The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  'Hardly unfounded. It's a matter of record that Wainwright headed the search team. The press are bound to make the connection before long.'

  'By which time Monk will hopefully be back in custody So until then, or we have evidence to the contrary, I'll continue to treat this as I would any other murder investigation.'

  I understood then. For someone as PR-conscious as Simms it was bad enough that Monk had escaped. The last thing he wanted was for stories to circulate that the escaped killer was on some sort of vendetta. That was exactly the sort of publicity an ambitious ACC could do without.

  'Jean Wainwright called me two days ago,' Simms said. 'She told me you'd been here, and that Leonard had become very agitated. Care to tell me what that was about?'

  I suppose I should have expected Wainwright's wife to tell him about my visit. 'I wanted to talk to him about Monk. I didn't know about his condition. If I had—'

  'Jerome Monk doesn't concern you, Dr Hunter. And now you've put me in the embarrassing position of having to ask where you were this morning between one and five o'clock?'

  But I'd been waiting for that. 'I was in bed at Sophie Keller's house. And no, she can't vouch for me. As for Jerome Monk, you can't seriously think I'm not going to ask questions after what happened yesterday.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'When Monk came after us on the moor.' Simms was looking at me as though I were mad. I tugged the gloves from my hands and threw them into the bin. 'Oh, come on, Terry Connors must have told you!'

  Simms had gone very still. The only sign of emotion on the wax-like face was the compressed line of his lips.

  'Terry Connors isn't involved in this investigation. He's been suspended.'

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  It started raining as I drove out to Black Tor. The water came down in sheets, so that the windscreen wipers were hard-pressed to clear the glass. It was earlier than when Sophie and I had come out here the day before, but by the time I reached the overgrown mine workings the sky had darkened so much that it seemed almost night.

  Now, though, it was Roper who sat in the passenger seat, smelling of aftershave and onions. He was as disgruntled at the arrangement as I was, but Simms hadn't given either of us any choice. He'd told me to make Roper my first point of contact rather than Naysmith, suggesting there was no love lost between him and the SIO. Sophie was still back at Wainwright's, giving her statement. At least I assumed she was: I hadn't had a chance to speak to her before we'd left. Roper had returned my keys and assured me that someone would take her home, and then a procession of cars had set off for Dartmoor.

  Up ahead the blurred tail lights of the ACC's black BMW were screened by a fine mist of spray thrown up by its tyres. The press conference had been postponed so that Simms could come out here. He'd demanded to hear everything, starting from when Terry appeared on my doorstep on the morning of Monk's escape. I'd kept nothing back, not even Sophie's letters to Monk. I'd felt guilty bout that, but we'd gone beyond keeping secrets.

  Simms' pale-blue eyes had blazed, but it wasn't until I described finding the holes dug on the moor the day before, and the scrambled chase that followed, that he became incandescent.

  'This was twenty-four hours ago and I'm only just hearing about it? God Almighty!'

  I couldn't blame him. I was still trying to take it in myself. Not only was Terry suspended, he wasn't even a DI any more. Simms had told me he'd been demoted to detective sergeant the previous year.

  Terry, what the hell are you playing at? I still had the card he'd given me: Detective Inspector Terry Connors. Still, it explained why he'd told me to call him on his mobile rather than at headquarters. I'm never there, he'd said.

  At least that much had been true.

  In a way I could almost understand him lying about his rank and suspension: pride had always been one of Terry's sins. What was inexcusable was that rather than admit to his charade he'd thrown away a chance to capture Monk. Now Wainwright was dead, and his killer was still on the loose.

  There was no going back from that.

  Beside me, Roper stifled a belch. Not very successfully. 'Pardon,' he muttered, baring his teeth in a sheepish grin. He looked out at the rainswept moor. 'Christ, it's really coming down. Couldn't have brought us here on a sunny day, could you?'

  'I'll try harder next time.'

  'Good one,' he said, with a snickering laugh. He stared at the rain beating against the car windscreen and sighed. 'Bloody Connors. He's shafted himself this time. And us.'

  I knew an invitation when I heard one. 'Simms said he'd been demoted.'

  'Stupid sod got caught altering an evidence log.' He shook his head in disgust. 'Wasn't even anything important, just got his dates mixed up. If he'd owned up he'd have been slapped on the wrist and that would have been it, but no. The golden boy from the Met couldn't admit he'd made a mistake.' He didn't try to hide his satisfaction.

  'And his suspension?' I asked.

  Roper sucked his teeth, as though debating whether or not to tell me. 'He assaulted a policewoman.'

  'He what?'

  'Nothing violent, thank God. He was just too pissed to take no for an answer. Typical Connors, thought he was God's gift. Never could keep his fly zipped.'

  I realized I was squeezing the steering wheel. No, he couldn't. I forced myself to relax my grip.

  'So he was drunk?'

  'Drunk? He's a piss-head, he's hardly been sober for years. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a beer or two, I'm the first to admit that.' He patted his distended stomach. 'But some people can handle it and some can't. And Connors couldn't. He was on borrowed time even before he got knocked back to DS, and it was all downhill from there.'

