into a bald head as it emerged into the light. A crouched figure filled the opening, ignoring the step-board below the doors to jump down. Then it straightened, and I had my first look at Jerome Monk.
Even from where we stood, twenty yards away, there was no mistaking his sheer, hulking presence. His hands were cuffed awkwardly in front of him, and I realized with a shock that he was also wearing leg restraints. Neither seemed to bother him, and the hunched shoulders looked powerful enough to snap the handcuff chain without effort. His upper body was immense, yet the shaved head still seemed outsized.
'Ugly brute, isn't he?'
I'd been so preoccupied I hadn't noticed that Wainwright had joined us. The forensic archaeologist was dressed in well-worn but expensive outdoor gear, a scarf thrown flamboyantly around his neck. He made no attempt to keep his voice down, and his words carried clearly in the still air. That's torn it, I thought, as Monk's moon head swivelled towards us.
The photographs I'd seen hadn't done him justice. The indentation in his forehead looked far worse in the flesh, as though he'd been struck with a hammer and somehow survived. Below it, the skin of his face was pitted with scar tissue. A scabbed, yellowing graze on one cheek suggested that at least some of it was recent, while the crooked mouth was curled in the same half-smile he always seemed to wear. It seemed to acknowledge and mock the revulsion he provoked.
But it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. Small and unblinking, they were flat and empty as black glass.
I felt chilled as they settled on me, but I warranted only a fleeting interest. The dead eyes went to Sophie, lingering on her for a moment before shifting to Wainwright.
'The fuck you looking at?'
The accent was local but the voice was a surprise: gruff and disconcertingly soft. Wainwright should have let it go. But the archaeologist wasn't used to being spoken to like that. He gave a derisive snort.
'My God, it can talk!'
Monk's leg restraints snapped taut as he stepped towards him, feet swishing awkwardly through the wet grass. That was as far as he got before the two prison guards grabbed his arms. They were big men but the convict dwarfed them. I saw them brace themselves, tensing with effort as they tried to hold him.
'Come on, Jerome, behave yourself,' one of the guards said, an older man with grey hair and a lined face. The killer continued to stare at Wainwright, handcuffed hands dangling loosely. His shoulders and upper arms were massive, as though he had bowling balls packed inside his jacket. His black eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on Wainwright.
'You got a name?'
Terry had looked startled at the sudden confrontation, but now he moved forward. 'His name's none of your business.'
'It's all right. If he wants to know who he's dealing with I'm more than happy to tell him.' Wainwright drew himself up, using his full height to glare at the convict. 'I'm Professor Leonard Wainwright. I'm in charge of recovering the bodies of the young women you murdered. And if you've any sense, then I strongly advise you to cooperate.'
'Jesus,' I heard Sophie breathe beside me.
Monk's mouth curled. 'Professor,' he sneered, as though trying out the word. Without warning his eyes flicked to me. 'Who's this?'
Terry seemed at a loss, so I answered. 'I'm David Hunter.'
'Hunter,' Monk echoed. 'Name to live up to.'
'So's Monk,' I said automatically.
The black eyes bored into me. Then there was a slow wheezing, and I realized Monk was laughing.
'Smart-arse, aren't you?'
Only now did he turn to stare at Sophie. But Terry didn't give him a chance to ask about her.
'Right, you've been introduced.' He motioned to the guards to lead him away. 'Come on, we're wasting time.'
'You heard the man, laughing boy.' The other prison guard, a thickset man with a beard, tried to haul Monk away. He might as well have tugged at a statue. The convict swivelled his head, levelling that basilisk stare at him.
'Don't fucking pull me.'
The atmosphere was already tense, but now the air suddenly felt charged. I could see Monk's chest rising and falling as his breathing grew more rapid. A bubble of spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. Then a man pushed his way through the encircling police officers.
'Detective Inspector, I'm Clyde Dobbs, Mr Monk's solicitor. My client's agreed to cooperate in the search voluntarily. I hardly think assaulting him is called for.'
He had a thin, nasal voice that managed to sound bored and wheedling at the same time. I hadn't noticed him before. He was in his fifties, sparse grey hair swept across an expanse of pink scalp. His briefcase looked ludicrously out of place with his Wellingtons and waterproof jacket.
'No one's assaulting anyone,' Terry snapped. He shot the bearded guard a look. The man grudgingly let go of Monk's arm.
'Thank you,' the solicitor said. 'Please carry on.'
Terry's jaw muscles tightened. He jerked his head at the guards. 'Bring him.'
'Fuck off!' Monk yelled, as the guards strained to pull him back. His eyes were suddenly manic. I watched, stunned, unable to believe this could go wrong so quickly. I waited for Terry to do something, to take charge, but he seemed frozen. The moment stretched on, taut and ready to shatter into violence.
The Calling of the Grave Page 5