He picked up his trowel again and turned back to the remains.
'Actually, I was talking to someone recently who knew you. Said you'd originally trained as a medic?'
'I did a medical degree before switching to anthropology, yes. Who told you that?'
He frowned. 'Do you know, I've been racking my brains trying to remember. My memory's not what it was. I think it was at some forensic conference. We were talking about the new generation making their mark on the field. Your name was mentioned.'
I was surprised that Wainwright would admit even having heard of me. Despite myself I was flattered.
'Quite a leap, anthropology from medicine,' he went on, busily scraping the soil from around an elbow. 'I gather you trained in the US? That research facility in Tennessee, wasn't it? The one that specializes in decomposition.'
'The Anthropological Research Facility. I spent a year there.'
It had been before I'd met Kara, after I'd switched careers and exchanged working with the living for the dead. I waited for the put-down. It didn't come. 'Sounds like quite a place. Although probably not for me. I have to confess I'm not a great fan of Calliphoridae. Disgusting things.'
'I'm not a big fan myself, but they have their uses.' Calliphoridae was the family classification for the blowfly, whose life cycle provided an effective clock for charting decomposition. Wainwright was obviously keen on Latin names.
'I expect they do. Though not in this instance, sadly. Far too cold.' He pointed with his trowel at the remains. 'So, what do you make of it?'
'I'll have a better idea once the body's at the mortuary.'
'Of course. But I'm sure you've already drawn some conclusions.'
I could see the mouth smile under the face mask. I was reluctant to commit myself, knowing how easily things could change once the remains were cleaned. But Wainwright was nothing like the ogre I'd been expecting, and it was just the two of us there. Given his past antipathy to forensic anthropology, it wouldn't hurt to let him know he wasn't the only expert there.
I sat back on my heels to consider what we'd uncovered.
Feat is a unique substance. Formed from partially decayed plant, animal and insect remains, it's an environment that's inimical to most of the bacteria and insects that usually populate the earth beneath our feet. Low in oxygen and almost as acidic as vinegar, it can effectively pickle organic matter, tanning it like specimens in a lab jar. Whole mammoth tusks have been found in peat bogs, while human corpses buried hundreds of years before can emerge uncannily intact.
The body of one man discovered in the village of Tollund, Denmark in the 1950s was so well preserved that at first it was thought he was a recent murder victim. Given the rope tied around his neck he probably had been murdered, though if so it was over two thousand years before.
But the same properties that make peat an archaeological gold mine can also make it a forensic nightmare. Determining an accurate time-since-death interval is difficult at the best of times: without the natural markers supplied by decomposition it can be all but impossible.
In this instance, though, I doubted it would be such a problem. About half of the body was now exposed. It was lying more or less on one side, knees roughly pulled up, upper body curled in a crumpled foetal position. Both the thin top that clung to the torso, through which the outline of a bra could be seen, and the short skirt were synthetic, and contemporary in style. And while I couldn't claim to be an expert, the high-heeled shoe on the now exposed right foot looked to me like a relatively new fashion.
The entire body — hair, skin and clothes — was caked in viscous black peat. Even so, nothing could disguise the horrific damage that had been inflicted. The outlines of broken ribs were clearly visible beneath the muddy fabric, and jagged bones poked through the flesh of the arms and lower legs. Beneath the clinging mat of hair, the skull was crushed and misshapen, the cheeks and nose caved in.
'Not much yet, apart from the obvious,' I said, cautiously.
'Which is?'
I shrugged. 'Female, although I suppose there's an outside chance it could be a transsexual.'
Wainwright made a scoffing noise. 'God help us. In my day that would never have been an issue. When did things get so complicated? Go on.'
I was beginning to warm to my theme. 'It's difficult to say yet how long the body's been buried. There's some decomposition, but that's probably explained by how close it was to the surface.'
Proximity to the air would allow aerobic bacteria to break down the soft tissues even in a peat grave, albeit at a slower rate. Wainwright nodded agreement. 'So the right timeframe to be one of Monk's victims? Less than two years, say?'
'It could be, yes,' I conceded. 'But I'm not going to speculate just yet.'
'No, of course. And the injuries?'
'Too soon to say if they're ante- or post-mortem, but she was obviously badly beaten. Possibly with some kind of weapon. Hard to imagine anyone breaking bones like that with their bare hands.'
'Not even Jerome Monk?' Behind his mask Wainwright grinned at my discomfort. 'Come on, David, admit it. This does look like one of his.'
'I'll have a better idea once the body's been cleaned and I can see the skeleton.'
'You're a cautious man: I like that. But she's the right sort of age, you can see that just from the clothes. No one over twenty-one would dare wear a skirt that short.'
'I don't think—'
He gave a bass chuckle. 'I know, I know, that isn't very politically correct. But unless this is a case of mutton - or even ram - dressed as lamb, then we've got a teenage girl, young woman or whatever, who's been savagely beaten and buried in Jerome Monk's back yard. You know what they say, if it looks like a fish and smells like a fish . . .'