  I remembered how Terry had sounded on the phone when I'd told him about Monk. 'What'll happen to him?'

  'If he's lucky he'll just be kicked off the force, but he could be looking at criminal charges. Bloody idiot. If I'd had his opportunities I wouldn't have pissed them away, I can tell you.' His regret was transparently false. He gave me a sideways look. 'How come you don't know about this? I thought you two used to be friendly.'

  'We lost touch.'

  'If I were you I'd keep it that way.' He fell silent. I heard him sucking his teeth again. He stopped, embarrassed, when he realized. 'So, tell me more about this attack on Miss Keller.'

  I ran through what had happened. Roper listened with his hands folded on his paunch. I was starting to revise my opinion of the man.

  Terry had always been dismissive of him, treating him as Simms' lapdog. But whatever else Roper might be, I didn't think he was anyone's fool.

  'So the locals think it was a burglary, eh?' he said.

  'That's what they say.'

  'They're probably right. Single woman, living on her own in the sticks. Asking for trouble, really. And you say she's a potter now?' He smirked, shaking his head. 'Well, well.'

  We didn't have much to say to each other after that, but we were almost at Black Tor. Several cars and a dog van were already waiting by the end of the track when we arrived, close to where I'd parked the day before. A mix of uniformed police and CID stood by them, coat collars turned up against the rain. None of them looked happy and several of them were drawing on cigarettes as if their lives depended on them.

  But they were hastily thrown down and trodden on as Simms got out of his car, shrugging on a thick coat. One of the plain-clothes officers stepped forward to speak to him.

  'That's Naysmith, the SIO,' Roper muttered as we went over.

  Naysmith was a keen-looking man in his early forties, gaunt and raw-boned. He glanced in my direction but Simms made no attempt to introduce us. I wasn't close enough to hear what was said, but Naysmith gave a terse nod before moving away. The group was all business now as it prepared to go out on to the moor. The air was split by barking as a dog-handler took a German shepherd from a van and clipped a coiled length of rope to its harness.

  I hoped it had better
luck than the last one.

  Roper had gone to talk to a small group of plain-clothes officers, so I stood on my own nearby, feeling like I didn't belong as rain dripped from my coat hood.

  'Been a while, Dr Hunter.'

  I looked around at the burly man who'd approached. He wore a reflective waterproof coat, and I had to peer at the face inside the hood before I recognized Jim Lucas, the POLSA from the original search. He'd never been slim, and the intervening years had given the him the ruddy nose and cheeks that spoke of either outdoor work or high blood pressure.

  But his handshake was as firm as ever, and his eyes crinkled with the same warmth I remembered.

  'I didn't realize you were advising on this,' I said, pleased to see a friendly face.

  'For my sins. Have to admit, I'd have been happy not to set eyes on this godforsaken spot again.' His eyes roved round the moor. 'Bad business about Wainwright.'

  I nodded. There was nothing to say.

  'The sooner we get Monk back behind bars the better. I hear you and Sophie Keller had a run-in with him yesterday.'

  The memory was already starting to seem unreal. 'I think so. We didn't get a close look at him.'

  'If you had you wouldn't be here. Either of you.' He let that sink in for a second, then smiled. 'How is Sophie these days?'

  'She's fine.' This wasn't the time to go into details.

  'Jacked it in to make pots, didn't she? Good for her. I retire myself next year.' He scowled at the foul weather. 'Can't say I'll be sorry. I'm getting too old for this game. And the job's changed since I started. All paperwork and bureaucracy now. Speaking of which . . .'

  He looked behind me as Simms' clipped voice rang out.

  'When you're ready, Dr Hunter.'

  The ACC had put on a pair of brand new Wellingtons. The shin- high rubber boots looked ridiculous with his tailored overcoat and uniform, but not everyone there was so lucky. I saw Roper looking disconsolately at his thin-soled shoes as we set off along the muddy track. The dog-handler, a swarthy man with a shaved head, walked slightly ahead of the rest of us, feeding out the rope attached to the harness as the German shepherd snuffled the ground.

  'Will the rain make any difference?' I asked him.

  He answered without taking his eyes from the dog. 'Not unless it really pisses it down. It's the peat that'll be a problem. Soaks up water like a sponge, and if it gets too boggy it doesn't hold the scent.'

  'It's pretty boggy where we're going.'

  He gave me a look as though I'd questioned his dog's ability. 'If there's a scent to be found, he'll pick it up.'

  The rest of us waited as the handler and his dog searched the area where Monk had stood watching while Sophie and I drove away. Or at least as near to it as I could recall: they found nothing, and eventually Naysmith called them back. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought a few cool glances were sent my way after that. As we continued along the track I found myself wondering if perhaps we really had overreacted the day before.

  God, please don't let me be wasting everyone's time.

