The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  'It doesn't matter,' I said.

  The search advisor gave me a sideways look, but said nothing. With no one left alive to corroborate my story, Simms was doing his best to discredit my account of what had happened. Not only had he built his reputation on wrongly convicting Monk, but now it emerged that he'd entrusted the real killer with responsibility for searching for the missing victims. The press were clamouring for blood, and for probably the first time in his life Simms was reluctant to appear in front of TV cameras. With his career at stake he'd even suggested that I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress after my recent experiences, and was therefore an unreliable witness. So far none of the mud he'd thrown had stuck, but it was clear I'd outstayed my welcome. He'd seen to it that I'd been shut out of the investigation, and it was only as a courtesy from Naysmith that I'd been allowed to accompany them on the moor that morning.

  But I was long past caring about Simms. I'd just arrived back at the hotel when my phone rang. The woman's voice at the other end was instantly recognizable.

  'It's Marie Eliot, Sophie's sister.' She sounded tired.

  I tensed, my hand gripping the phone. 'Yes?'

  'She's awake. She's asking to see you.'

  Even though I'd known what to expect, Sophie's condition was a shock. The thick mane of hair had been shaved off, replaced by a white dressing. She looked thin and pale, and her arms where the tubes fed in and out were emaciated and wasted.

  'Bet I look a mess. . .'

  Her voice was a whisper. I shook my head. 'You're OK, that's the main thing.'

  'David, I . . .' She took hold of my hand. 'I'd have died if not for you.'

  'You didn't.'

  Her eyes filled with tears. 'I know about Terry. Naysmith told me. I - I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything. About the diary. I need to explain . . .'

  'Not now. We can talk later.'

  She gave a faint smile. 'At least we got Zoe and Lindsey back . . . I was right after all.'

  Her eyes were already closing. I waited till her breathing showed she was asleep, then gently disengaged my hand. Sophie looked peaceful, the stress of the past week smoothed from her features. I sat beside the bed for a while, watching her.

  Thinking.

  It was still unclear whether she'd face charges for withholding Zoe Bennett's diary. Although she'd kept its existence from the police, even by Terry's admission it hadn't come into her possession until after Monk was convicted of - and had confessed to - the murders. There was nothing in the diary to undermine that, so technically it could be argued it wasn't even evidence at that point. She would have to answer some awkward questions, but from what Naysmith had told me it was unlikely she'd be prosecuted.

  It wasn't as if she'd actually committed a crime.

  She regained her strength quickly. The doctors expected her to make a full recovery, with no long-term impairment. After what she'd been through, they said she'd been incredibly lucky.

  I agreed. Even so, I waited until I felt she was well enough to have the conversation I'd been putting off. My footsteps rang on the hospital floor as I followed the corridor to Sophie's room. It seemed a long walk. A nurse was in there with her, one of the regulars I'd seen before. They were both laughing as I went in. The nurse gave Sophie a dimpled grin, making me wonder what they'd been talking about.

  'I'll leave you two to it,' she said, going out.

  Sophie sat up, smiling. The dressings were off her skull and her hair was already growing out to an auburn stubble, blunting the sutured, horseshoe-shaped scar. She was starting to look more like her old self. Like the person I remembered from eight years ago. It was as though a weight had been lifted from her.

  'Marie's spoken to the insurers,' Sophie said. 'They've agreed to pay out for all the stock and equipment I lost when the kiln collapsed. We're still haggling about the building itself but I'll get more than enough to set up again. That's great, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' I said. I'd only been back out to the house once, to collect my car. The sight of the ruined kiln, the bricks now pulled from it and scattered over the garden by the rescue teams, had been depressing. I'd been glad to leave.

  Sophie's smile faded. 'What's wrong?'

  'There's something I need to ask you.'

  'Oh, yes?' She tilted her head quizzically. 'Go on.'

  'You knew Terry killed them, didn't you?'

  I watched the swift play of emotions on her face. 'What? I don't understand . . .'

  'You knew he'd murdered Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and probably Tina Williams. I just can't make up my mind if you stayed quiet to protect him, or because you were scared what he'd do to you.'

  She drew back slightly as she stared at me. 'That's an awful thing to say!'

  'I'm not saying you had any proof. But you knew, all the same.'

  'Of course I didn't!' Patches of colour had flushed her cheeks. 'You really think I'd have kept quiet if I'd known Terry was a murderer? How can you even think something like that?'

  'Because you're too intelligent for it not to have occurred to you.'

  That took the heat from her. She looked away. 'I'm obviously not as clever as you think. Why would I have bothered writing to Monk, asking where the twins' graves were, if I knew he hadn't killed them?'

  'I wondered about that. I thought it was just lucky you'd kept copies of the letters, but I don't think luck had anything to do with it. You wanted them to prove you really thought Monk was guilty, in case something like this happened. You just never expected him to call your bluff.'

