The Calling Of The Grave dh-4

by Simon Beckett

  Driving out to Dartmoor, with a woman I'd not seen in eight years asleep next to me, I felt oddly at peace. I knew it was only temporary, a brief respite from the real world. Something was obviously troubling Sophie, and her attacker was still out there somewhere. But they were problems for the future. Here in the thrumming cocoon of the car, with the landscape breezing by outside and Sophie’s quiet breathing beside me, I felt strangely content.

  It was late afternoon when I pulled up outside Sophie's cottage. She woke when I switched off the engine. 'Where are we?' she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  'Home.'

  'God, don't tell me I slept all the way.'

  'Best thing for you. How do you feel?'

  She thought for a moment, still blinking away sleep. 'Better.'

  She looked it. Her colour was normal, except for the shocking bruise on her face. We climbed out of the car. After the tarmac and concrete of the city, the cold autumnal air out here tasted fresh and sweet. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the garden like a spreading stain. Off to one side was the small orchard that had seemed so sinister before. In the daylight it was a little better, although the gnarled old apple trees looked dead and barren.

  Behind them, standing almost as tall as the house, was the inverted cone of the kiln. Its dilapidation was more evident now, crumbling bricks seemingly held up by the rusted scaffolding. A pile of unused poles lay nearby, overgrown with grass and weeds: whatever repairs were being carried out had obviously ground to a halt years before.

  'That's my pride and joy,' Sophie said, as I opened the garden gate for her. 'It's a Victorian bottle kiln. There aren't many of them left.'

  'Does it still work?'

  'Sort of. Come on, I'll show you.'

  'It's OK,' I said, not wanting her to tire herself.

  But she was already following the path towards it. The rickety wooden door squealed as she pushed it open. 'You don't keep it locked?' I asked.

  She smiled. 'You're not in the city now. Besides, I don't think thieves would be interested. There's not much of a black market for hand-thrown pots. Unfortunately.'

  I followed her inside. There was a damp, dusty smell of old plaster. Light came from small windows set around the circular walls. In the building's centre was the original oven, a giant brick chimney stack that extended through the domed roof. It was scaffolded off, and parts of it were supported by a makeshift assembly of rusted props and timber joists.

  'Is it safe?' I asked, looking at the sagging brickwork.

  'Safe enough. It was like that when I bought it. It's a listed structure, so I can't knock it down even if I want to. Not that I would. The plan is to get the original oven working again eventually, but that'll have to wait till I get the money. Which won't be any time soon.'

  Off to one side stood a smaller, modern electric kiln and a clay- spattered potter's wheel. Workbenches and shelves were arranged around it, stacked with a haphazard assortment of pots. Some were glazed, others just baked clay. Even to my unschooled eye they seemed striking: organic shapes that looked as artistic as they were functional. I carefully picked up a large jug whose curving form seemed to flow, as though it had grown naturally. It felt well balanced in my hands, its lines smooth and sensuous.

  'I'd no idea you could do this,' I said, impressed.

  'Oh, I'm full of hidden talents,' she said, absently running her hand over a large ball of dried clay. It stood on a table littered with half- finished and broken pots. She smiled self-consciously. 'As you'll have noticed, being tidy isn't one of them. Anyway, I hope you can keep a secret.'

  Leaving me to wonder what she meant, she went to the kiln's curving wall. Sliding out a loose brick, she reached into the hole and took something out.

  'Spare key,' she said, holding it up. 'Always comes in handy.'

  Until then I'd not given much thought to the condition of the house, but the sight of the key jogged my memory. Oh, hell.

  'Wait, Sophie,' I said, hurrying after her as she left the kiln, but by then she'd. already seen for herself. She stopped dead on the path.

  'Oh, my God!'

  When we'd arrived the porch had been shadowed by the dying sun, hiding the damage to the front door, and our attention had been on the kiln. Now we were close enough to see the splintered wood and the way the door hung loosely on its hinges.

