Including the police. 'Is this where you hid last time?'
His head snapped up. 'I don't fucking hide! I've always come down here.'
'Why?'
'To get away from people like you. Now shut the fuck up.'
He rummaged in the rubbish on the floor and produced a bar of chocolate. Ripping it open, he tore into it as though he were famished. When it was gone he twisted the top from a bottle of water and tilted his head back to drink. I was aware of my own parched throat as I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down.
Monk tossed the empty bottle aside. He nodded down at Sophie. 'Wake her up.'
'She needs to sleep.'
'You want me to do it?'
He reached his bloodied hand towards Sophie. I acted instinctively, knocking it away. Monk became very still, his eyes burning into me.
'She's hurt,' I said. 'If you want her to help you she needs to rest. She's just been in a car crash, for God's sake.'
'I didn't know it'd roll like that.' He sounded sullen. He looked down at Sophie again, this time taking in the fading bruise on her cheek. 'What happened to her face?'
'Don't you know? Someone broke into her house and attacked her.'
Something seemed to flicker in those dark eyes. The broad forehead creased into deep lines. 'It was all smashed up. She wasn't there. I didn't… I can't…'
He folded his hands over his shaved head, his voice dropping to an inaudible mumble.
'Can't what?' I pushed, forgetting myself.
'I can't fucking remember!’ His shout reverberated inside the small chamber. He banged the heels of his hands against the sides of his head, as though trying to drive them through. 'I try and try, but there's nothing! You're supposed to be a doctor, what's wrong with me?'
I couldn't begin to answer that. 'I was only a GP, but there are specialists-'
'Fuck 'em!' Spittle sprayed from his mouth. 'Pricks in white coats, what do they know?'
This time I had enough sense to stay quiet. Some of the heat seemed to go from him. The big hands opened and closed as he looked at Sophie. She hadn't woken, even now.
'You and her… She's your girlfriend.'
I was about to say no, but something stopped me. Monk didn't seem to expect an answer anyway.
'I had a girlfriend.' He clasped both hands round the back of his head. His mouth worked. 'I killed her.'
Chapter 27
By the time he was fifteen, Monk's life was set in stone. Orphaned since birth, he'd grown up doubly excluded, shunned for his physical defects and feared for his abnormal strength. The few families that fostered the surly, freakish boy soon sent him back, shaken by the experience. By the time he reached puberty he was stronger than most grown men, and violence and intimidation had become second nature.
Then the blackouts started.
To begin with he didn't realize. Most came at night, so his only awareness of them was a feeling of haziness and lethargy next day, of inexplicable bruises or bloodied hands. The problem only came to light in a young offenders' institution, when his nocturnal behaviour terrified the other inmates. Monk would throw tantrums, laughing like a lunatic and reacting to any attempts to subdue him with devastating, frenzied violence. Next morning he wouldn't recall any of it.
At first he believed the accusations and subsequent punishments were just new forms of victimization. He reacted by becoming more insular and aggressive than ever. It never occurred to him to ask for help, and he would have rejected any had it been offered. Not that it was. Prison psychologists spoke of anti-social behaviour, of impulse- control disorders and sociopathic tendencies. One look was enough to confirm anyone's worst suspicions. He was a freak, a monster.
He was Monk.
As he grew older he took to wandering on the moor. The ancient landscape, with its rocky tors and thorny gorse, had a calming effect. More importantly, it allowed him to be on his own. One day he came across an overgrown hole in a hillside. It was an old mine adit, although he didn't know that at the time. It opened, quite literally, a new world for him. He began seeking out the old mines and caves that lay below the surface of Dartmoor, exploring and even sleeping in them whenever he could. He spent as much time down in the cold, dark tunnels as he did in the run-down caravan he called home. They were a reassuring constant, indifferent to day or night and untouched by weather or seasons. They made him feel secure. Stilled.
Even the blackouts seemed less frequent.