His manner grated, but he was only saying what I'd thought myself. 'It's possible.'
'Ah, a palpable hit! I'd say probable myself, but still. Which leaves the question of which one of Monk's unfortunate paramours this might be. One of the Bennett twins or the Williams girl?'
'The clothes might tell us that.'
'True, but this is more your province than mine. And I suspect you already have an inkling.' He chuckled. 'Don't worry, you're not on the witness stand. Humour me.'
He was a hard man to refuse. 'I'd only be guessing at this stage, but. . .'
'Yes?'
'Well, the Bennett sisters were both quite tall.' I'd learned that from my hurried research after Simms had called: Zoe and Lindsey had the willowy grace of catwalk models. 'Whoever this is, she's more petite. It's hard to get an accurate impression of height with the body curled like this, but you can get enough of an idea of the femur's length to make a pretty good guess. I don't think whoever this was could have been more than five foot three or four at the most.'
Even when it was fully cleaned of soft tissue, which wasn't the case here, the thigh bone was only a rough indicator of stature. But I'd developed a reasonable eye for such things, and even with the remains contorted and caked in mud I was reasonably sure they wouldn't have been tall enough to be one of the Bennett sisters.
Wainwright's forehead creased as he stared down at the uppermost leg. 'Blast. Should have seen that myself.'
'It's just a guess. And as you say, it's more my area than yours.'
He shot me a look that held none of the joviality of a moment ago. Then his eyes crinkled. He gave a booming laugh.
'Yes, you're quite right. So, the odds are that this is Tina Williams. Good.' He clapped his hands together before I could say anything. 'Anyway, first things first. Let's finish digging her out, shall we?'
Picking up his trowel he set back to work, leaving me with the obscure feeling that the conversation had somehow been my idea.
We didn't speak much after that, but we made good progress. The only interruptions came when a SOCO arrived to sift through the peat from the grave. Except for a few more rabbit bones, though, it held little of interest.
It was dark outside the tent by the time the body
was ready to be removed. It lay at the bottom of the muddy pit, filthy and pathetic. Simms had returned as we were finishing, accompanied by the pathologist, who he introduced as Dr Pirie.
Pirie cut an odd figure. He couldn't have been much more than five feet tall, so that his pristine overalls looked too big for his small frame. The face looking at me from beneath the hood was so fine- boned it could have belonged to a child, except that the skin was lined and wrinkled, and the eyes behind the gold half-moon spectacles were old and knowing.
'Good evening, gentlemen. Making progress?' His voice was precise and waspish as he came to the graveside. Next to Wainwright's towering bulk the pathologist looked smaller than ever, a chihuahua to the archaeologist's Great Dane. But there was no mistaking the authority he brought with him.
Wainwright stood back to give him room. Reluctantly, I thought. 'Nearly done. I was about to hand over to the SOCOs to finish off.'
'Good.' The small mouth pursed as he crouched beside the shallow hole. 'Oh yes, very nice . . .'
I wasn't sure if he was referring to the excavation or the remains themselves. Pathologists were renowned for being an eccentric breed: Pirie was apparently no exception.
'The victim's female, probably in her late teens or early twenties, judging by her clothes. 'Wainwright had lowered his face mask now he'd moved away from the grave. His mouth quirked in amusement. 'Dr Hunter thought she might be a transsexual but I think we can discount that.'
I looked at him in surprise. Simms gave a dismissive sniff.
'Quite.'
'You can see her injuries for yourself,' Wainwright boomed, all business now. 'Probably caused by either a clubbing weapon or someone with prodigious strength.'
'A little early to say, I think?' Pirie commented from beside the grave.
'Yes, of course. That's for the post-mortem to decide, 'Wainwright corrected himself smoothly. 'As for how long it's been here, if I was pushed I'd say less than two years.'
'You're sure?' Simms asked sharply
Wainwright spread his hands. 'It's only a guess at this stage, but given the peat conditions and the level of decomp I'm fairly confident.'
I stared at him, unable to believe I'd heard right. Simms nodded in satisfaction. 'So this could be one of Monk's victims, then?'
'Oh, I'd say that was a distinct possibility. In fact if I had to hazard another guess I'd say this filly could well be the Williams girl. The femur's far too short to belong to anyone as tall as the Bennett twins, but if memory serves she was, oh, five three, five four? That'd be about right. And the injuries certainly point to Monk after what he did to Angela Carter.'
Carson. Angela Carson, not Carter. But I was too angry to speak: Wainwright was shamelessly stealing credit for what I'd told him. Yet I couldn't object without seeming petty. Pirie looked up from his position by the grave.
'Hardly enough to provide an ID, surely.'
Wainwright gave a self-deprecating shrug. 'Call it an educated guess. At the very least I think it's worth seeing if this is the Williams girl first.'
