The Calling of the Grave

Chapter 31

The police found Monk three days later. In the aftermath of everything else that had happened, the search for the convict was stepped up still further. But even then events hadn't quite run their course.

It took the emergency services eight hours to dig out Terry and Roper from underneath the kiln's walls. By the time the remaining structure had been made safe enough to start shifting the rubble, everyone knew it was a recovery operation rather than a rescue.

I wasn't present, but I'm told there wasn't a sound from the rescue teams and police who'd assembled at the scene. When the last bricks were removed Roper was found lying on top of Terry. The postmortem showed later that he'd died almost immediately, which was no surprise given the injuries he'd already sustained. Terry wasn't so lucky. Roper's body had partially protected him from the falling debris, and there was enough brick dust in his lungs to suggest he hadn't been killed outright. Although there was no way of knowing if he'd been conscious or not, the cause of death was suffocation.

He'd been buried alive.

My own injuries were painful but not serious: three cracked ribs from where I'd been hit with the scaffolding pole, plus cuts and bruises. For the second time in twenty-four hours I found myself back in hospital, though this time in a private room rather than a curtained cubicle, where the press could more easily be kept away.

'You've opened up an unholy mess,' Naysmith told me. 'You know there's going to be hell to pay over this, don't you?'

I supposed there would be, but I couldn't get too worked up over it. Naysmith was watching me carefully.

'Are you sure you've told us everything? There's nothing you've missed out?'

'Why would I leave anything out?'

When I left the hospital and stepped outside into the daylight everything felt slightly unreal. I'd been told Sophie was stable but still unconscious, although I hadn't been allowed to see her. I couldn't face going back to her house again so I booked into a nearby hotel. For the next two days I hardly left it, ordering room service I barely touched and watching the story break on the news. Monk still hadn't been caught, and there was fevered speculation about where he might be, and why the police hadn't captured him.

I knew from the updates I received from Naysmith that it wasn't for lack of trying. The rain continued to fall, and the teams going down into the cave system where Monk had taken Sophie were hampered by flooding. The discovery of a third entrance disheartened everyone. For a time it looked as though he might have escaped to some other refuge, or even fled Dartmoor altogether.

He hadn't. When the flood waters receded enough to allow the search team deeper into the dripping tunnels, they found Monk still in the narrow fissure where I'd last seen him. He'd been dead for some time, wedged so tightly between the rock faces that it took the best part of a day to get him out. Although the fissure had flooded he hadn't drowned. The strain of forcing his massive frame into that small space had proved too much even for him, as I think he'd known it would. When I couldn't see his torchlight behind us I'd assumed it was because he'd managed to free himself. But the searchers found the torch in his pocket, switched off. He'd died alone in the dark, far away from daylight or human contact.

He'd made his choice.

The cause of death was heart failure and pneumonia after a cocaine overdose, which was as I'd expected. But the post-mortem produced two notable findings. On most people the striations where the muscle fibres anchor to the long bones of the arms and legs are quite delicate. On Monk they were unusually deep, more in keeping with the dense musculature of a beast than a man.

That explained his abnormal strength, but it was the other finding that was most significant. There were massive lesions in his brain, corresponding to the depression in his skull. They were in the orbitofrontal cortex, where even mild trauma can cause behavioural problems and frontal lobe epilepsy. The likelihood was that they'd been caused by the forceps delivery that had killed his mother. Monk had been born damaged, a freak but not a monster.

We'd made him into one of those ourselves.

News of his death deepened my feeling of being stuck in limbo. Every time I closed my eyes I was back in the caves with Sophie and Monk. Or hearing the awful hollow impact as the scaffolding pole clubbed the back of Roper's head. My thoughts would run off at a tangent, as though trying to pick their own way through my mind. I felt as though there were something I should remember, something important.

I just didn't know what it was.

When I finally fell into a fitful sleep that night it was only to wake suddenly in the early hours with Terry's voice echoing in my head, as though he were in the room with me.

You had your chance eight years ago.

