The Calling of the Grave

Chapter 11

I had to stay behind to give my statement while the ambulance ferried Sophie to hospital. I watched it go from the path just outside the front door, no siren yet but the blue light was bright and urgent, strobing through the dark branches as it disappeared up the lane.

It took nearly forty minutes for the first paramedics to arrive. During that time I'd not moved, sitting cramped on the bathroom floor with Sophie, talking to her constantly to reassure her that help was on the way, that everything would be all right. I'd no idea if she could even hear me. But there are different degrees of consciousness: if Sophie was aware on some level there was always a chance.

It wasn't as if there was anything else I could do.

The paramedics couldn't tell me much. Her vital signs were stable, which was something. But there was no knowing how serious the head trauma was, or if she had any other internal injuries. The police arrived as the ambulance crew were bringing her down the stairs. The blackness of the country night was broken by flashing lights, giving the bare trees in the orchard an eerie, spectral hue. I stood by helplessly as Sophie was carried out to the waiting ambulance, answering the flat-voiced questions of a policewoman. When she asked what my relationship was to Sophie I hesitated.

'I'm an old friend,' I said, not even sure if that was true.

As I'd waited for help to arrive I'd debated what to say. I'd no way of knowing if this had anything to do with Jerome Monk or not. The ransacked house looked like a burglary that had gone wrong, except for the timing. Sophie had called me asking for help, not long after Terry Connors had shown up to warn me of Monk's escape. And whoever had attacked her had done so before she could meet me and explain.

In the end I told the police everything, letting them decide whether or not to act on it. The policewoman's interest pricked up on hearing Monk's name, and so did her questions. Finally, frustrated with repeating 'I don't know,' I gave in to the inevitable.

'You need to call DI Terry Connors,' I told her.

I was loath to bring him into this, but I hadn't much choice. Feeling like a criminal myself, I sat in the back of the police car with the policewoman's partner while she made the call. Finally, she came back.

'OK, you can go.'

It wasn't what I'd expected. 'Doesn't he want to speak to me?'

'We've got your statement. Somebody'll be in touch.' She gave me a smile that wasn't unfriendly. 'I hope your friend's all right.'

So did I.

The ambulance was taking Sophie to hospital in Exeter. As I drove there myself I tried not to dwell on the fact that the last time I'd been on this route, eight years before, I'd been going to the mortuary. The hospital had undergone some modernization since then, but not so much that I couldn't recognize it. The receptionist behind the Emergency desk was an overweight woman with a neat fringe of greying hair. She frowned as she stared at her computer screen after I gave her Sophie's name.

'No one called that's been admitted tonight,' she said. 'You sure you've got the right hospital?'

I was about to argue when I realized my mistake. 'Sorry. Try Sophie Trask.'

She gave me an odd look but tapped at her keyboard. 'She was admitted to intensive care about an hour ago.'

Even when it's expected, there's still something ominous about the phrase intensive care. 'Can I find out how she is?'

'Are you a family member?'

'No, just a friend.'

'We're not allowed to give out that information unless you're the partner or a relative.'

I sighed, trying not to snap. 'I only want to know if she's all right.'

'I'm sorry. Perhaps if you phone tomorrow morning…'

Frustrated, I went back outside. The hospital was a black rectangle behind me as I returned to my car, the bright squares of its windows deceptively cheerful in the darkness. Now what? I'd have called Terry myself, but I didn't have his mobile number and I doubted he'd be at his desk at this time of night.

But there was no point in staying here. I hadn't packed for an overnight trip, and if anything happened I'd find out as quickly at home as anywhere else. Even so, it felt like running away as I started the car engine and left the hospital behind. I stopped at the first garage I came to and bought a sandwich and caffeine drink. One was tasteless, the other sickly sweet, but I'd had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast and it was a long drive back to London.

The day's events replayed in my head as I drove. I'd gone to meet Sophie expecting to have at least some questions answered. Now there were more than ever.

The roads were quiet and I made good time to start with, but then the rain increased into a deluge that hazed the road with spray, smearing the windscreen like Vaseline despite the furious efforts of the wipers. I was forced to slow down, peering to make out the road ahead as the tail lights of the cars in front were reduced to dull red smudges. The downpour eased as I reached the outskirts of London, but not before a tension headache had settled into my neck and temples. I squinted against the street lights and brightly lit shops, the glare made worse by their mirror images on the rain-shiny pavements.