  'I don't believe this! Look, if this is because of the diary I've already told the police everything. They know all about it!'

  'Then why don't you explain it to me?'

  She looked down at where her hands were clasped together on the bed, then back up at me. 'All right, I lied about me and Terry. It was more than just a fling. We'd been seeing each other on and off for a couple of years while he was in London. There was even talk of him divorcing his wife at one point.'

  Another minor piece of the puzzle slipped into place. 'Were you still seeing him during the search?'

  'No, we'd split up before then. He was . . . well, it was always pretty heated between us. We'd row a lot. About him seeing other women.' She didn't seem to notice the irony of what she was saying. 'It wasn't until months after the search that we finally got back together again. He promised he'd changed. Like an idiot I believed him.'

  'Was that when you found Zoe Bennett's diary?'

  'His wife had thrown him out by then. He got called out on a job and left me alone in this squalid little flat he was renting. I was bored, so I started tidying things away. Half of his things were still in boxes. The diary was buried under a pile of papers in one of them. God, when I realized what it was . . .You can't imagine how that felt.'

  No, I didn't expect I could. 'Why didn't you tell anyone? You'd got proof that Terry had been having a relationship with a murdered girl. Why would you keep quiet about something like that?'

  'Because I thought Monk was guilty! Everyone did!' She was looking at me earnestly. 'What was the point of stirring up a lot of needless trouble? Not so much for him but for his family. I'd done enough to them already without that. And I'd found things left by his girlfriends before. Cheap jewellery and make-up in his car. Underwear. I thought the diary was just more of the same.'

  'Sophie, you were a behavioural specialist! You're telling me you never once thought it was more than that?'

  'No! I wanted to hurt him, that's why I took the diary. I knew he'd been sleeping with her, but I never suspected anything else!'

  'Then why were you frightened of him?'

  She blinked. 'I ... I wasn't.'

  'Yes, you were. When I took you home from hospital you were terrified. Yet you still pretended you couldn't remember who'd attacked you.'

  'I - I suppose I didn't want to get him into trouble. You can't switch off your feelings for someone, even if they don't deserve it.'

  I passed
a hand over my face. My skin felt grainy. 'Let me tell you what I think,' I said. 'You took the diary on impulse, to hurt Terry like you say. You were angry and jealous and it gave you a hold over him. It was only after you'd taken it that you realized the danger you'd put yourself in. But by then you couldn't go to the police without getting yourself into trouble. So you hid it and kept quiet, and hoped the threat of it would stop him from killing you as well.'

  'That's ridiculous!'

  But there was a defensiveness behind her indignation. 'I think you blamed Terry for spoiling your career,' I went on. 'It must have been hard, helping the police to expose other people's secrets when you'd one like that of your own. So you stopped working as a BIA and tried to make a fresh start. Except that takes money, doesn't it?'

  For a second Sophie looked afraid. She hid it behind bluster. 'What are you trying to say?'

  I'd had plenty of time to think it through over the past few days.

  Terry had called Sophie a blackmailing bitch, and while I didn't give much credence to what he said it had started me thinking. That didn't mean I liked what I was about to do. But we'd gone too far to stop now.

  'The cottage you're living in, it can't be cheap. And you said yourself the pottery doesn't sell. Yet you still seem to make a decent living.'

  Sophie's expression was defiant but brittle. 'I get by.'

  'So you never asked Terry for money?'

  She looked down at her hands, but not before I saw that her eyes were brimming. The door opened and the nurse who'd been there earlier came in. The smile died on her face.

  'Everything all right?'

  Sophie nodded quickly, her face averted. 'Thanks.'

  'Let me know if you want anything.' The nurse gave me a cold look before she went out again.

  I didn't say anything else. Just waited. I could hear footsteps and animated voices from the corridor, but in that small room there wasn't a sound. The noise and energy of the hospital outside seemed like another world.

  'You don't know what it was like,' Sophie said eventually, her voice cracked. 'You want to know if I was scared? Of course I was scared! But I didn't know what else to do. I took the diary without thinking. I — I was just so bloody mad! He'd been screwing that . . . that teenage slut while he'd been seeing me! But I swear at first I still thought Monk had killed her. It was only later that . . . that I . . . Oh, Christ!'

  She covered her face as the tears came. I hesitated, then passed her a tissue from the bedside table.

  'I didn't want to believe it was Terry. I kept telling myself Monk really had killed them. That's one reason I started writing to him, trying to convince myself. I was wrong.' She broke off to wipe her eyes. 'But I was angry as well. I'd given up everything because of

  Terry. My career, my home. He was the reason I moved out here. The least the bastard could do was help me start again. I didn't ask for much, only enough to help set me up. I thought... I thought as long as I'd got the diary I'd be safe.'

  Oh, Sophie . . . 'But you weren't, were you?'