He was on his way to the moor one night when he saw the gang. He'd been away from it for almost a week, labouring on a building site for cash in hand. Now, with money in his pocket, the need to get back made his skin prickle and itch. He felt as if nails were being scratched on blackboards inside him, and there was a muzziness in his head that often presaged an impending blackout.
At first he ignored the hooded youths huddled under a broken streetlight. They had something down on the floor, trapping it like a pack of animals. Monk wasn't interested, and would have gone on by if it hadn't been for their laughter. Vicious and cruel, it throbbed behind his eyes like an echo of childhood. The gang had scattered after he'd knocked two or three of them away, leaving a lone figure on the floor. The tendons in Monk's hands had ached with the need to hit something else, but the girl on the ground had looked up without fear. She gave him a shy smile.
Her name was Angela Carson.
'You knew her?'
The question spilled out before I could stop it. According to the reports I'd read, witnesses had seen Monk in his fourth victim's neighbourhood before the murder, but it was assumed he'd simply been stalking her. There was never any suggestion that he'd known Angela Carson, let alone that they'd had any sort of relationship.
The look in Monk's eyes was answer enough.
After that first, accidental meeting the pair had been drawn together. Both were lonely. Both, in different ways, excluded from society. Angela Carson was almost completely deaf, and it was easier for her to sign than speak. Monk didn't know how, but the two of them still managed to communicate. In the plain young woman he finally found someone who was neither terrified nor repulsed by him. For her part, it wasn't difficult to imagine that she found his strength comforting. He took to visiting her after dark, when there was less chance of being seen by neighbours.
It wasn't long before she asked him to stay the night.
The blackouts had been less frequent since they'd met. He'd been calmer, less agitated. He'd allowed himself to believe they were over. Even so, he hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But he had.
He claimed to have no recollection of what happened, only that he found himself standing by the bed. There was a pounding on the door as the police tried to break in. All was noise and confusion. His hands were covered in blood, but none of it was his.
He looked down and saw Angela Carson.
That was when Monk lost what little control he had left. When the police burst into the room he attacked them in a frenzy. Then he ran until his legs gave way, futilely trying to escape the images of that bloodied room.
Without even thinking about it, he'd gone out on to the moor.
And gone to ground.
That the police would be looking for him didn't really enter into his thinking: he was trying to escape from himself, not them. Cold and hunger drove him up after a few days. He'd lost all sense of time, and it was night when he emerged. He stole clothes and food, and what equipment he needed, and was back in his sanctuary before dawn.
Over the next three months he spent more time underground, beneath the gorse and heather of Dartmoor, than he did in the outside world. He only emerged into fresh air and daylight to move to another system of tunnels, or to steal or forage fresh supplies and check the traps he'd laid for rabbits. The surface reminded him of who he was and what he'd done. Underneath the dark rock he was able to bury himself away.
And forget.
Indifferent to his own safety, he was able to find places and worm into tunnels that no one else would dare to
enter. Twice he had to dig himself out when the roof collapsed; another time he was almost drowned when the system he was in flooded after heavy rains. Once he sat unseen, hunched in the shadows as a group of cavers clattered by only yards away. He let them go, but afterwards sought out a less public refuge.
The blackouts continued, but down there he was only vaguely aware of them. Sometimes he would wake in a different cavern or tunnel from the one he remembered, with no memory of how he had got there. He took to sleeping with a torch in his pocket for when that happened.
Then one day he found himself walking on the roadside in broad sunlight. He felt confused, his thoughts as muddy as his clothes, with no idea of where he was or what he was doing. That was how the police found him.
The first time he heard of Tina Williams or Zoe and Lindsey Bennett was when he was charged with their murders.
'Then why did you plead guilty?' I asked.
Monk absently rubbed at a spot between two of his knuckles, the button eyes staring at nothing. I'd always thought they were empty: now I wondered how I could have missed the pain in them.
'Everyone said I'd done it. They found their stuff at my caravan.'
'But if you couldn't remember-'
'You think I fucking cared?'