It was something he'd said in the kiln, but it had been buried along with everything else until my subconscious spat it out. I thought it through, fitting it in with everything else till I was sure, and then called Naysmith.

'We need to go out on the moor.'

The first frost of the season crisped the coarse grass in the hollow as the CSIs began digging into the mound that Sophie had led us to years before. Naysmith and Lucas stood beside me, watching in silence as the dead badger was once again exposed to daylight. Preserved by the peat, the animal was hardly any more decomposed than it had been last time. But as more of the mound was cleared away the remains could be seen to be flattened and crushed, the splintered ends of broken bones protruding through the peat- clogged pelt.

'Where do you think Connors got the badger from?' Naysmith asked as a CSI carefully removed it from the hole.

'Roadkill,' I said.

Wainwright had told me as much when I'd visited him, but I'd dismissed it as rambling. I was wrong. The discovery of the badger had appeared to explain both the cadaver dog's reaction and the disturbance to the soil. It had seemed a literal dead end, its presence enough to deter us from digging any deeper.

But no one thought to question why an animal that preferred dry, sandy conditions should have dug its sett in waterlogged ground. Monk's abortive escape had distracted us, but there were other clues we'd overlooked. Animal bones had also been found at Tina Williams' shallow grave, and the coincidence alone should have alerted me. As should the smell of decomposition: faint or not, it was stronger than it should have been in peat conditions.

Most obvious of all, though, was the broken bone that Wainwright had exposed. It was a comminuted fracture, a fragmented break typically caused by deliberate or accidental violence. A fall, say, or being hit by a car. An animal that had died in its burrow had no business with an injury like that.

There was no way of knowing when Wainwright had realized. It was possible he'd known for years, and elected to keep quiet to protect his reputation. But dementia sufferers often live more in the past than the present. Perhaps the knowledge was waiting in his subconscious, trapped there until it was brought to the surface by some random misfire of failing synapses.

I should have realized myself. And on some level I had. Even back then, when the search reached its violent denouement, I'd felt the familiar itch that told me I was overlooking something. But I'd let it go. I'd been so sure of myself, so confident in my abilities, that I hadn't thought to second-guess my findings. I'd seen only the obvious, blithely putting the Monk case from my mind as I got on with my life.

And for years I hadn't thought about it at all.

We found Zoe and Lindsey Bennett only a little deeper than the badger carcass. Whether from sentiment or convenience, he'd buried the sisters in the same grave. The pressure of earth had contorted their limbs, so it looked as though they were embracing each other, but the peat had still worked its arcane magic. Both bodies were remarkably preserved, the skin and muscles uncorrupted, the hair still plastered thickly to their heads.

Unlike Tina Williams, they had no visible injuries.

'Wonder why he didn't inflict the same sort of damage on them?' Lucas asked, looking at the undamaged, peat-stained flesh. 'A mark of respect, you think?'

I doubted respect had anything to do with it. Terry hadn't beaten Tina Williams out of contempt for her, but for himself. It had just taken that long for him to see what he'd become.

The police found Zoe Bennett's diary in his car, wrapped in a clay-coated plastic bag. He'd sold the bright yellow Mitsubishi years ago, but even the minor mystery of the white car seen when both Lindsey Bennett and Tina Williams had disappeared was now explained: at night, especially on monochrome CCTV footage, it was almost impossible to distinguish yellow from white. From what Naysmith told me, the diary contained nothing very incriminating, beyond the simple fact of Terry's name. It showed the seventeen- year-old wasn't as worldly as she'd tried to pretend, thrilled at having a police detective as a lover. Terry would have been flattered by some of what she said.

Perhaps that was why he'd kept it.

'It isn't right, what Simms is doing,' Lucas said, as we left the CSIs to complete their work and headed back to the cars. 'Makes me glad I'm retiring. You should be given credit, not treated like you've done something wrong.'

'It doesn't matter,' I said.

