The Calling of the Grave

by Simon Beckett

  '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.

  '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.'

  I'd told Sophie about the archaeologist's condition. Not that there was much chance she'd have wanted his help anyway. She brushed away my argument.

  'Wainwright couldn't see past his own ego. He was more interested in preserving his reputation than anything else. Even back then you were just as capable as he was.'

  'I'm flattered you think so, but even if that's true you've got to be realistic. No one enjoys failure, but we did everything that could be done last time.'

  'I don't accept that.'

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. 'Sophie . . .'

  'Look, I'm not saying we'll be able to actually find them, not by ourselves. All I want to do is try to come up with enough for the police to launch another search. One day, that's all I ask. Give me one day, and if you still think we're wasting our time you can walk away.'

  'I just can't see how—'

  'One day. Please.'

  I should have said no. We couldn't hope to achieve anything in a single day, and there was no point in building up her hopes. The refusal was on my lips, but even in the firelight I could see the need in her eyes. She sat with her hands clenched, waiting for my answer. This is a mistake.

  'One day,' I heard myself say.

  Now I was regretting it. The face in the bathroom mirror that morning had looked like an older, tireder version of me. I'd slept badly, turning restlessly in the small bed in the spare room and determinedly trying not to think about Sophie lying on the other side of the wall. When I'd finally fallen asleep it had been to wake gasping, convinced that Monk was breaking in. But the darkened house had been silent, and the only sound from outside was the cry of an owl.

  Before we'd set off on Sophie's mysterious trip, I'd given her the card with Terry's mobile number. She'd promised to tell the police about writing to Monk if I agreed to help her search for the graves, and however much they disliked each other it made sense for it to be him. I'd pretended to need something from my room while she made the call, waiting until her murmured voice had stopped before going downstairs.

  'Voicemail,' she said, handing me his card. 'I left him a message.'

  Her face was studiedly neutral. I tucked the card back in my wallet without saying anything. Perhaps she had called Terry, but
it hadn't sounded like she'd been leaving a message.

  It had sounded like a conversation.

  We had to wait for a local joiner to come out to repair the front door, so it was early afternoon before we finally set off. The atmosphere in the car was awkward from the outset, and grew more so as we neared wherever it was we were going. Sophie directed me into a cul-de-sac where the road curved round on itself.

  'Pull up here.'

  I switched off the engine. The semi-detached houses lined both sides of the road. I looked at her, waiting. She gave me a strained smile.

  'Just bear with me. Please?'

  You've come this far ... I locked the car and followed her through the wrought-iron gate of the nearest house. A short path led to the front door past a well-kept lawn and flowerbeds. Sophie's nervousness was evident as she pressed the plastic doorbell. Westminster chimes sounded from inside, and a moment later the door was opened.

  The woman who answered was in her late forties or early fifties, blond-haired and pleasant-faced but with a drawn look about her. She was smiling, but the expression seemed forced.

  'Hi, Cath. Sorry we're a bit later than I thought,' Sophie said.

  The woman's hand went to her mouth as she stared at the bruising on Sophie's face. 'Never mind that, what happened to you? Are you all right?'

  'Oh, I'm fine, I just slipped in the bathroom,' she said quickly. 'Cath, I'd like you to meet Dr David Hunter. David, this is Cath Bennett.'

  The name hit me like cold water. Bennett. As in Zoe and Lindsey. Now I knew who Sophie had been talking to on the phone earlier, when she'd pretended to call Terry.

  She'd brought me to meet the murdered twins' mother.

  The woman turned her brittle smile to me. 'Pleased to meet you, Dr Hunter.'

  I murmured something polite. Sophie avoided looking at me as we went inside, but from the flush spreading up her throat she knew how angry I was. I couldn't believe she'd done this, not without warning me first. You don't meet the families. Ever. It was hard enough staying objective as it was, without that added emotional burden. Sophie knew that, yet she'd still brought me here.

  I wondered what else she might be keeping from me.

  I struggled to keep my feelings under control as we went down the hallway. The house was almost obsessively clean, the air sharp with the smell of bleach and air-freshener. Swirling patterns from the vacuum cleaner were carved in the carpet's thick pile, like crop circles in a field of lilac wheat.

  The door whispered over them as Cath Bennett led us into a pristine sitting room. A sofa and matching chairs were positioned with clinical precision, the glass coffee table polished to a mirror finish. Ceramic figurines and animals gleamed on the mantelpiece, free from any taint of dust.

  Framed photographs of the dead girls were everywhere.

  'Please, take a seat,' their mother said, with rigid politeness. 'My husband's at work, but he isn't very good at this anyway. He still can't talk about it. Would you like tea or coffee?'

  Sophie was still avoiding looking at me. 'Some tea would be lovely.'