  'I was until Monk escaped. I hadn't heard anything from Terry in over a year. Then he phoned up, ranting and threatening what he'd do if I didn't give him the diary. I'd never heard him like that before, I didn't know what to do!'

  'So you phoned me,' I said tiredly. Not to help her find the graves, or at least not only that. She'd wanted someone with her in case Terry tried anything.

  'I couldn't think who else to call. And I knew you wouldn't say no.' She plucked at the damp tissue. 'Next day I was getting ready to meet you when he hammered on the door. When I wouldn't let him in he ... he broke it down. I ran upstairs and tried to lock myself in the bathroom, but he forced his way in there as well. I got hit by the door.'

  Her hand went automatically to the fading bruise on her cheek. I remembered seeing the stairs were wet when I'd found her. If I'd given it any thought I might have realized she hadn't been surprised in the bathroom as she'd claimed.

  'Why didn't you say something then?'

  'How could I? I'd been hiding evidence for years! And I'd no idea Terry had been suspended. When you said he'd been to see you . . .'

  A shudder ran through her. Instinctively I started to reach out, but stopped myself.

  'I didn't really do anything wrong!' she blurted. 'I know I made a mistake, but that's why I wanted to find Zoe and Lindsey s graves so badly. I thought at least if I could do that much it might make up for . . . for . . .'

  For what? Protecting their killer? For letting the wrong man stay in prison? Sophie looked down at the shredded tissue in her hands.

  'So what now?' she asked in a small voice. 'Are you going to tell Naysmith?'

  'No. You can do that.'

  She took hold of my hand. 'Do I have to? They already know about the diary. It won't change anything.'

  No, but it'll end eight years of lies. I set her hand on the bed and stood up.

  'Bye, Sophie.'

  I walked out into the corridor. My footsteps rang on the hard floor as the clamour of the hospital enveloped me. I felt an odd detachment as I walked through it, as though I were encased in a bubble separating me from the noise and life around me. Even the fresh, cold air outside didn't dispel it. The bright autumn sunlight somehow seemed flat as I went back to my car. I unlocked it and stiffly lowered myself into the seat. My cracked ribs were manageable but still painful.

  I closed my eyes and put my head back. I felt empty. The idea of driving back to London didn't appeal, but I'd been here long enough. Too long, in fact. The past was beyond reach.

  Time to move on.

  Rousing myself, I reached into my pocket for my phone, wincing as my ribs protested. I'd turned it off in the hospital and when I switched it back on it beeped straight away. For an instant I was back in the darkness of the cave, then I shook my head.

  I had a message waiting. Or rather messages: I'd missed three calls, all from the same number. It wasn't one I recognized. I frowned, but before I could play any of them my phone shrilled again. It was a call this time, from the same number as before. I straightened. Something urgent.

  I felt the familiar quickening of interest as I answered.

  * * *

  Acknowledgements

  As ever, I couldn't have written this book without the help of other people, especially the real-life experts who were generous enough to help with the often thorny issue of research. In no particular order, thanks are therefore due to Tony Cook, Regional Major Crime Advisor with the National Police Improvement Agency; Dr Markus Reuber, Academic Neurology Unit, University of Sheffield; forensic ecologist Patricia Wiltshire; Dr Tim Thompson, Senior Lecturer in Crime Science at the University of Teesside, and Dr Rebecca Gowland, Department of Archaeology, Durham University, for allowing me to take their Body Location and Recovery course; Doug Bain, retired dog-handler and CSI; Professor Sue Black and Dr Patrick Randolph-Quinney of the University of Dundee's Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification; Professor John Hunter, Institute of Archaeology and Antiquity at the University of Birmingham; Dave Warne, chairman of the Plymouth Caving Group, and the Ministry of Justice Press Office.

  The ratio of decomposition is taken from W. R. Maples' and M. Browning's Dead Men Do Tell Tales, Doubleday, 1994.

  Thanks also to Hilary for her unfailing support, to Mom and Dad for never doubting, to Ben Steiner, SCF, Simon Taylor and the team at Transworld, my agents Mic Cheetham and Simon Kavanagh, all at the Marsh Agency, and to the translators who have introduced David Hunter to a wider audience.

  Finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my international rights agent Paul Marsh, whose death in 2009 was a loss to publishing as well as to everyone who knew him.

  Simon Beckett, August 2010

  * * *

  About The Author

  Simon Beckett is the international bestselling author of three thrillers featuring forensics expert Dr David Hunter — The Chemistry of Death, Written in Bone and the Sunday Times bestseller Whispers of the Dead. In 200
2, he went on an assignment for the Daily Telegraph Magazine to Tennessee's world-famous Anthropological Research Facility, The Body Farm. As well as providing the inspiration for David Hunter, what he saw and learned there, together with his meticulous approach to research, helps make his novels so frighteningly authentic.

  Simon Beckett lives in Sheffield. To find out more about the author and his books, visit www.simonbeckett.com