I hadn't realized till then how tense I'd been.
From the deep sigh she gave as she shot home the new bolts on the door, it seemed that Sophie felt the same way.
'How are you holding up?' I asked as she tiredly pulled off her coat.
'I've had better days.' Her smile was unconvincing. 'Look, about what happened earlier with Cath Bennett . . . I'm sorry, I didn't think it through.'
After what had happened that no longer seemed important. 'Forget it. Anyway, you were right. Monk wouldn't have dug those holes without a good reason. There must be at least one other grave round there. The police'll have to search the whole area again.'
She looked as though that hadn't occurred to her. 'You think so?'
'I don't see that they've any choice. Monk's as good as told us where to look. That's what you wanted, isn't it?'
'Yes, of course.' She sounded doubtful. 'God, I really need a drink.'
So did I, but not yet. 'I think it might be a good idea to stay somewhere else tonight.'
Sophie was sitting on the stairs, unfastening her muddy boots. She stopped to look up at me, her face closed. 'No.'
'You could book into a hotel—'
'I'm not going anywhere.'
'You've already been attacked here once, and we still don't know who by. If it was Monk—'
'If it was Monk I'd be dead. You know it as well as I do. If you want to run away you can, but I'm not going to!'
I stared in surprise. Where did that come from?
Sophie sighed. 'I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that. It's just . . . I - I'm scared and confused, and this is my home. If I leave now I'll never feel safe here again. Can't you understand that?'
I could. That didn't mean I agreed, but there was no point arguing.
'OK'
'Thank you.' She came over and gave me a hug. I held her for a moment, feeling the warm pressure of her body before she stepped back. 'I can be a cow sometimes, but I appreciate everything you're doing. And I wouldn't blame you if you decided to go anyway.'
The opening was there if I wanted to take it. I could walk away now, go back to London and let Sophie and the police handle it from here.
But that wasn't going to happen. Whatever was going on, it had its roots in what happened eight years ago. I'd been involved then, and I still was.
I gave Sophie a smile. 'You mentioned something about a drink.'
We shared the cooking that night. Dinner was grilled lamb chops from the freezer with minted potatoes and frozen peas. Not haute cuisine, perhaps, but it was simple and satisfying. Sophie produced a bottle of wine, and gave it me to open while she defrosted the chops.
'Padbury doesn't have much of a wine merchant's,' she apologized, pouring two glasses.
'It'll be fine,' I said. And it was. The alcohol took the edge off any remaining awkwardness, and I didn't argue when Sophie suggested leaving the dishes till morning. Taking what was left of the wine with us, we went into the sitting room. I put more logs in the stove and built up the fire using kindling and old newspaper from the wicker basket. You're getting good at this.
Soon bright flames were dancing behind the smoky glass panel, driving the chill from the room. Sophie and I sat at either end of the sofa. We didn't talk, but the silence was comfortable. I took another drink of wine and stole a look at her. She was drowsing, legs curled up on the sofa, head fallen back to expose the slender line of her throat. Her face was peaceful and relaxed, the firelight softening the bruising so it could almost have been shadow. The intervening years had been good to her, I decided. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but the strong features would still turn heads. They would still look good in another eight years' time. Or eighteen.
She was breathing with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep, the almost empty wine glass still held loosely in her fingers. It had fallen slightly to rest lightly between her breasts. I was loath to disturb her but it was starting to slip, each breath dislodging it a little more.
'Sophie . . .' I said gently. There was no response. 'Sophie?'
She came awake gradually, eyes staring at me blankly before blinking as awareness returned. 'Sorry,' she apologized, sitting up. 'Please tell me I've not been drooling.'
'Only a little.'
She smiled and swatted at me. 'Pig.'
'Why don't you go to bed?'
'Not much of a host, am I?' she said, but she didn't argue. She stood up and put her hand on my shoulder as she swayed unsteadily. 'Whoa . . .'
'Take it easy,' I said, getting up to support her. 'Are you OK?'
'Just tired, I think. Must have stood up too quickly.'