He glared at me, but even that seemed too much effort. He convulsed as another coughing spasm took him. It was even more violent than before, and when it passed it left him gasping.
Without thinking, I reached out for his wrist. 'Here, let me check your pulse-'
'Touch me and I'll break your arm.'
I lowered my hand. Monk sat back against the rock, regarding me with suspicion. 'If you're a doctor, how come you dig up bodies? Think you can bring them back to life?'
'No, but I can help find who killed them.'
I wished the words back as soon as they were out, but it was too late. When Monk started wheezing I thought it was another coughing fit until I realized he was laughing.
'Still a fucking smartarse,' he rumbled.
But he soon broke off. Each breath was a ragged whistle, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. The black eyes seemed sunken into his skull as it pressed through the yellow skin.
'The heart attack wasn't faked, was it?' I said.
Monk stroked his hand back and forth over his head, his thumb fitting disconcertingly into the depression in his skull. It seemed to calm him.
'It was charlie.'
It took me a moment to understand. 'You overdosed on cocaine? Deliberately?'
The big head nodded. His hand continued to rasp over it.
'How much?'
'Enough.'
It explained how Monk had fooled the doctors. As well as sending his blood pressure sky high, a cocaine overdose could trigger tachycardia, making his heartbeat dangerously fast and irregular. The symptoms could easily be mistaken for the onset of a heart attack, and prove just as fatal. Judging from Monk's condition I guessed he'd suffered cardiovascular damage at the very least, perhaps even heart failure. Throw in a respiratory infection and it was a miracle he wasn't dead. No wonder we'd escaped from him out at Black Tor.
He'd been too sick to catch us.
'You could have killed yourself,' I said.
His mouth curled. 'So what?'
'I don't understand. You waited eight years, why escape now?'
His mouth twitched in what at first I mistook for a smile. Then I saw the look in his eyes and realized it was anything but.
'Because the bastards stitched me up.'
I'd been on the verge of believing him until then. Even, God help me, pitying him. Monk was capable of a lot of things but acting wasn't one of them. But while I'd have sworn the bizarre seizure I'd witnessed was genuine, this was pure paranoia. I must have let my thoughts show.
'You think I'm a psycho, don't you?'
'No, I-'
'Don't fucking lie!'
He was glaring at me, big head jutting forward. Careful. 'Why do you think you were set up?'
He glared at me for a moment longer, then examined his scabbed fists. Blood still dripped from the one he'd hit against the rock, but it didn't seem to bother him.
'I got word that this new cunt was saying he'd seen someone poking around under my caravan before it was raided. They pulled a warrant card on him and said it was police business. Told him to fuck off, that if he told anyone he'd get banged up on paedo charges and thrown to the nutjobs. Said he'd be doing himself a favour if he kept his mouth shut. So he did. Never told anyone until he got sent to Belmarsh and wanted to big himself up to the hardmen.' Monk turned his head and spat. 'Like I wasn't going to find out.'
This wasn't the paranoid rant I'd been expecting. It had been the discovery of Zoe Bennett's lipstick and hairbrush under his caravan that had confirmed Monk's guilt. He would have known that, of course, but even so…
'This prisoner…' I said.
'Walker. Darren Walker.'
'Did he tell you the policeman's name?'
'He said it was some bastard called Jones. A DI.'
The name meant nothing to me, but there was no reason it should. 'He could have been lying.'
'He wasn't. Not after what I did to him.' Monk's face was pitiless. His lips twitched back in a snarl. 'Should've said something sooner.'
Terry had told me about Monk beating another inmate to death when he'd broken the news of his escape. Put two wardens in hospital when they tried to pull him off. Surprised you didn't hear about it. I tried to swallow: my mouth was so dry it took me several attempts. I pointed at a pack of unopened water nearby.
'Can I have a drink?'
He hitched a slabbed shoulder in a shrug. I opened one of the bottles, conscious of my hands shaking. But the water eased my parched throat, and the fact he'd allowed it was something in itself.
