The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  And then Sophie stepped forward.

  'Hi, I'm Sophie Keller,' she said easily. 'I'm going to help you find the graves.'

  For a second there was no response. Then the black eyes flicked from Terry to her. They blinked as Monk's mouth worked, as though remembering how to form words.

  'Don't need any help.'

  'Great, then it'll be a lot easier for all of us. But I'm here just in case, OK?' She gave him a smile. It wasn't flirtatious, or nervous. Just a normal, everyday smile. 'Oh, and you'll probably want to lose the leg restraints. You're not going to get very far with those on.'

  Still smiling, she turned to include Terry in that last comment. I could see the other police officers exchanging glances. Terry's face was red as he gave a nod to the guards.

  'Just the legs. Leave the cuffs on.'

  He spoke brusquely, but there wasn't anyone there who didn't realize how close he'd just come to losing control. I saw Roper watching nervously as Terry tried to regain some semblance of authority, and there were knowing looks on the faces of the other officers. If it hadn't been for Sophie there was no telling what would have happened. Not only had she defused the situation, she'd also managed to establish at least a tentative rapport with Monk.

  After the outburst of a few moments ago, the convict seemed sullen and subdued. As he was led off down the track, the massive head turned to stare at Sophie.

  'It looks as though Ms Keller's got a new pet,' Wainwright said as we followed on behind, our breath steaming in the cold morning.

  'She did well.' Terry wasn't the only one to have just lost face, I reflected.

  'You think so?' Wainwright's eyes were unfriendly as he watched them walk ahead of us. 'Let's hope it doesn't decide to bite her.'

  The moor seemed to do its best to hinder us. The temperature dropped around the same time as the rain started to fall. It flattened the stalks of the grass and heather, a dull monotonous downpour that chilled the spirit as much as the flesh.

  Jerome Monk seemed oblivious. He stood by Tina Williams' empty grave, rain running across his bald skull to drip from features that could have graced a medieval church gargoyle. He seemed to neither notice nor care.

  The same couldn't be said for the rest of us.

  'This is hopeless!' Wainwright snapped, brushing the rain from his face. The archaeologist had pulled on heavy-duty overalls that made his big frame look more outsized than ever. Stretched over his clothes and smeared with black mud, they were starting to look as frayed as the archaeologist's temper.

  For once I sympathized. My own overalls chafed at my wrists and neck, making me sweat despite the chill. Water dripped from the top of my hood in silver beads, a cold trickle occasionally finding its way inside. The police tape was still draped around the area but the forensic tent had been taken down, and the empty grave was already filling with muddy water. In the days since I'd last been out, foul weather and the constant tramp of feet had turned the ground around it to a treacherous mire. There was cursing from the police officers as we picked our way out there, and once Wainwright slipped and almost fell. The archaeologist snapped a curt 'I'm all right' when I reached out to steady him. Even Monk seemed to be having difficulties, his balance hampered by having his hands cuffed together.

  Except for his solicitor, the civilians - Wainwright, Sophie and myself - stayed a little way away from the group surrounding the convict, a token concession to our instructions not to approach. We'd been joined by a cadaver dog and its handler. The springer spaniel was trained to sniff out even the faintest taint of gases produced by decomposition, but first we had to find a grave. And Monk seemed in no hurry to help us with that.

  Flanked by the two guards, he stared down at the shallow pit where Tina Williams had been buried, lips curled in his habitual sneer as though at some private joke. But I'd come to realize that it was just the natural set of his mouth: it bore no more relation to whatever thoughts went on behind those button eyes than the sickle grin of a shark.

  'Bring back memories, Monk?' Terry asked.

  There was no response. The convict could have been carved from the same granite as the rocks of Black Tor for all the notice he took.

  The bearded guard prodded him. 'You heard the man, laughing boy.'

  'Keep your fucking hands to yourself,' Monk grated without looking round.

  His solicitor gave an exaggerated sigh as the guard bridled. 'I'm sure I don't have to remind anyone that my client is here voluntarily. If he's going to be subjected to harassment we can call this off now.'

  'Nobody's harassing anyone.' Terry's shoulders were hunched, but not from the rain: tension snapped from him like static electricity. 'It was your "client" who wanted to come out here. I'm entitled to ask why.'

  Dobbs's wispy hair flapped in the wind, giving him the look of an irate baby bird. The solicitor still had his briefcase. I wondered if it contained anything important or whether he just carried it out of habit.

  'The terms of my client's release clearly stipulate he's here to assist in locating the graves of Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and nothing more. If you wish to question him about anything else we can return to the prison so you can conduct a formal interview in the proper environment.'

  'Yeah, whatever.' Terry didn't try to hide his disgust. 'Time's up, Monk. You've done enough sightseeing. Now tell us where the other graves are, or you can go back to your cell.'

  Monk raised his eyes from the pit and stared out across the moor. His restraints chinked as he raised his hands and rubbed them over his skull.

