The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  Oh, God! I closed my eyes, fighting for breath. There didn't seem to be enough air. Stars sparked in my vision. I tried to steady my breathing, realizing I was starting to hyperventilate. For Christ's sake don't pass out! Gradually, my heart slowed. I opened my eyes. Lit by the torch from below, the rock wall was inches from my face. I could see its granular texture, smell its damp, salty hardness. I moistened my dry lips. Come on, think! But I didn't have any options left. My arm felt completely dead. Sophie was unconscious, wedged against me more tightly than ever. I couldn't go any further, nor could I back out, not with her blocking the way.

  We were trapped.

  There was a glow off to one side. I looked over Sophie's head and saw a torch beam lighting the fissure behind us, throwing the irregularities of the rock into sharp relief. There was a slow scraping, accompanied by the rasp of laboured breathing.

  Then Monk edged into view. He was jammed sideways into the narrow gap, mouth contorted as he forced himself towards us. It had been tight enough for me: I couldn't imagine what it must be like for him.

  He didn't speak until he'd reached Sophie. Still holding the torch, a massive hand snaked out and gripped her shoulder.

  'Got her . . .'

  His voice was a strained gasp, but I felt most of her weight lift from me. I slid my arm from behind her, smearing more skin from my knuckles on the rock, and then I was free. I flexed my fingers, gritting my teeth as my arm blazed with returning circulation.

  'Go,' Monk wheezed.

  He kept Sophie upright while I squeezed between the rock faces. My coat snagged as they gripped tighter than ever, then I'd scraped through and the fissure widened. I sucked in air, giddy with relief as I shone the torch back on to Monk and Sophie.

  His mouth was open in a rictus, his breathing agonized as the rock constricted his massive chest. But he said nothing as I reached back through the narrow section, grabbing a handful of Sophie's coat in one hand and protecting her head with the other.

  The close walls of the fissure helped us now, holding her in place as Monk propped her up on one side while I pulled her through the narrow section from the other. Heaving her arm around my shoulders so her head was cradled against me, I took her weight and straightened. Then I shone the torch back on to Monk.

  He'd worked his way even further in to help me with Sophie. Now he was wedged impossibly tightly into the gap, squashed between the rock. His mouth worked like a grounded fish as he fought for breath.

  'Can you get back?' I panted. There was no way he could make it through any further.

  It was hard to tell but I thought he grinned. 'Bulked out . . . since last time . . .'

  It sounded painful for him to even talk. Christ, he's not going to be able to get out of there. 'Listen, I can—'

  'Fuck off. . . Get her out.'

  I hesitated, but only for a second. He'd survived down here well enough without my help, and Sophie was my priority. I began half carrying, half dragging her away. I glanced back once, but could see only darkness. There was no sign of Monk or his torch.

  He must have gone back, but I couldn't spare any thoughts for him. It was a little wider here but Sophie was a dead weight. It was all I could do to support her. Water was streaming down the uneven base of the fissure now, flowing over my boots and making it impossible to see where I was treading. I stumbled repeatedly, our coats scraping and snagging on the rock that still pressed in on us. I kept on, knowing that if we became trapped now we were on our own.

  Then the walls suddenly opened out. Gasping for breath, I shone the torch around a low passage. It was only a little higher than my head but wide enough for us to stand side by side. If Monk was right, then this must be the way to the surface.

  It sloped uphill at a steep angle. I started up but I was stooped under Sophie's weight, my legs leaden and shaking. I couldn't go any further, not without a rest. Lowering her to the floor, I knelt beside her and stroked the tangle of hair from her face.

  'Sophie? Can you hear me?'

  There was no response. I checked her pulse. It was too fast. When I checked her eyes the right one was more dilated than ever. It didn't change when I shone the torch into it.

  I struggled to lift her again, but there was no strength in my limbs. I took a few faltering steps and almost fell. I lowered Sophie back to the ground. This is hopeless. I bowed my head, almost weeping. I'd no idea how far there was to go, but I couldn't carry her any further. If she was going to have any chance of surviving, there was only one thing I could do.

