The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  Short-term memory loss is common enough after a head injury, but that doesn't make it any less distressing. 'You can't remember anything at all? Nothing about who attacked you?'

  'I can't even remember being attacked.' Sophie plucked distractedly at her ID bracelet. 'I feel really stupid, but it's like I told the police. I'd just finished showering, I heard a noise from downstairs, and . . . and that's it. For all I know I could have just slipped and banged my head.'

  That might have been more credible if not for the broken front door and ransacked rooms. Whatever had happened to her, it was no accident.

  'Your memory might come back in a few days.'

  'I don't know if I want it to.' She looked vulnerable lying there in the hospital gown, not at all like the Sophie I remembered. 'The police say I wasn't . . . that it wasn't a sexual assault. But it's horrible thinking that someone broke in and I can't even remember.'

  'Have you any idea who it might have been? Anyone with a grudge?'

  'No, not at all. I'm not in a relationship now, and haven't been for . . . well, long enough. The police seemed to think it was probably a burglar who thought I was out and panicked when he realized I was in the shower.'

  That was news to me. 'Have you spoken to Terry Connors?'

  The name seemed to surprise her. 'No. Why?'

  'He came to see me.' I hesitated, but she'd a right to know. 'He seems to think it might have been Jerome Monk who attacked you.'

  'Monk? That's ridiculous!' She frowned as she looked at me. 'There's something else, isn't there?'

  'He told me I was a suspect as well. I was the one who found you and since you can't remember anything . . .'

  'You?' Her eyes widened, then she quickly looked away. I felt my stomach dip, wondering if she might believe it herself. But when she spoke again the anger in her voice dispelled it. 'Christ, that's just like him. That's so stupid!'

  'I'm glad you think so. Are you OK?' I asked, noticing how pale she'd suddenly become.

  'A bit woozy . . . Look, I know I owe you an explanation, but can it wait? I don't really feel like talking about it right now. I ... I just want to go home.'

  'Sure. Don't worry about it.'

  'Thanks.' She gave another weak smile, but it quickly faded. 'I think . . .'

  She groped for the kidney-shaped cardboard container on the cabinet next to the bed. I reached it first and handed it to her.

  'Do you want me to call a nurse?'

  'No, I just keep feeling queasy. They tell me it'll pass.' She put her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes. 'Sorry, I think I need to sleep . . .'

  The kidney dish toppled slowly from her fingers as her voice tailed off. I stood up, careful not to scrape the chair on the floor. Putting the dish back on the cabinet, I turned to leave.

  'David . . .'

  Sophie hadn't moved, but her eyes were on me. 'Are you coming back?'

  'Of course.'

  She gave a slight nod, satisfied. Her eyelids were already starting to droop again, and when she spoke her voice was slurred and barely more than a whisper. 'I didn't mean to . . .'

  'Didn't mean to what?' I asked, not sure if I'd heard right.

  But she was already asleep. I watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing, then quietly left the ward. As I made my way down the corridor I thought about what Sophie had said. And what she hadn't.

  I wondered what she was hiding.

  The clouds and rain had lifted next morning, giving way to clean blue skies and bright sunshine. I'd spent the previous night running things over in my mind while I'd eaten a solitary meal in a half- empty Italian restaurant. Even though I was relieved about Sophie, I'd gone to bed feeling flat and restless, convinced there was something I was missing.

  But a night's sleep had lifted my spirits, and the bright autumn day made me feel almost optimistic as I checked out of the hotel and set off for my lunch appointment with Wainwright. There was no real need to see him now Sophie was conscious, but having accepted his wife's invitation for lunch I couldn't cry off at short notice.

  No matter how much I might want to.

  The archaeologist lived near Sharkham Point, a headland on the southern tip of Torbay. It was less than an hour's drive, so I chose a longer route that took in more of the coast. There were high cliffs, beyond which the sun glinted on the choppy sea. Despite the chill I drove with my window down, enjoying the freshness of the breeze. This was a part of the country I didn't know well, but I liked it. Although it was only twenty miles from Dartmoor it seemed a different world; brighter and less oppressive. I didn't blame Wainwright for living here.

  The house was easy enough to find: there weren't many others there. It was set back from the road behind a line of tall, bare lime trees, a pebble-dashed 1920s villa criss-crossed with black beams. A long gravel driveway was overhung by more limes on one side, the other flanked by a long expanse of lawn.

  A bright blue Toyota was parked outside the double garage. I parked next to it and went up the steps to the front door. An old brass bell was set in the wall. I pressed it and listened to the distant chime coming from somewhere deep in the house. Here we go. I straightened my shoulders as brisk footsteps sounded from inside.

  The woman who opened the door fitted the voice on the phone too perfectly to be anyone other than Wainwright's wife. Less matronly, perhaps, and wearing a soft crew-necked sweater over a woollen skirt rather than the twinset and pearls I'd imagined. But the perfectly coiffed grey hair and careful make-up were as I'd expected, and so was the steel-trap quality to her eyes.