  'Over there.'

  Everyone looked where he'd indicated. It was even further away from the road and track. Except for occasional smaller outcrops of rock or islands of gorse, there was nothing to see except a featureless plain of heather and grass.

  'Whereabouts?' Terry asked.

  'I told you. Over there.'

  'They're not near where you buried Tina Williams?'

  'I never said they were.'

  'Then what the hell did you bring us out here for?'

  The look in Monk's black eyes was impossible to decipher. 'I wanted to see.'

  Terry's jaw muscles bunched. I'd never seen him so edgy, but he couldn't afford to lose his temper now I wished Lucas was there. The older man was a calming presence, and it was becoming obvious that Terry was getting out of his depth.

  'How far away?' Terry asked, making a visible effort to restrain himself. 'Fifty yards? A hundred? Half a mile?'

  'I'll know when I get there.'

  'Can you remember any landmarks nearby?' Sophie asked quickly. Annoyance flickered across Terry's face, but he didn't interrupt. 'A big rock, a clump of gorse, anything like that?'

  Monk looked at her. 'Can't remember.'

  Wainwright gave a disdainful sniff. 'Hardly the sort of thing one would forget, I'd think.'

  Again, the archaeologist's bass rumble carried clearly in the damp air. Monk's head swivelled towards him.

  'What can you remember, Jerome? Perhaps if you tried to—' Sophie began, but Terry cut her off.

  'All right, let's get this over with. Just show us.'

  Sophie looked furious but people were already moving away, a cluster of uniforms surrounding Monk's unmistakable figure.

  'This is farcical,' Wainwright grumbled as we trudged after them, boots squelching on the boggy moor. 'I don't believe that creature has any intention of telling us anything. He's making fools of us.'

  'It might help if you'd stop antagonizing him,' Sophie said, still angry.

  'You can't afford to show weakness to creatures like that. They need to know who's in charge.'

  'Really?' Sophie's voice was dangerously sweet. 'I tell you what. You don't tell me my job, and I won't tell you how to dig holes.'

  The archaeologist glared at her. 'I'll be sure to pass on your thoughts to DCS Simms,' he said, before walking on ahead.

  'Prick,' Sophie said under her breath, though not so softly that he couldn't hear. She glanced at me. 'What?'r />
  'I didn't say anything.'

  She smiled wryly. 'You didn't have to.'

  I shrugged. 'If you want to fall out with the whole task force, don't let me stop you.'

  'Sorry, but it's just so bloody frustrating. What's the point of me being here if they won't let me do my job properly? And as for Terry Connors . . .' She sighed and shook her head. 'They're handling this all wrong. We shouldn't just be letting Monk lead us around by the nose, not without pushing him for some indication where the graves are. How's he going to find them again if he can't remember any landmarks?'

  'You think he's lying?'

  'Hard to say. He seems vague one minute and certain the next. He's acting like he knows where he's going now but it's a hell of a long way for anyone to carry a body.' She frowned, staring at where Monk's pale head stood out amongst the dark uniforms up ahead. 'I'm going to have a wander round. I'll catch you up.'

  She struck off back towards the track that led to Black Tor. I could understand her doubts, but there was nothing I could do about them. The going became more difficult as we headed further into the moor. The rain-soaked peat sucked at our boots while the heather and long marsh grass snagged our legs. Monk was struggling more than ever, giving lie to the myth of how at home he was out here.

  Several times he stumbled and tripped, snarling at the guards as they steadied him.

  I noticed that Roper had dropped back and was talking on his radio. He kept his voice down, but as I approached the wind carried snatches of his words over to me.

  '. . . not confident, sir . . .Yes. . . yes . . . Of course, sir. I'll keep you informed.'

  He ended the call as he saw me. The 'sir' had sounded ominous, and it didn't take a genius to guess he'd been reporting back to Simms. I wondered if Terry knew.

  'Enjoying the walk, Dr Hunter?' The DC grinned, falling in step beside me. 'Turning into quite a marathon, isn't it?'

  There was something about the man that grated. He couldn't be blamed for the rat-like teeth, but his grin was just a little too ready and too sycophantic for me to trust.

  'The fresh air does me good.'

  He bobbed his head, chuckling as though I'd cracked an after- dinner joke. 'A little too much of it for my taste, but there you go. So what do you think of Monk? He's something, isn't he? Face like a bloody Picasso.'

  You're no oil painting yourself. 'How did he get the bruises? Was he in a fight?'

  'Not exactly.' Roper's grin broadened, but his eyes were shrewd as they stared at Monk's back. 'He kicked off on one last night and had to be "restrained". Almost made us cancel the whole thing. One of his party pieces, apparently, having a tantrum after lights out. That's why the guards call him laughing boy. He seems to find it all very funny if no one else does. Hello, now what's happening?'