It was a relief when I finally turned on to my own road and parked outside my flat. It was after midnight. There were no other lights on, which meant my neighbours were either out or asleep. Unlocking the door, I bent to retrieve the usual assortment of bills and fliers, and as I straightened I felt a sudden sensation of being watched.

I quickly turned round, but the dark street was empty. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to shatter the quiet, and forced myself to relax.

You're tired and imagining things. It's nothing.

Still, as I closed the door I was annoyed at myself. It was over a year since I'd almost been killed on my own doorstep: I'd thought I was past flinching at shadows.

Obviously not.

I went inside the flat, switching on lights. It seemed too quiet, as it always did. I switched on the TV and automatically flicked to a news channel, turning down the volume until it was no more than a murmur in the background.

I wasn't tired any more. Adrenalin had washed away the fatigue, and I knew if I went to bed now I wouldn't sleep. I went to the cabinet in the sitting room and took out the odd-shaped bottle of bourbon with the miniature horse and jockey on top. It was almost empty. I'd brought it back with me from Tennessee earlier that year, and had been eking it out to make it last.

But I felt I'd earned a drink now. And I'd need one for what I was about to do.

I poured myself a stiff measure and took a long swallow. The bourbon was raw and smooth at the same time, and as its burn ran through me I went out of the sitting room and opened the door at the end of the hallway. Technically, it was a third bedroom, but a bed would barely have fitted inside. A lot of people have a boxroom, where old furniture and belongings are stored and forgotten rather than thrown away. But in this case the description was literal.

The room was full of boxes.

I switched on the light. They were stacked one on top of the other, an assortment of plain cardboard and document boxes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Everyone has a past. Good or bad, it's what helps make us what we are.

This was mine.

After Kara and Alice had been killed I'd tried to run away from my old life. I'd dropped friends and colleagues, severed ties with anything and everything that connected me to what I'd lost. I'd sold or given away most of my belongings, but there had been some things that I either hadn't known what to do with or couldn't bear to let go. I'd put them in storage and done my best to forget all about them, until I'd felt able to come back and pick up the threads of my old life. Now all that remained of it was in these boxes. Photographs, diaries, memories.

Work.

I took another drink and set the glass down on a shelf. The boxes weren't in any order, but everything personal was in the plain and mismatched ones, flung into them in a barely remembered daze. I still wasn't ready to look in those. My research and case files were in the document boxes, and these at least were labelled.

I was dusty and sweating by the time I located the one I wanted. Carrying it into the living room, I set it on the low coffee table and opened it. The dry smell of old paper wafted out. The files were in alphabetical order, so it wasn't difficult to find the one containing my notes from the Monk case. There were several bulging cardboard folders, bound together with a thick rubber band. The band had perished with age, and disintegrated when I pulled them out. The folders themselves stirred echoes of memory: they were distinctive, blue and marbled, and I could remember I'd bought them in bulk to save money.

Shutting out that thought I laid them down and opened the first one. A bundle of old floppy discs slid out, meticulously labelled but useless on modern computers. Setting aside the outdated squares of plastic, I pulled out the rest of the folder's contents. There was a transparent folder containing the photographs of the grave inside the forensic tent. I flicked through them, the peat-caked remains caught starkly in the camera's flash. Each image brought a pulse of memory, but they could wait till later.

I turned to the case notes themselves. Most were printed hard copies, but mixed amongst them were pages I'd written in biro. While the script was obviously mine, it looked subtly different. Everything changes over time, including handwriting.

I wasn't even sure the person who'd written this still existed.

One of the sheets of paper was smeared with a dark smudge. It was only a few preliminary notes, hastily scribbled, and I'd started to put it to one side before I realized.

Kara mopping up the yoghurt Alice dropped on to the papers. 'Sorry, Daddy.'

I felt as though I'd been punched in the heart. Suddenly there was no air in the room. Dropping the smudged sheet on to the table I hurried out into the hallway The cold, rain-freshened air braced me when I opened the front door. I gulped it in, no longer caring who might be out there. Outside, the wet street glistened in the streetlights. The night held that fresh, post-storm silence, heightened by the drip and run of water in the gutters and the distant swish of traffic. Gradually, some measure of calm returned. The emotional jack-in-the-box was back in the compartment I'd made for it, where it would lie coiled and waiting.

Until next time.

Closing the front door, I went back into the living room. The document box and papers lay on the table where I'd left them. I picked up the page with the dark smudge and carefully tucked it away in the folder.

Then, taking a long drink of bourbon, I sat down and started to read.