  I cursed myself. Idiot! You should have realized! The police had made a half-hearted attempt to wedge the door shut, but the hallway was wet where rain had blown in, and muddy footprints criss-crossed the rugs and polished floorboards. There was a rank smell, as if a fox or some other animal had been inside.

  Sophie stared in dismay at the scattered contents of the open drawers and cupboards.

  'It's not as bad as it looks,' I said feebly, cursing myself for not anticipating this. I should have come here instead of wasting my time at Wainwright's. 'I thought the police would have told you.'

  There was no answer. I realized she was crying silently, tears running down her cheeks.

  'Sophie. I'm really sorry-'

  'It isn't your fault.' She wiped furiously at her eyes. 'Thanks for bringing me home, but I think you'd better go.'

  'At least let me-'

  'No! It's all right. Really. I – I just want to be on my own. Please.'

  I could see she was only holding herself together by force of will. I hated to leave her like that, but I didn't know her well enough to do anything else.

  'I'll call you tomorrow. If there's anything else you need.. .'

  'I know. Thanks.'

  Feeling helpless, I started back towards my car, feet scuffing through the dead leaves that lay on the path. Behind me I heard the door creak in protest as she forced it shut. I got as far as the gate before I stopped, one hand on the weathered wood. The sky was already beginning to darken, the first stars pricking through the cold, deep blue. The ploughed fields and woods were starting to lose their identity in the lengthening shadows. Apart from the sway and rustle of bare branches, there wasn't a sound: no bird or animal to break the solitude. It was a bleak and lonely spot.

  I turned and went back to the house.

  The door had been pushed to but wouldn't close properly on its sprained hinges. I pushed it open. Sophie was on the hallway floor. She was hugging her knees, head bowed as she shook with silent sobs.

  Without saying anything I crouched next to her. She buried her face against me.

  'Oh, G-God, I'm so scared. I'm s-so s-scared…'

  'Shh, it's OK,' I told her.

  I hoped I was right.

  I repaired the front door as best I could, with tools Sophie provided. The lock was broken but I salvaged an ancient iron bolt from the pantry. It wasn't pretty, but it was big and solid, and would serve until a joiner could get here.

  At my insistence, Sophie went for a bath while I cleaned up the rest of the mess. Most of the damage was superficial – her belongings had been scattered but there were few breakages. Once I'd cleaned up and opened the windows to clear the musky animal smell, there was little evidence of what had happened.

  It was dark outside by the time Sophie came back down. She'd changed out of her sister's clothes into clean jeans and a baggy sweater. Her hair was still damp, brushed and pulled back from her face. Although her cheek was less swollen the skin was starting to deepen into purples and yellows as the bruising ran its course.

  'I made some tea,' I said, as she came into the kitchen.

  'Fine. Thank you.'

  'I've cleared up as best I can but you might want to make sure nothing's missing. Any jewellery or valuables.' She nodded, but didn't seem very interested. 'How's the head?'

  Sophie sat down at the scarred pine table, casually folding one long leg underneath her. 'Still aching, but not as much. I took some of the painkillers the hospital gave me.' She avoided looking at me as she reached for the teapot.

  'One of yours?' I asked. It was an unusual shape, functional but with clean, elegant lines.
<
br />   'Just a one-off I tried.' Silence descended. The only sound was the slow tinkling of the spoon as she stirred her tea. We both watched the spoon going round.

  'You'll wear it out,' I said.

  'Sorry.' She put the spoon down. 'Look, about earlier… I don't usually lose it like that.'

  'Don't worry about it. You've been through a lot.'

  'Even so, crying all over you like I did. I must have made a mess of your coat.'

  'I'll send you the cleaning bill.'

  'Yes, please do.'

  I sighed. 'Sophie, I'm joking.'

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. 'This is really awkward, isn't it?'

  'A little,' I admitted. 'Look, you don't have to talk now if you don't want to. It's getting late and I ought to set off soon.'

  'You're driving back tonight?' She looked startled. 'I can't let you do that. There's a spare room here.'