  They were crinkled in welcome now, though, and her smile was surprisingly warm. 'You must be David Hunter?'

  'That's right.'

  'I'm Jean Wainwright. So glad you found us. We're a little off the beaten track here, but that's how we like it.' She moved aside, still smiling. 'Please, do come in.'

  I stepped into the house. The hallway had a beautiful parquet floor and wood-panelled walls. A large vase of white chrysanthemums stood on an antique mahogany bureau, their heavy fragrance fighting with the woman's perfume and face powder. Her low heels clipped out a staccato rhythm as she led me along the hall.

  'Leonard's in the study. He's been looking forward to seeing you.'

  That was so unlikely I felt suddenly certain I'd made a mistake. Could this be some other Leonard Wainwright after all? Too late now. His wife opened a door at the end of the hallway and ushered me in.

  After the darkly panelled hallway, the room was dazzlingly bright. Sunlight flooded in through the huge bay window that ran almost its entire length. Bookcases lined the walls, and a handsome, leather- topped desk stood at one side, bare except for another vase of chrysanthemums.

  Their scent filled the room, but it was the view that commanded attention. The window faced out over a lawn that ran down to a cliff edge, beyond which was nothing but sea. It stretched out to the horizon, so that the effect was almost like standing on the prow of a ship. It was so breathtaking that I was slow to take in anything else. Then Wainwright s wife spoke.

  'Leonard, David Hunter's here. He's an old colleague of yours. You remember him, don't you?'

  She'd gone to stand by a wing-backed leather armchair. I hadn't realized anyone was sitting there. It was facing the view, and I waited for Wainwright to get up. When he didn't, I moved further into the room until I could see past the winged sides of the chair.

  I wouldn't have recognized him.

  The giant of memory no longer existed. Wainwright sat hunched in the chair, staring blankly out at the sea. He seemed to have physically shrunk in on himself, flesh and muscle wasting away. The patrician features were barely recognizable, cheeks caved in and eyes sunken in their sockets, while the once thick mane of hair was thin and grey.

  Wainwright s wife had turned to me expectantly. The bright smile on her face now seemed as fragile and transparent as the window itself. I'd stopped dead, shocked, but now I forced a smile of my own as I went forward.

 
'Hello, Leonard.'

  It was the first time I'd called him by his first name, but anything else would have seemed wrong. I didn't bother to offer my hand: I knew there'd be no point.

  'Dr Hunter's come for lunch, dear,' his wife said. 'Won't that be nice? The two of you can talk about old times.'

  As though finally becoming aware of my presence, the big head turned ponderously in my direction. The fogged eyes looked at me. Wainwright s mouth worked, and for a second I thought he might speak. Then the moment passed, and he turned to gaze back out at the sea again.

  'Can I get you a cup of tea, Dr Hunter?' his wife said. 'Lunch will be another twenty minutes.'

  My smile felt glued in place. 'Tea would be nice. Can I give you a hand?'

  'That's very kind, thank you. We won't be long, Leonard,' she added, patting her husband's hand.

  There was no response. With a last glance at the figure in the chair, I followed her back into the hall.

  'I'm sorry, I should have warned you,' she said, closing the door. 'I assumed when you rang that you knew about Leonard's condition.'

  'I'd no idea,' I said. 'What is it? Alzheimer's?'

  'They don't seem entirely sure. I never realized there were so many different types of dementia, but then I suppose one wouldn't. Leonard's developed very quickly, as these things go. The last two years have been . . . quite hard.'

  I could imagine. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Oh, these things happen.' She spoke with a breezy matter-of-factness. 'I thought seeing a familiar face might help. Our daughters don't live nearby, and we don't get many visitors. He's usually better early on in the day. That's why I suggested you come for lunch. Leonard tends to go sundowning after that. Are you familiar with the term?'

  I said I was. As a GP I'd seen how some dementia patients would grow more confused or agitated as the day wore on. No one was entirely sure why.

  'Such a lovely phrase for such a cruel thing, I always think,' his wife continued. 'Puts one in mind of cocktails on a summer evening.'

  Suddenly I felt like a fraud. 'Look, Mrs Wainwright—'

  'Please, call me Jean.'

  'Jean.' I took a deep breath. 'Your husband and I . . . Well, to be honest, I'm not sure how pleased he'll be to see me.'

  She smiled. 'Yes, Leonard could be quite prickly. But I'm sure he'll be glad of the company. Especially when you've come all this way.'

  'The thing is, this wasn't just a social call. I was hoping to talk to him about the investigation we worked on.'

  'Then please do. He can be quite lucid sometimes, especially about things that happened in the past.' She opened the study door again before I could protest. 'Now, you two can talk while I get lunch ready.'

  There was no way I could refuse. I gave a weak smile and went back inside. The door closed behind me, leaving me alone with Wainwright. God. The change in him was shocking. I couldn't help but think about how he'd presented my initial findings at Tina Williams' grave as his own. At the time I thought it was shameless rivalry, but now I wasn't so sure. Perhaps he'd felt the first cracks in his intellect even then and had been trying to hide them.