He raised his eyebrows at Simms. The policeman looked energized as he slapped his hand against his thigh. 'I agree. Dr Pirie, how soon will you be able to confirm if it's Tina Williams?'
'That all depends on the condition of the remains once they're cleaned.' The diminutive pathologist looked up at me. 'It'll be faster if Dr Hunter works with me? I expect skeletal trauma is more his field than mine?'
He had an odd, sing-song cadence. I managed a nod, furious and stunned by what Wainwright had done.
'Whatever you need.' Simms no longer seemed to be listening. 'The sooner we can announce who this is the better. And if Monk buried one of his victims here it's reasonable to assume the others aren't far away. Excellent work, Leonard, thank you. Give my regards to Jean. If you're both free this weekend perhaps you'd like to come over for Sunday lunch?'
'We'll look forward to it,' Wainwright said.
Simms turned to me as an afterthought. 'Anything you'd care to add, Dr Hunter?'
I looked at Wainwright. His expression was politely enquiring, but his eyes held a predatory satisfaction. OK, if that's the way you want it. . .
'No.'
'Then I'll leave you to it,' Simms said. 'We'll be making an early start in the morning.'
* * *
Chapter 3
I was still fuming later that evening when I arrived at the pub I'd been booked into. It was a few miles from Black Tor, a place called Oldwich I'd been told was less than a twenty-minute drive away. Either the directions were overly optimistic or I'd made a wrong turning somewhere, because it was three-quarters of an hour before I saw the smattering of lights in the darkness ahead.
About time. It had been a long day and driving on the moor in the pitch blackness wasn't my idea of fun. The memory of how I'd let Wainwright outmanoeuvre me still burned. Given his reputation I should have known better. A misty drizzle flecked the windscreen, refracting the glare from my headlights as I pulled into the pub car park. A flaking sign hung outside, the words The Trencherman's Arms faded almost to nothing.
The pub wasn't much to look at from the outside, a long, low building with peeling whitewash and a sagging thatched roof. First impressions were borne out when I pushed through the scuffed and creaking doors. An odour of stale beer complemented the threadbare carpets and cheap horse brasses hanging on the walls. The bar was empty, the fireplace unlit and cold. But I'd stayed in worse places.
Just.
The landlord was a sour-faced man in his fifties, painfully thin except for a startling pot belly that looked as hard as a bowling ball. 'If you want food we stop serving in twenty minutes,' he told me with poor grace, sliding a broken key fob across the worn bar.
The room was about what I'd expected, none too clean but not bad enough to complain about. The mattress squeaked when I set my bag on it, sagging under the weight. I would have liked a shower, but I was hungry and the shared bathroom had only a rust-stained bath.
But food and freshening up could wait. My mobile phone had a signal, which was a bonus. I pulled the hard-backed chair next to the room's small radiator as I called home.
I always tried to call at the same time, so that Alice could keep to something like a routine. Kara worked three days a week at the hospital, but her hours meant that she was able to pick our daughter up from school when I was away. She was a radiologist, a fact that had been the source of many long discussions between us when she'd become pregnant. We'd not planned on having children for another few years, by which time I hoped to be getting enough police work to supplement my university wage so Kara could stay at home and look after the baby.
Naturally, things hadn't turned out quite as we'd planned. But neither of us regretted it. Even though Kara didn't really need to work any more, I hadn't argued with her decision to go back part- time when Alice started school. She enjoyed her job, and the extra money didn't hurt. Besides, I could hardly object, given the demands of my own career.
'Perfect timing,' Kara said when she picked up. 'There's a young lady here hoping you'd call before she goes to bed.'
I smiled as she passed the phone over.
'Daddy, I did you a picture!'
'That's great! Is it another horse?'
'No, it's our house, except with yellow curtains because I liked them better. Mummy says she does too.'
I felt some of my anger and frustration slough away as I listened to my daughter's excited account. Eventually Kara sent her off to brush her teeth and came back on the phone herself. I heard her settling down into the chair.
'So how did it go?' she asked.
Being outmanoeuvred by Wainwright no longer seemed so important. 'Oh . . . could have been worse. Terry Connors is deputy SIO, so at least there's a familiar face.'
'Terry? Well, tell him to give my love to Deborah.' She didn't sound too pleased. 'Do you know yet how long you'll be there?'
'At least another couple of days. I'll be at the mortuary tomorrow
, but they're going to start looking for more graves, so it depends on how that goes.'
We spoke for a while longer until it was time for Kara to put Alice to bed. Wishing I was there to read her a story, I washed and changed before going down to the bar. I'd forgotten the landlord's warning that they would be stopping serving food, and the twenty-minute curfew was almost up. He looked pointedly at his watch as I ordered, mouth set in a disapproving line.
'Another two minutes and you'd be too late,' he snapped.
The Calling of the Grave Page 3