The search advisor gave me a sideways look, but said nothing. With no one left alive to corroborate my story, Simms was doing his best to discredit my account of what had happened. Not only had he built his reputation on wrongly convicting Monk, but now it emerged that he'd entrusted the real killer with responsibility for searching for the missing victims. The press were clamouring for blood, and for probably the first time in his life Simms was reluctant to appear in front of TV cameras. With his career at stake he'd even suggested that I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress after my recent experiences, and was therefore an unreliable witness. So far none of the mud he'd thrown had stuck, but it was clear I'd outstayed my welcome. He'd seen to it that I'd been shut out of the investigation, and it was only as a courtesy from Naysmith that I'd been allowed to accompany them on the moor that morning.

But I was long past caring about Simms. I'd just arrived back at the hotel when my phone rang. The woman's voice at the other end was instantly recognizable.

'It's Marie Eliot, Sophie's sister.' She sounded tired.

I tensed, my hand gripping the phone. 'Yes?'

'She's awake. She's asking to see you.'

Even though I'd known what to expect, Sophie's condition was a shock. The thick mane of hair had been shaved off, replaced by a white dressing. She looked thin and pale, and her arms where the tubes fed in and out were emaciated and wasted.

'Bet I look a mess…'

Her voice was a whisper. I shook my head. 'You're OK, that's the main thing.'

'David, I…' She took hold of my hand. 'I'd have died if not for you.'

'You didn't.'

Her eyes filled with tears. 'I know about Terry. Naysmith told me. I – I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything. About the diary. I need to explain…'

'Not now. We can talk later.'

She gave a faint smile. 'At least we got Zoe and Lindsey back

… I was right after all.'

Her eyes were already closing. I waited till her breathing showed she was asleep, then gently disengaged my hand. Sophie looked peaceful, the stress of the past week smoothed from her features. I sat beside the bed for a while, watching her.

Thinking.

It was still unclear whether she'd face charges for withholding Zoe Bennett's diary. Although she'd kept its existence from the police, even by Terry's admission it hadn't come into her possession until after Monk was convicted of – and had confessed to – the murders. There was nothing in the diary to undermine that, so technically it could be argued it wasn't even evidence at that point. She would have to answer some awkward questions, but from what Naysmith had told me it was unlikely she'd be prosecuted.

It wasn't as if she'd actually committed a crime.

She regained her strength quickly. The doctors expected her to make a full recovery, with no long-term impairment. After what she'd been through, they said she'd been incredibly lucky.

I agreed. Even so, I waited until I felt she was well enough to have the conversation I'd been putting off. My footsteps rang on the hospital floor as I followed the corridor to Sophie's room. It seemed a long walk. A nurse was in there with her, one of the regulars I'd seen before. They were both laughing as I went in. The nurse gave Sophie a dimpled grin, making me wonder what they'd been talking about.

'I'll leave you two to it,' she said, going out.

Sophie sat up, smiling. The dressings were off her skull and her hair was already growing out to an auburn stubble, blunting the sutured, horseshoe-shaped scar. She was starting to look more like her old self. Like the person I remembered from eight years ago. It was as though a weight had been lifted from her.

'Marie's spoken to the insurers,' Sophie said. 'They've agreed to pay out for all the stock and equipment I lost when the kiln collapsed. We're still haggling about the building itself but I'll get more than enough to set up again. That's great, isn't it?'

'Yes,' I said. I'd only been back out to the house once, to collect my car. The sight of the ruined kiln, the bricks now pulled from it and scattered over the garden by the rescue teams, had been depressing. I'd been glad to leave.

Sophie's smile faded. 'What's wrong?'

'There's something I need to ask you.'

'Oh, yes?' She tilted her head quizzically. 'Go on.'

'You knew Terry killed them, didn't you?'

I watched the swift play of emotions on her face. 'What? I don't understand…'

'You knew he'd murdered Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and probably Tina Williams. I just can't make up my mind if you stayed quiet to protect him, or because you were scared what he'd do to you.'

She drew back slightly as she stared at me. 'That's an awful thing to say!'

'I'm not saying you had any proof. But you knew, all the same.'