She was still holding on to me. I had my hands on her waist, standing close enough to feel the warmth coming from her. Neither of us moved. Sophie's eyes were big and dark as she leaned into me. A smile curved her face.
'Well. . .' she said, and something hit the window with a bang.
We jumped apart. I rushed to the heavy curtains and yanked them open, half expecting to see Monk's nightmare face glaring back at me. But the window was unbroken and empty. All I could see beyond it was an amorphous sheet of white fog.
'What was it?' Sophie asked, standing close behind me.
'Probably nothing.'
It was an inane thing to say, especially when my own heart was pounding. Monk can't have followed us back here. Can he? But he didn't have to follow us. Not when Sophie's address had been on her letters.
'Stay here,' I told her.
'You're not going outside?'
'Only to take a look. 'The alternative was cowering inside all night, wondering what had hit the window. If it was nothing then we could relax. If it was Monk . . .
Then it wouldn't make any difference.
I took the heavy iron poker from beside the glowing stove and went into the hall. Sophie hurried into the kitchen and returned with a lantern-style torch.
'Lock the door behind me,' I said, taking it from her.
'David, wait—
But I was already sliding back the bolts on the front door and stepping outside. There was nothing to see but fog. The air was damp, scented with loam and rotting leaves. I shivered, wishing I'd thought to grab my coat. The fog soaked up the lantern's beam. Keeping close to the side of the house, I began making my way towards the sitting room. The poker felt flimsy in my hand, and I was already beginning to think this wasn't such a good idea. What are you going to do if there is someone out here? What if it's Monk?
But it was too late now. Up ahead I could see a misty glow that must be the sitting-room window. I picked up my pace, keen to get it over with.
And something moved on the ground at my feet.
I stumbled backwards, raising the poker as I thrust out the lantern. There was another flurry of movement, and then the light and shadows resolved themselves.
Caught in the lantern's beam, an owl blinked up at me.
I lowered the poker, feeling stupid. The bird was ghostly pale, its face almost white. It was hunched on the grass below the window, wings splayed out awkwardly at its sides. The dark and alien eyes shuttered in another slow blink, but it made no attempt to move.
'It's a barn owl,' Sophie said from behind me.
She startled me: I hadn't heard her approach. 'I thought you were waiting inside?'
'I didn't say that.' Sophie had more sense than me, enough to pull on a coat. She crouched beside the injured bird. 'It's lucky the window didn't break. Poor thing. The fog must have confused it. What do you think we should do?'
'It's probably just stunned,' I said. The bird was staring straight ahead, either determined to ignore us or too dazed to care. 'We shouldn't move it.'
'But we've got to do something!'
'If it struggles we might hurt it even more.' Besides, injured or not, the bird was still a predator. Its beak and claws were no less sharp.
'I'm not leaving it out here,' Sophie said, in a tone I was beginning to recognize. I sighed.
'Have you got a blanket or someth
ing?'
The owl flapped a little as I cautiously covered it with an old towel, but quickly subsided. Sophie suggested leaving it just inside the kiln, propping the door open so it could fly out when it had recovered.
'What about your pots?' I asked.
'They're insured. Anyway, it's an owl. It can see in the dark.'
The bird was surprisingly light as I carried it into the kiln, the rapid tattoo of its heart thrumming under my hands. Inside was damp and musty with the smell of old bricks. My footsteps echoed as I set the owl on the floor and removed the towel. We hadn't turned on the light, and its pale feathers were almost luminous in the darkness.
'Do you think it'll be all right?' Sophie asked as we returned to the house.
'We can't do any more tonight. If it's still there in the morning we can call a vet.'
I locked and bolted the front door, giving it a tug to make sure. Sophie shivered as she rubbed her arms.
'God, I'm frozen!'
She was standing very close. Looking at me. It would have been natural to take hold of her.
'It's late,' I said. 'You go on up, I'll see to things down here.'
She blinked, then nodded. 'Right. Well . . . goodnight.'
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 un
der 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.
The Calling of the Grave Page 17