  'Really, it isn't-'

  'You'd be doing me a favour.' She gave me a nervous smile. 'Besides, you promised Maria.'

  She was trying hard, but I could see the cracks in her composure.

  After what she'd been through I didn't blame her for being rattled. 'OK, if you're sure.'

  Some of the tension went out of her. 'Are you hungry? I don't have much in but I can rustle something up.'

  Whatever was on Sophie's mind, she obviously wasn't ready to talk about it yet. It was best to let her get to it in her own time, though. Besides, I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

  I smiled. 'Starving.'

  Despite her protests, I made her sit down while I prepared something to eat. She wasn't exaggerating when she'd said there wasn't much in, but I found Cheddar and eggs that I beat into an omelette. There was an old electric range in the kitchen, and while the eggs sizzled in the pan I toasted slices from a stale loaf and slathered them in butter.

  'God, that smells delicious,' Sophie said.

  But she only picked at her food. The tension edged up between us again as we ate, and it was a relief when we'd finished.

  'Let's go into the sitting room,' she said. 'We can talk better in there.'

  It was a comfortable room: two big old sofas covered with throws, soft rugs on the polished floorboards and a woodburning stove. I didn't argue when Sophie insisted on lighting it herself, recognizing it as another delaying tactic.

  When it was lit she sat on the other sofa, so that we faced each other across a low coffee table. The flames flickered in the stove, filling the room with a smoky scent of burning pine. It was cosier and more relaxed than the brightly lit kitchen. Sophie and I had never been alone together like this before, and I realized how little we really knew about each other. Sitting with her in the firelight felt strangely intimate.

  'Do you want a brandy or something?' she asked.

  'I'm fine, thanks.'

  She cleared her throat. 'Look, I've been meaning to say… I heard about your family. I'm so sorry.'

  I just nodded. The wood crackled in the stove. Sophie gave a nervous smile, plucking at her fingers.

  'I don't know where to start.'

  'How about how you ended up here? Making pottery's a long way from being a BIA.'

  She smiled self-consciously. 'Yeah, just a bit. I'd had enough, I suppose. Seeing only the dark side of life, all that pain. And the failures. After the Monk fiasco I lost a lot of my confidence, started second-guessing everything I did. It got to the point where I hated getting up in the morning. So I got out before I burned out.'

  Sophie looked around the room as if taking it in for the first time.

  'I've been here four… no, five years now. God! Pottery used to be a hobby, so when I saw this place for sale I thought why not? I'd always liked Dartmoor and I wanted a fresh start, something completely different. Can you understand that?'

  I could. Probably better than she realized.

  'The first thing I did was burn all my notes,' she went on. 'Everything. Every case I'd ever worked on. All of it went on to the bonfire. Except one.'

  'Jerome Monk's,' I said.

  She nodded. 'I don't know why I didn't get rid of that as well. Perhaps coming out here, not so far from where it all happened. ..' She clasped her hands in her lap, so tightly her knuckles were white. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the muted crackle of fire from the stove. 'Do you ever think about it?'

  'Not until Monk escaped.'

  'I think about it a lot.' Sophie stared down at her clenched hands. 'We had a golden opportunity to find where Lindsey and Zoe Bennett were buried, and we threw it away.'

  I sighed. 'I'm not going to pretend it was a high point for any of us, but sometimes that's how it goes. We did our best. What happened back then wasn't anyone's fault.'

  She quickly shook her head, her face shadowed. 'We should have done more. I should have done more.'

  'Monk had his own agenda for being there, and it didn't have anything to do with taking us to the graves. He only wanted a chance to escape.' And almost managed it.

  'But that's the thing, I don't think he did.' She waved away my objection before I could make it. 'All right, yes, escaping was part of it. Probably a big part. But I don't think that was the only reason he agreed to help. The way he reacted when he saw Tina Williams' grave, I don't think he was putting that on. I'm certain he was genuinely trying to remember.'