'Of course I didn't!' Patches of colour had flushed her cheeks. 'You really think I'd have kept quiet if I'd known Terry was a murderer? How can you even think something like that?'

'Because you're too intelligent for it not to have occurred to you.'

That took the heat from her. She looked away. 'I'm obviously not as clever as you think. Why would I have bothered writing to Monk, asking where the twins' graves were, if I knew he hadn't killed them?'

'I wondered about that. I thought it was just lucky you'd kept copies of the letters, but I don't think luck had anything to do with it. You wanted them to prove you really thought Monk was guilty, in case something like this happened. You just never expected him to call your bluff.'

'I don't believe this! Look, if this is because of the diary I've already told the police everything. They know all about it!'

'Then why don't you explain it to me?'

She looked down at where her hands were clasped together on the bed, then back up at me. 'All right, I lied about me and Terry. It was more than just a fling. We'd been seeing each other on and off for a couple of years while he was in London. There was even talk of him divorcing his wife at one point.'

Another minor piece of the puzzle slipped into place. 'Were you still seeing him during the search?'

'No, we'd split up before then. He was… well, it was always pretty heated between us. We'd row a lot. About him seeing other women.' She didn't seem to notice the irony of what she was saying. 'It wasn't until months after the search that we finally got back together again. He promised he'd changed. Like an idiot I believed him.'

'Was that when you found Zoe Bennett's diary?'

'His wife had thrown him out by then. He got called out on a job and left me alone in this squalid little flat he was renting. I was bored, so I started tidying things away. Half of his things were still in boxes. The diary was buried under a pile of papers in one of them. God, when I realized what it was… You can't imagine how that felt.'

No, I didn't expect I could. 'Why didn't you tell anyone? You'd got proof that Terry had been having a relationship with a murdered girl. Why would you keep quiet about something like that?'

'Because I thought Monk was guilty! Everyone did!' She was looking at me earnestly. 'What was the point of stirring up a lot of needless trouble? Not so much for him but for his family. I'd done enough to them already without that. And I'd found things left by his girlfriends before. Cheap jewellery and make-up in his car. Underwear. I thought the diary was just more of the same.'

'Sophie, you were a behavioural specialist! You're telling me you never once thought it was more than that?'

'No! I wanted to hurt him, that's why I took the diary. I knew he'd been sleeping with her, but I never suspected anything else!'

'Then why were you frightened of him?'

She blinked. 'I… I wasn't.'

'Yes, you were. When I took you home from hospital you were terrified. Yet you still pretended you couldn't remember who'd attacked you.'

'I – I suppose I didn't want to get him into trouble. You can't switch off your feelings for someone, even if they don't deserve it.'

I passed a hand over my face. My skin felt grainy. 'Let me tell you what I think,' I said. 'You took the diary on impulse, to hurt Terry like you say. You were angry and jealous and it gave you a hold over him. It was only after you'd taken it that you realized the danger you'd put yourself in. But by then you couldn't go to the police without getting yourself into trouble. So you hid it and kept quiet, and hoped the threat of it would stop him from killing you as well.'

'That's ridiculous!'

But there was a defensiveness behind her indignation. 'I think you blamed Terry for spoiling your career,' I went on. 'It must have been hard, helping the police to expose other people's secrets when you'd one like that of your own. So you stopped working as a BIA and tried to make a fresh start. Except that takes money, doesn't it?'

For a second Sophie looked afraid. She hid it behind bluster. 'What are you trying to say?'

I'd had plenty of time to think it through over the past few days.

Terry had called Sophie a blackmailing bitch, and while I didn't give much credence to what he said it had started me thinking. That didn't mean I liked what I was about to do. But we'd gone too far to stop now.

'The cottage you're living in, it can't be cheap. And you said yourself the pottery doesn't sell. Yet you still seem to make a decent living.'

Sophie's expression was defiant but brittle. 'I get by.'

'So you never asked Terry for money?'

She looked down at her hands, but not before I saw that her eyes were brimming. The door opened and the nurse who'd been there earlier came in. The smile died on her face.