  'And how about you, Dr Hunter?'

  I managed a smile. 'Same for me, please.'

  She bustled out, leaving us alone with the photographs of her murdered daughters. They smiled at us from all over the room, two identically pretty, dark-haired girls. I tore my eyes from them and stared at Sophie.

  'Please don't be mad,' she said in a rush. 'I'm sorry to spring it on you, but I knew you wouldn't come otherwise.'

  'You're right. What the hell were you thinking?'

  'I wanted to remind you what's at stake. What all this is really about.'

  'You think I don't already know?' I made an effort to calm down. 'Sophie, this is wrong. We shouldn't be here.'

  'We can't go now. Just half an hour. Please?'

  I didn't trust myself to speak. We sat in silence until Cath Bennett returned, carrying a tray set out with tea things. Best cups and saucers, and a plate of neatly arranged biscuits.

  'Help yourself to milk and sugar,' she said, taking a seat on the sofa. 'Sophie says you're a forensic anthropologist, Dr Hunter. I'm not sure what that is, exactly, but I appreciate what you're doing.'

  What you're doing? Sophie flashed me a look of mute appeal. 'David was involved in the original search on the moor eight years ago,' she said quickly.

  'Eight years.' Cath Bennett reached for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. 'I still can't get used to how long it's been. They'd have been twenty-seven this year. In May.'

  She handed me the photograph. I took it reluctantly, feeling as though I were accepting a pact. It wasn't the same picture that had been used in the newspapers, which I'd seen again on the internet only days before, but it looked to have been taken around the same time. Not long before the two seventeen-year-olds had been abducted and murdered by Jerome Monk, less than three days apart. Both sisters were in it, side by side, each an almost perfect reflection of the other. But there was still a subtle difference between them. Although both were laughing, one of them was grinning brazenly at the camera, shoulders thrown back as she stared at the camera with a look of challenge. By contrast her twin seemed more subdued, head a little downcast, with a self-conscious look about her.

  'They had their dad's colouring,' her mother went on. 'Zoe took after Alan in most ways. Always an extrovert, even when she was a little girl. She kept us busy, I can tell you. Lindsey was the quiet one. They might have looked the same, but they were like chalk and cheese in every other way. If they'd—'

  She stopped herself. Her smile was tremulous.

  'Well. No good playing "what if ".You've met him, haven't you? Jerome Monk.'

  The question was aimed at me. 'Yes.'

  'I wish I'd had the chance. I always regretted not going to the trial. I'd like to have stood in front of him and stared him in the eye. Not that it'd have done much good, by all accounts. And now he's escaped.'

  'I'm sure they'll catch him soon,' Sophie said.

  'I hope they kill him. I know you're supposed to forgive and move on, but I can't. After what he did, someone as evil as that, I just hope he suffers. Do you have any children, Dr Hunter?'

  The question caught me by surprise. I felt the weight of the photograph in my hand.

  'No.'

  'Then you can't know what it's like. Jerome Monk, he didn't just murder our daughters, he killed our future. Seeing Zoe and Lindsey married, grandchildren, it's all gone. And we don't even have a grave we can take flowers to. At least Tina Williams' parents have that.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said, although I didn't know what I was apologizing for.

  'Don't be. I know you did your best to find them eight years ago. And I appreciate whatever you can do now. We both do. Alan . . . well, he doesn't like to talk about it much. That's why I told Sophie to call during the day, while he's at work. Nothing can bring our girls back, but it'd be a comfort to both of us to know they're somewhere safe.'

  I set the framed picture down on the coffee table. But I could still feel the dead girls' eyes on me, staring from every photograph in that sad and spotless room.

  There was an icy gulf between Sophie and me as we drove back to Dartmoor. I felt furious with her, with Monk, with myself. And behind the anger was the rawness opened by Cath Bennett's unwitting words.

  Do you have any children? Then you can't know what it's like.

  The streets and houses gave way to country roads before Sophie broke the silence.

  'I'm sorry. It was a bad idea, OK?' she blurted. 'I got in touch with her a few months ago, and . . . well, I thought if you met her . . .'

  But I was in no mood to let her off that easily 'What? That I wouldn't be able to say no?'

  'I didn't commit you to anything, I only said you might be able to help. She must have just assumed—'

  'What did you expect? Her daughters were murdered! There isn't going to be a day goes by when she doesn't wonder if she'll hear they've been found. Raising her hopes like that's just c
ruel.'

  'I was only trying to do the right thing!' she flashed. 'I'm sorry, all right?'

  I bit back my response. The car fishtailed slightly on a muddy stretch of road as I took a bend too fast.

  'Careful,' Sophie said.

  I eased my foot off the pedal, letting the speed bleed off. Some of my anger went with it. Of all people, I should have known better than to lose control when I was driving.