  He gave no sign of being aware of me. He sat in the armchair, gazing out of the window at the sea. I wondered if he even knew what he was looking at.

  You're here now. Make the best of it. I moved the chair from the desk until I could see him and sat down, searching for something to say. The point of my visit had vanished along with Wainwright's damaged mind, but I couldn't just sit there. There had been no love lost between us, but I wouldn't have wished this on anyone.

  'Hello again, Leonard. I'm David Hunter. We worked together once, on Dartmoor.'

  There was no response. I ploughed on.

  'It was the Jerome Monk case. Detective Chief Superintendent Simms was SIO. Do you remember?'

  Nothing. Wainwright continued to stare at the sea, the heavy features betraying no indication that he'd heard. I sighed, looking out of the window myself. The view was spectacular. Gulls wheeled against the cold blue sky, specks above the marching blue-green waves. Whatever the weather, whatever else happened, they would always be there. The archaeologist's deterioration was pitiable, but there were worse places to end one's days.

  'I know you.'

  I looked up in surprise. The big head had turned towards me. Wainwright s eyes were fixed on mine.

  'Yes, you do,' I said. 'David Hunter. I'm a—'

  'Calliph . . . Calli . . . maggots.' The voice was the same bass rumble I remembered, although more hoarse now, as though unused.

  'Maggots,' I agreed.

  'Rot.'

  I had to smile. I supposed 'rot' could have referred to the blowfly larvae's habitat, but I doubted it. Dementia or not, some things hadn't changed.

  His eyes were flicking around now, as though something inside him had started to wake. The broad forehead creased in concentration.

  'Roadkill. . .'

  I just nodded, not having a clue what he meant. His mind had obviously started to wander. He glared across at me and thumped his hand down on the chair arm.

  'No! Listen!'

  He'd started feebly trying to heave himself up from the chair. I hurried over. 'It's OK, Leonard, calm down.'

  His arms felt thin as sticks as he struggled to get up, and a sour smell of wasting came from him. But his grip was still vicelike as he seized my wrist.

  'Roadkill!' he hissed, spraying spittle into my face. 'Roadkill!'

  The study door was flung open and his wife hurried in. 'Now come along, Leonard, let's not have any nonsense.'

  'Bloody woman!'

  'Come on, Leonard, behave yourself.' She gently but firmly eased him back into his seat. 'What happened? Did you say something to upset him?'

  'No, I was just—'

  'Well, something must have set him off. He isn't normally this agitated.' She looked over at me, smoothing her husband's hair as he began to subside. Her manner was still polite but now there was no mistaking the frost. 'I'm sorry, Dr Hunter, but I think you'd better go.'

  I hesitated, but there was nothing I could do. Leaving the two of them in the study, I let myself out and went back to my car. The day was still bright and sunny, but the sickly sweet odour of chrysanthemums stayed with me as I drove down the driveway and away from the house.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  I didn't bother much with the coastal scenery as I drove back to Exeter. I'd promised Sophie I'd call in at the hospital again, and I hoped that would take my mind off the disastrous visit to Wainwright. Seeing the archaeologist reduced like that had been a shock. He'd seemed to recognize me, and although I hadn't intended to upset him perhaps that had been enough to set him off. Years ago I'd taken the Hippocratic oath to do no harm.

  I hadn't made such a bang-up job of it today.

  It took me almost as long finding somewhere to park at the hospital as it had to drive there from Torbay. When I reached Sophie's ward I saw that the screens had been drawn around her bed. I slowed, thinking a doctor might be with her, until I heard the hushed but angry voices coming from behind them.

  'Hello?' I said hesitantly.

  The voices stopped. There was a pause and then the screen was pulled back.

  The young woman who'd opened it was like a subtly altered version of Sophie. She had the same colour hair, the same shape face and eyes. But although their features were unmistakably cast from the same mould, hers managed to be both sharper and rounder than Sophie's. Right now they regarded me with pinched annoyance.

  'Yes?'

  'I've come to see Sophie,' I said. 'My name's—'

  'David!' Sophie's voice rang out. 'It's all right, Maria.'

  The woman's mouth tightened, but she stepped aside to let me pass. Sophie was sitting on the bed, a leather holdall open next to her. She was dressed in a sweater and jeans that somehow didn't look quite right, although I couldn't have said why. She still looked tired, and the bruise on the left side of her face was even more livid than befor
e. But for all that she was clearly much better than the last time I'd seen her.

  She gave me a smile that held as much relief as anything. 'Thanks for coming. David, this is my sister Maria.'

  Now I saw them together, the differences were more apparent than the similarities. Sophie's sister looked older. She must have been devastatingly pretty as a sixteen-year-old, but it was the plump type of prettiness that didn't age well. The genes that supplied Sophie's slim limbs and bone structure had apparently skipped her elder sibling, and her face was already settling into lines that spoke of disappointment and impatience. As though to make up for it her clothes were smart and expensive, her manicured nails as sharp as blades.