I drank half, saving the rest for when Sophie woke. 'How does Wainwright fit into this?' I asked, capping the bottle again. 'Why did you kill him?'
I half expected Monk to say he couldn't remember that either. He dredged something up from his lungs and hawked on the floor before he answered.
'I didn't kill him.'
'His wife identified you, and your DNA was all over the house.'
'I didn't say I wasn't there, I said I didn't kill him. He fell downstairs. I never touched him.'
It was possible, I supposed. Wainwright's body had been lying near the foot of the stairs: he could have broken his neck falling down them. Finding Monk in your home would have been terrifying for anyone, let alone someone with dementia.
'Why did you go to their house anyway? You can't have thought Wainwright had anything to do with setting you up.'
Monk had clasped both hands on his head as he looked at Sophie. She stirred in her sleep, frowning as though she could feel his eyes on her. 'Didn't know what else to do when I couldn't find her. I thought he might know where she was. Or know something. I tried digging holes on the moor like I saw him do, see if that'd make me remember. Didn't expect you and her to turn up, though.'
He gave a death's-head grin.
'Weren't expecting me either, were you? You were so scared I could practically smell you. If I wasn't knackered from digging them fucking holes I'd have caught you.'
So instead, frustrated, that night he'd sought out the only other person he could think of. Someone who was easy to find, with his name in the phone book.
'Wainwright was ill. He couldn't have helped.'
Monk's head snapped up. 'I didn't know that, did I? You think I'm sorry he's dead? Stuck-up bastard treated me like scum, I've not forgotten that! I'd have broken the fucker's neck anyway!'
'I don't-' I began, but it was as if a switch had been flicked.
' The bastards stitched me up! Eight years I thought I was too cracked to remember what I did! Eight fucking years!'
'If you didn't kill the other girls-'
'I don't give a fuck about them! But if I was set up then I could have been for the rest of it. For Ange!’ The dark
eyes were fevered and manic. His head jerked, an unconscious twitch of his jaw. 'The fuckers could've tricked me, made me think I killed her as well! You get it? I might not have done it, and I need to fucking remember!'
Any hope I'd had of reasoning with him died then. Monk wasn't interested in retrieving any lost memories, only in absolving himself of guilt over Angela Carson. But that wasn't going to happen. Whatever the fate of the other victims, whether he'd intended it or not, he'd killed her himself.
And nothing Sophie said could alter that.
'Look, whatever you did, if it happened during a blackout then you're not fully responsible,' I said. 'There are types of sleep disorders that-'
'Shut the fuck up!' He surged to his feet, fists clenched. 'Wake her up!'
'No, wait-'
He moved so fast I didn't see it coming. It was little more than a backhand cuff, but it snapped my head to one side as if I'd been hit with a plank. I fell on to the debris littering the floor as Monk grabbed hold of Sophie.
'Come on! Wake up!'
Sophie moaned feebly, her body still limp. I lunged at him, grabbing hold of his arm as he drew it back to slap her. He thrust me away and I slammed into the rock.
But Monk made no further attempt to hit Sophie. He was staring at his fist as if he'd only just become aware of it. It was the one he'd struck against the rock, and as he looked at the blood on it the rage left him as quickly as it had arrived.
He lowered his arm as Sophie stirred.
'David…'
'I'm here.' There was blood in my mouth, and my jaw and teeth throbbed as I went to her. This time Monk didn't try to stop me.
Sophie rubbed her head, brow creased in pain. 'I don't feel so good,' she said, her voice slurred, and then she vomited.
I supported her until the spasm had passed. She gave something between a groan and a sob, shielding her eyes from the lantern light. 'My head… it really hurts.'
'Look at me, Sophie.'
'Hurts…'
'I know, but just look at me.'
I smoothed the hair back from her face. She squinted, blinking as she opened her eyes. Shock ran through me. While her left pupil was normal, the right was dilated and huge. Oh, God.
The Calling Of The Grave dh-4 Page 24