  The rain darkened the squat tower of Black Tor in the distance, making the boulders live up to their name. We cut off the track at about the same point that Sophie and I had the day before and began trekking across the moor. Lucas had a compass and map, but either his sense of direction wasn't the equal of Sophie's or the whole area had become more waterlogged overnight, because it seemed a lot harder going this time. I stared ahead anxiously, searching for any sign of the holes. But the moorland seemed untouched, a sea of drab greens and browns that I began to feel was mocking me.

  Then, just as had happened the day before, the heather and grass around us was suddenly pockmarked with muddy craters.

  I felt irrationally relieved: I'd almost begun to think we wouldn't find them. Everyone stopped. The only sound was the drip and patter of rain on our coats, then one of the policemen broke the silence.

  'Bloody big moles they've got round here.'

  Nobody laughed. Naysmith motioned the dog-handler forward. The German shepherd strained on its line, nose pressed to the ground. Almost straight away it began following something.

  'He's got a scent,' the dog-handler called, but even as he did the dog changed direction and began zigzagging aimlessly between the holes. 'It's all over.'

  'I can see someone's been here. I want to know where he went,' Simms snapped.

  The handler gave Naysmith an uneasy glance. The SIO nodded. 'Try to find a trail leading away.'

  As the dog-handler moved off, Simms went to the nearest hole. 'Dr Hunter, can you say if anything was buried in any of these?'

  The holes were all too small to have held a human body, but other than that I couldn't say. 'No. I doubt it, but you should have a cadaver dog check them anyway.'

  'Well, looks like the other graves must be somewhere nearby.' Naysmith was squatting by one of the holes. 'Wouldn't be much point him digging like a dog for a bone otherwise.'

  'We searched this entire area last time without finding anything,' Roper said. 'He could have hidden a stash of cash or something. Makes more sense than wanting to dig up bodies that have been safely buried for eight years.'

  He had a point, but Simms was having none of it. 'Monk wouldn't have buried money. That'd involve planning ahead, and he doesn't think like that. No, this was about finding the Bennett girls. Dr Hunter, where was Monk when you first saw him?'

  I scanned the moor. Without the ground mist everything looked different, and there were no convenient landmarks to help me pinpoint where I'd first seen the figure. This was Sophie's speciality, not mine, but in his wisdom Simms had made her stay behind.

  Still, I felt reasonably confident as I pointed. 'Over there. About a hundred yards away.'

  Rain dripped from the rim of his hat as Simms looked dubiously at the unremarkable patch of moor. There wasn't much to see, no tor or hummocks large enough to have concealed anyone as big as Monk.

  'He can't have appeared from nowhere. Where did he come from?'

  'He was just standing there when we saw him. That's all I can tell you.'

  Simms' gloved fingers drummed against his leg, like a restless cat twitching its tail. 'Bring the dog,' he said, and started walking.

  The moor became boggier as we headed further out: patches of viscous black mud pooled with oily water. Several times we had to detour where it was too thick to cross, Roper muttering under his breath as he slithered about in his city shoes. Twice the dog seemed to catch an elusive trace of scent, but both times its handler shook his head after it lost it again.

  It was only as we neared the spot where I'd seen Monk that I realized we were retracing our steps from years before. This was where he'd claimed the other graves were, before Sophie's discovery of the badger sett had diverted us. I considered mentioning it, but Simms was sceptical enough already. Don't push your luck.

  I stopped and looked around, trying to gauge how far we'd come.

  'Well?' Simms prompted.

  'Around here somewhere, but it's hard to say where exactly.' I was uncomfortably aware that everyone was watching me. 'Over there, I think.'

  The patch of moor looked no different from any other. Just grass and heather, shivering slightly from the beating of the rain. There was no sign that anyone had ever been here.

  'You said he came after you. Which way did he go?' Simms asked.

  I tried to visualize it, but it wasn't easy from this new perspective 'To start with he followed us towards the track, but then he headed across the moor for the road to cut us off.'

  Naysmith motioned to the dog-handler. 'See if you can find anything.'

  The handler began casting round with his dog in an attempt to pick up Monk's trail. But they floundered straight away, the German shepherd's paws sinking into black mud. The dog thrashed and whined as its handler hauled it out, only for it to become stuck again moments later.

  'It's too wet,' he called, heaving it back on to firmer ground. 'It's like a quagmire
round here.'

  'Keep trying,' Simms told him.

  The handler's face made it clear what he thought of that. The dog's paws plunged deep into the soft mud, bogging it down. It had to be pulled free several more times, until both dog and handler were filthy and out of breath. Finally, it seemed to catch a scent on a stretch of firmer ground. Its ears pricked up in interest as it began to follow it, only to suddenly whine and back away.

  'Now what?' Simms demanded as the dog sneezed and pawed its nose.

  'Ammonia,' the handler said, sniffing with distaste. The pungent chemical smell was bad enough for humans; to a dog's sensitive nose it would be actively painful. He patted the German shepherd, giving Simms a reproachful look. 'The rain's washed some of it away but someone was expecting us. We're done here.'