The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  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. In 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. 'Some
one 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.'

  'Sputum?'

  'It appears the killer spat on the floor.' He was walking down the hallway in front of me, blocking my view. Now he stepped aside, and I saw Leonard Wainwright.

  The forensic archaeologist looked pathetic in death. Dressed in pyjamas and an old striped bathrobe, he lay crumpled near the foot of the stairs, amongst the shattered remains of a glass-fronted china cabinet. Blood from where he'd been cut by the broken glass had dried blackly, splashed across the floor. But there wasn't enough of it for him to have bled to death. His face was obscured by a tangle of grey hair, through which the slits of his bloodshot eyes were visible. His head was twisted impossibly far to one side, almost resting on one shoulder. Broken neck, I thought automatically. For no reason I found myself staring at Wainwright's bare feet. They were calloused and yellow, and the ankles that protruded from the pyjama bottoms were an old man's, thin and hairless.

  He'd have hated anyone seeing that.

  I hadn't expected to find the body still there. I'm no stranger to either crime scenes or violent death, but this was different. Forty- eight hours ago I'd been talking to Wainwright, and the sight of him on the hallway floor caught me unprepared.

  A diminutive figure in baggy overalls was kneeling beside his body, humming absently to itself as it took a reading from a thermometer. The tune was perky and familiar: one of Gilbert and Sullivan's, though I couldn't name it. The white-gloved hands were as small as a child's, and although the face was all but obscured by a hood and mask, I recognized the gold half-moon glasses straight away.

  'Nearly done,' Pirie said without looking up.

  I was surprised to see him. I'd have thought the pathologist would have retired by now. 'You remember Dr Hunter, George?' Simms asked.

  The pathologist raised his head. The eyebrows bushed above the glasses like grey spider legs, but his gaze was as bright and intelligent as ever.

  'Indeed I do. A pleasure as always, Dr Hunter. Although I wouldn't have thought your skills were needed in this instance.'

  'He isn't here in an official capacity,' Simms told him.

  'Ah. Nevertheless, if you'd care to lend a hand you'd be very welcome. I recall you extended the same courtesy to me. I'd be happy to return the favour.'

  'Perhaps another time.' I appreciated the offer, but post-mortems weren't my field. 'I'd have thought the body would've been taken to the mortuary by now.'

  Simms s face was impassive as he stared down at the body of his friend. 'We had to wait for Dr Pirie to finish another job. I wanted someone I knew working on this.'

  'What about his wife? I asked. There was no sign of Jean Wainwright, and the news report had only mentioned a single death.

  'She's been hospitalized. Hopefully only from shock, but she wasn't well herself, even before this.'

  'So she wasn't actually hurt?'

  'Not beyond witnessing her husband's murder. Their cleaner found them both this morning when she let herself in. Jean was in a . . . confused state. She hasn't been able to tell us much so far, but I'm hoping she'll be able to answer questions later.'

  'So she hasn't said who did it?'

  'Not as yet.'

  But I didn't think there was much doubt. First Sophie, now Wainwright. Perhaps Terry was right after all. . .

  'Have you found anything?' I asked Pirie.

  The pathologist considered, the thermometer held aloft like a conductor's baton. 'First impressions only. Rigor and livor mortis suggest he's been dead for between eight to twelve hours, as does the body temperature. That puts the time of death between one and five o'clock this morning. As I'm sure you can see for yourself, his neck has been broken, which at this stage seems the most probable cause of death.'

  'It would take a lot of force to do that,' I said, thinking how Monk had killed the police dog on the moor eight years ago.

  'Oh, undoubtedly. For anyone to break a grown man's neck deliberately would have taken a huge degree of strength—'

  'Thank you, George, we won't disturb you any longer,' Simms said. 'Please keep me informed.'

  'Of course.' Pirie's expression was hidden by the mask. 'Goodbye, Dr Hunter. And should you change your mind my offer still stands.'

  I thanked him, but Simms was already heading back down the hallway. As soon as we were outside he began stripping off his overalls, his dark uniform emerging from them like an insect from a chrysalis.

  'Are there any other witnesses apart from Jean Wainwright?' I asked, unfastening my own.

  'Unfortunately not. But I'm hopeful she'll be able to provide us with a detailed account before much longer.'

  'It looks like Monk, though, doesn't it?'

  Simms snapped off his surgical gloves and dropped them into a large plastic bin already half full of other discarded forensic gear. 'That remains to be seen. And I'd thank you not to speculate at this stage.'


  'But you heard what Pirie said about the killer's strength. And spitting on the floor sounds like a sign of contempt. Who else could it be?'

  'I don't know, but at the moment there's no firm evidence to suggest that Jerome Monk had anything to do with it.' Simms spoke with controlled anger. 'Hopefully Jean Wainwright will be able to tell us what happened. Until then I will not have needless scaremongering. The last thing I need is for the press to start running with unfounded rumours.'