  She was looking at me earnestly, willing me to believe her. I chose my words carefully. 'Jerome Monk knew that moor better than anyone. He'd managed to hide out on it for months without being caught. If he'd wanted to he could have taken us right to the other graves.'

  'Not necessarily. I said back then that finding them wouldn't be straightforward, not after a year, and especially not if he'd buried them at night. And people blank things from their minds without meaning to. Painful memories sometimes, or when their brain has too much to process and just overloads.'

  'That might apply to an ordinary man who flipped and lost his temper, but you're talking about Jerome Monk. He's a sociopathic serial killer, a predator. He doesn't have a conscience.'

  'On some level he might,' she persisted. 'I'm not defending him or what he did. He's violent and unpredictable, but that doesn't mean he can't be reached. That's why I-'

  She broke off, looking down at her hands. An owl hooted outside. 'That's why you what?' I asked.

  'That's… why I've been writing to him.'

  'You've been writing to Monk?

  Her chin came up, defiantly. 'Ever since I came here. I write to him once a year, on the anniversary of Angela Carson's murder. We can't say for sure when he killed any of his other victims, so I thought… Anyway, once a year I write and urge him to say where the graves are. And I offer to help him.'

  I stared at her, aghast. 'Sophie, for God's sake!'

  'He's never responded, but all I need is a landmark, some clue of whereabouts they are! And if he needs help remembering, he might be more likely to turn to someone who isn't connected to the police. What harm can it do?'

  Christ. I rubbed my eyes. 'Did you put your address on the letters?'

  'Well, I…' Her fingers clenched and fretted at each other. She gave a guilty nod. 'I didn't know how else could he write back.'

  'Do the police know?'

  'The police? No, I… Well, I didn't think there was much point.'

  'Not much point? Sophie, you get attacked the day after a rapist and murderer escapes from prison, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning you'd been writing to him?'

  'I was embarrassed, all right?' she flared. 'And yes, I know how stupid it makes me look, but at least I've tried to do something! Every time I see the moor I think that there are still two dead girls – two sisters – buried out there somewhere. And no one's doing anything about it. How do you think that makes their family feel? I know how it makes me feel, knowing we could have done something about it and didn't!'

  There was a tremor of emotion in her voice. I reminded myself she'd been through a lot. This couldn't be easy for her.
r />   'You have to tell the police,' I said gently. 'I can call Terry Connors and-'

  'No!'

  'Sophie, you don't have any choice. You know that.'

  I thought she was going to argue, but the defiance seemed to drain out of her. She stared at the fire flickering in the stove.

  'I'll tell the police, but on one condition. I called you to ask for a favour. That still hasn't changed.'

  With everything else that had happened I'd almost forgotten why she'd asked to see me in the first place. 'What is it?'

  She lifted her head. The flames from the stove tiger-striped her face, masking it in light and shadow

  'I want you to help me find the graves.'

  Chapter 15

  The estate was a warren of semi-detached houses. The post-war homes had once aspired to be middle class but now they were beginning to look tired and run down. A few of them had made an effort; neat modern conservatories and new windows amongst the cracked paths and peeling paintwork. But they were the exceptions, lonely optimists in a neighbourhood that had once seen better days.

  'Take the next left,' Sophie told me.

  She seemed outwardly calm, but there was an underlying nervousness she was trying hard to conceal. I still didn't know where we were going or why, just followed the directions she gave as I drove.

  'Why the mystery?' I'd asked.

  'No mystery. It's just better if you wait till we get there.'

  I hadn't argued. It seemed easier to go along with whatever she had in mind. I'd known Sophie was stubborn, but her determination to find the bodies of Lindsey and Zoe Bennett bordered on obsessional. The night before I'd tried to persuade her it was useless, that the two of us couldn't hope to accomplish anything after a full- scale police search had failed.

  I'd wasted my breath.

  'We can still fry,' she insisted.

  'Sophie, I wouldn't know where to start. We don't know if Monk buried Zoe and Lindsey anywhere near Tina Williams. And even if he did, grave location was more Wainwright's field than mine.'