'Everything all right?'

Sophie nodded quickly, her face averted. 'Thanks.'

'Let me know if you want anything.' The nurse gave me a cold look before she went out again.

I didn't say anything else. Just waited. I could hear footsteps and animated voices from the corridor, but in that small room there wasn't a sound. The noise and energy of the hospital outside seemed like another world.

'You don't know what it was like,' Sophie said eventually, her voice cracked. 'You want to know if I was scared? Of course I was scared! But I didn't know what else to do. I took the diary without thinking. I – I was just so bloody mad! He'd been screwing that… that teenage slut while he'd been seeing me! But I swear at first I still thought Monk had killed her. It was only later that… that I

… Oh, Christ!'

She covered her face as the tears came. I hesitated, then passed her a tissue from the bedside table.

'I didn't want to believe it was Terry. I kept telling myself Monk really had killed them. That's one reason I started writing to him, trying to convince myself. I was wrong.' She broke off to wipe her eyes. 'But I was angry as well. I'd given up everything because of

Terry. My career, my home. He was the reason I moved out here. The least the bastard could do was help me start again. I didn't ask for much, only enough to help set me up. I thought… I thought as long as I'd got the diary I'd be safe.'

Oh, Sophie… 'But you weren't, were you?'

'I was until Monk escaped. I hadn't heard anything from Terry in over a year. Then he phoned up, ranting and threatening what he'd do if I didn't give him the diary. I'd never heard him like that before, I didn't know what to do!'

'So you phoned me,' I said tiredly. Not to help her find the graves, or at least not only that. She'd wanted someone with her in case Terry tried anything.

'I couldn't think who else to call. And I knew you wouldn't say no.' She plucked at the damp tissue. 'Next day I was getting ready to meet you when he hammered on the door. When I wouldn't let him in he… he broke it down. I ran upstairs and tried to lock myself in the bathroom, but he forced his way in there as well. I got hit by the door.'

Her hand went automatically to the fading bruise on her cheek. I remembered seeing the stairs were wet when I'd found her. If I'd given it any thought I might have realized she hadn't been surprised in the bathroom as she'd claimed.

'Why didn't you say something then?'

'How could I? I'd been hiding evidence for years! And I'd no idea Terry had been suspended. When you said he'd been to see you.. .'

A shudder ran through her. Instinctively I started to reach out, but stopped myself.

'I didn't really do anything wrong!' she blurted. 'I know I made a mistake, but that's why I wanted to find Zoe and Lindsey s graves so badly. I thought at least if I could do that much it might make up for… for…'

For what? Protecting their killer? For letting the wrong man stay in prison? Sophie looked down at the shredded tissue in her hands.

'So what now?' she asked in a small voice. 'Are you going to tell Naysmith?'

'No. You can do that.'

She took hold of my hand. 'Do I have to? They already know about the diary. It won't change anything.'

No, but it'll end eight years of lies. I set her hand on the bed and stood up.

'Bye, Sophie.'

I walked out into the corridor. My footsteps rang on the hard floor as the clamour of the hospital enveloped me. I felt an odd detachment as I walked through it, as though I were encased in a bubble separating me from the noise and life around me. Even the fresh, cold air outside didn't dispel it. The bright autumn sunlight somehow seemed flat as I went back to my car. I unlocked it and stiffly lowered myself into the seat. My cracked ribs were manageable but still painful.

I closed my eyes and put my head back. I felt empty. The idea of driving back to London didn't appeal, but I'd been here long enough. Too long, in fact. The past was beyond reach.

Time to move on.

Rousing myself, I reached into my pocket for my phone, wincing as my ribs protested. I'd turned it off in the hospital and when I switched it back on it beeped straight away. For an instant I was back in the darkness of the cave, then I shook my head.

I had a message waiting. Or rather messages: I'd missed three calls, all from the same number. It wasn't one I recognized. I frowned, but before I could play any of them my phone shrilled again. It was a call this time, from the same number as before. I straightened. Something urgent.

I felt the familiar quickening of interest as I answered.