  There was a commotion up ahead. The German shepherd was being held back by its handler, barking at the group with Monk. At first I couldn't see what was happening for the surrounding uniforms, then two of them moved aside.

  Monk had fallen. The big man was down in the muddy grass, struggling to get up. Police officers and the prison guards swarmed round him, unsure whether to haul him to his feet or not.

  '. . . get the fuck off me!' He was clumsily trying to lever himself up in his handcuffs as his solicitor confronted Terry.

  'Now are you satisfied? This is completely unacceptable!'

  'He's not hurt,' Terry said, but he sounded sullen and defensive.

  'I hope not, because if he is I'm holding you responsible. There is absolutely no reason for my client to remain handcuffed out here. He doesn't pose any escape risk, and in this terrain it's positively dangerous.'

  'I'm not taking them off.'

  'In that case you can take us back to the van, because we're done here.'

  'Oh, for—'

  'I will not have my client injured because of police intransigence. Either the restraints come off or he stops cooperating with the search.'

  Monk was still lying in a heap, breath steaming as he glared up at them. 'You want to try walking with these on?' he demanded, holding out his cuffed hands.

  Terry took a step towards him, and for a second I actually thought he would launch a kick at his face. Then he stopped, his entire body clenched and rigid.

  'You want me to call the SIO?' Roper asked.

  If I hadn't heard him reporting back to Simms I might have believed he was trying to help. His suggestion decided Terry.

  'No.' Tight-lipped, he gave a nod to a police officer. 'Take them off.'

  The officer stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs. Monk's expression never changed as he climbed to his feet, clothes soaking wet and smeared with mud. He flexed his wrists, the big hands opening and closing like clamps.

  'OK?' Terry asked Dobbs. Without giving him a chance to answer he stepped up to Monk. They were of a height, but the convict somehow seemed twice his size. 'You want to make me really happy? Try something. Please.'

  Monk didn't speak. His mouth was still curved in its illusory half- smile, but the black eyes were stone dead.

  'I really don't think—' Dobbs began.

  'Shut it.' Terry didn't take his eyes off Monk. 'How much further?'

  The convict's big head turned to look back out at the moor, but then there was a distant shout.

  'Here! Over here!'

  Everyone looked round. Sophie was standing on a low rise some way away, waving her hands over her head. Her excitement was obvious even through the drizzle and mist.

  'I've found something!'

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  A buried body always leaves signs. At first the body will displace the earth used to refill the grave, leaving a visible mound on the surface. But as the slow process of decay begins, causing flesh and muscle to leach their substance into the soil, the mound begins to settle. Eventually, when the body has rotted away to bone, a slight depression will be left in the earth to mark the grave's location.

  Vegetation, too, can provide useful clues. Plants and grasses disturbed by the digging will take time to re-establish themselves, even when they've been carefully replaced. As months pass and the corpse begins to decompose, the nutrients it releases will feed the flora on the grave, causing faster growth and more luxuriant foliage than in the surrounding vegetation. The distinctions are subtle and often unreliable, but there if you know what to look for.

  Sophie was standing by a low mound that lay in the centre of a deep hollow, perhaps fifty yards from the track. It was covered in marsh grass, the tangled, wiry stalks rippling in the wind. I went over with Wainwright and Terry, leaving Roper with Monk and the other officers. The three of us had to detour around a thicket of gorse and an impassable section of bog to get to her. She made no attempt to meet us, staying impatiently beside the mound as though she were afraid it might disappear if she turned her back.

  'I think this could be a grave,' she said breathlessly, as we slithered down the sides of the hollow.

  She was right: it could be a grave. Or it could be absolutely nothing at all. The mound was about five feet long and two wide, perhaps eighteen inches tall at its highest point. If it had been in a flat field or parkland it would have been a lot more likely to be significant. But this was moorland, a rugged landscape full of random depressions and hummocks. And the grass covering the mound looked no different from that growing anywhere else.

  'Doesn't look like much to me.' Terry turned doubtfully to Wainwright. 'What do you think?'

  The archaeologist pursed his lips as he considered the mound. This was more his territory than mine. Or Sophie's, come to that. He prodded it disparagingly with his foot.

  'I think if we're going to get over-excited about every bump in the ground it's going to be a very long search.'

  Sophie coloured up. 'I'm not over-excited. And I'm not an idiot. I know what to look for.'

  'Really.' Wainwright put a wealth of meaning into the word. He hadn't forgiven her for the earlier snub. 'Well, I beg to diff
er. But then I only have thirty years of archaeological experience to draw on.'

  Terry turned away to go back. 'We don't have time to waste on this.'

  'No, wait,' Sophie said. 'Look, I might not be an archaeologist—'

  'That's something we agree on,' Wainwright put in.

  '—but at least hear me out. Two minutes, that's all, OK?'

  Terry folded his arms, his face shuttered. 'Two minutes.'