  I had to leave her behind.

  Don't waste time. Do it. I stripped off my coat, gently wadding the sleeves under her head and wrapping the rest around her body. The cold bit into me straight away, but I didn't care. I looked down at her, feeling my resolve weaken. God, I can't do this. But I didn't have a choice.

  'I'm coming back, I promise,' I said, my voice shaking from the chill.

  Then I turned away and left her in the darkness.

  The passage began to climb more steeply. Before long I was having to use my hands to clamber upwards. The walls and roof closed in, until it was little more than a tunnel. The torch revealed nothing except a black hole surrounded by rock. It seemed endless. Exhaustion made me dizzy. My senses began playing tricks on me, so that I began to think I was heading downwards, crawling deeper underground instead of towards the surface.

  Then something scratched my face. I jerked away, yelling out as something snagged my hair. I shone the torch at it and saw spiky branches. Plants? I thought, dumbly. I felt water dripping on to my face, but it was only when I noticed the cold wind on my cheek that I realized it was rain.

  I was outside.

  It was dark. In the torch beam I saw that the passage had emerged in a clump of gorse that clung to a sloping rock face. I had to crawl underneath the spiky, dripping branches, tugging myself free when they snagged my skin and clothes. I slithered the last few yards and splashed feet first into a freezing stream.

  Shivering in the cold, I shone the torch around as I climbed out. The fog had cleared but rain fell in a sullen, steady downpour. I was on the moor, at the foot of a small tor. It was overgrown with gorse that completely hid the cave mouth. There was light on the horizon, but I'd no idea if it marked dawn or dusk, or even where I was. I tried to force my numbed mind to work. Which way? Come on, decide!

  A faint noise came to me on the wind. I tilted my head, trying to catch which direction it was coming from. It faded, and for a moment I was afraid I was imagining it. Then I heard it again, stronger this time.

  The distant whickering of a helicopter.

  I clambered up the side of the tor, fatigue and cold forgotten as I waved the torch over my head.

  'HERE! OVER HERE!'

  I shouted myself hoarse, oblivious of the gorse tearing at me as 1 hauled myself on to the crest of the tor. I could see the helicopter's running lights now, bright specks of colour perhaps half a mile away. For an awful few seconds I thought it was going to fly straight by. Then it banked and came towards me. As its lights grew in size I could make out the police markings on its side, and when I saw that the last of my strength went. My legs gave way and I slumped on to the cold stone, willing the approaching machine to fly faster.

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  I seem to have spent an disproportionate amount of my life in hospitals. I've become too familiar with the slow tick of time passed on hard plastic chairs, the anxiety and frustration.

  The waiting.

  The past twenty-four hours seemed unreal, like a bad dream I couldn't shake off. That was partly due to the hypothermia I'd developed, not severe but bad enough to leave me still feeling chilled and slightly detached, as though I were watching events happening to someone else. The pale light in the sky I'd seen when I'd emerged from the cave had been morning. It felt like I'd been underground for days, but it was only hours since the car crash.

  In the police helicopter I'd been wrapped in a blanket and given choc
olate and hot tea from the pilot's Thermos. I'd been shivering uncontrollably by then, but I wouldn't let them take me to hospital. I was frantic to go straight back down for Sophie, but there was no question of that. When the rescue team arrived there was a bad moment when they couldn't find the cave. It had seemed like an age until a yell from deep in the thicket of gorse announced that the entrance had been located.

  The next hour was one of the longest of my life. Sitting in the cramped plastic and leather cabin of the helicopter, woozy from exhaustion and nauseated by the smell of aviation fuel, I was free to replay all that had happened. In the cold dawn light everything I'd done, every decision I'd made, now seemed wrong.

  Sophie was alive but unconscious when they brought her out. By then the gorse bushes immediately around the cave entrance had been hacked away, enough for the stretcher to be carried to the waiting air ambulance. I went with her, knowing better than to ask the paramedics questions they couldn't answer. When the helicopter landed at the hospital a team of nurses and doctors rushed her away, crouching beneath the whirling rotors.

  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 high- profile 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?