The Calling of the Grave

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 differ. 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.'

Sophie took a deep breath before plunging on. 'Where Monk's taking us, it doesn't make any sense. Tina Williams' grave was exactly where I'd have expected it to be-'

'Easy to say, now we know where it is,' Wainwright sniffed.

She ignored him, concentrating on Terry. 'It wasn't far from the track, which meant it was relatively easy to get to. And it followed the contours of the land: anyone leaving the track around there would naturally find themselves at that point. It made sense for it to be where we found it.'

'So?'

'So Monk won't specify where the other graves are. He's just leading us further out into the moor, which means he'd have to have carried the bodies all this way across moorland, in the dark. I don't care how strong he is, why would he do that? And he says he can't recall any landmarks to guide him back to where they were buried.'

Terry frowned. 'What's your point?'

'I'd expect him to remember something at least. When people hide something they use landmarks to align themselves, whether they realize it or not. But where Monk's heading just seems random. Either he's forgotten or he's deliberately leading us in the wrong direction.'

'Or you could just be wrong, 'Wainwright said. He turned to Terry with a supercilious smile. 'I'm familiar with the Winthrop techniques that Miss Keller refers to. I've used them myself on occasion, but it's mainly common sense. I find them overrated.'

'Then you're not doing it right,' Sophie shot back. 'I went back to the track to find the most likely spots where anyone carrying a body could have left it. Where the going is nice and easy, not too steep or permanently boggy. I've found a few of them over the past few days, but this time I tried a little further out.'

She levelled a finger back towards the track, some distance from where we'd left it to go to Tina Williams' grave.

'There's a spot back there where the moor slopes gently away from the track. It's a natural point for anyone struggling with the weight of a body to access the moor. The way the ground runs funnels you to that big patch of gorse. It's easier to go around the bottom side of it than the top, and then you find yourself in a gulley that brings you right here. To a concealed hollow, where there just happens to be a grave-sized mound of earth.'

She folded her arms, defying Terry to find a hole in her argument. His cheek muscles jumped as he looked back at the mound.

'This is a nonsense,' Wainwright blustered, no longer bothering to hide his animosity. 'It's wishful thinking, not science!'

'No, just common sense like you said,' Sophie retorted. 'I prefer it to pig-headedness.'

Wainwright drew himself up to respond but I beat him to it. 'There's no point standing round here arguing. Let's get the cadaver dog to check it out. If it finds something then we'll need to open it up. If it doesn't, we've only wasted a few minutes.'

Sophie flashed me a smile while Wainwright looked more constipated than ever. I couldn't resist twisting the knife a little further.

'Unless you're absolutely certain there's nothing here?' I asked, trying not to enjoy his discomfort too much. 'You're the expert.'

'I suppose it wouldn't hurt to make sure…' he conceded, as though it had been his idea.

Terry stared down at the mound, then sighed and strode up to the top of the hollow. 'Get over here!' he shouted at Roper and the rest, then turned to Sophie. 'I want a word.'

The two of them moved out of earshot. I couldn't hear what was being said, but it seemed heated. Meanwhile Wainwright prowled around the mound, testing it with his feet.

'Definitely softer,' he muttered. He was wearing a thick leather work belt, the sort used by builders to hold tools. He took a thin metal rod from it and began opening it out. It was a lightweight probe, a metre-long extendable tube with a point at one end.

'What are you doing?' I asked.

He was frowning in concentration as he unfolded short handles, so the instrument resembled a slender spade without a head. 'I'm going to probe, of course.'

Disturbed soil was usually less compacted than the surrounding ground, and often another indication of a grave. But that wasn't what I meant.

'If there's anything buried in there you're going to damage it.'

'We need air holes for the dog anyway.'

That was true enough. Even though cadaver dogs could sniff out decay through several feet of soil, the holes would help them detect the gases produced by decomposition. But there were less invasive ways of making them.

'I don't think-'

'Thank you, Dr Hunter, but if I want advice I'll ask for it.'

Gripping the probe by its stubby handles, Wainwright jabbed it forcefully into the mound. Knowing he wasn't going to listen, I clenched my jaw shut as he wrenched it free and rammed it back in. Probing was a basic archaeological technique, but it had its drawbacks in a forensic situation. While it was possible to distinguish between damage to bone inflicted before death and that caused by a pointed metal probe afterwards, it was an unwelcome complication. Wainwright knew that as well as I did.

But then it would be my problem, not his.

Sophie and Terry broke off their discussion as Roper and the others reached us. Neither of them looked happy. Terry went straight to Monk and his solicitor, standing on the edge of the hollow so they could see the mound.

'This ring any bells?'

Monk stared down at it, hands hanging loosely at his sides. His mouth still seemed twisted in a mocking smile, but I thought there was a wariness in his eyes now.

'No.'

'So this isn't one of the graves?'

'I told you, they're over there.'

'You seem pretty sure all of a sudden. Not long ago you said you couldn't remember.'

'I told you, they're over there!'

The bearded guard clapped a hand on Monk's shoulder. 'Don't raise your voice, laughing boy, we can hear you.' 'Fuck off, Monaghan!'

'You want the cuffs back on?'

Monk seemed to swell, but Sophie spoke before he could do anything else. 'Excuse me, Jerome?'

She smiled as the big head snapped round. This time Terry made no attempt to interrupt, and I guessed her involvement was what at least part of their discussion had been about.

'Nobody's doubting you. But I just want you to think about something. You must have dug the graves out here at night, is that right?'

It was a safe bet: few killers risked burying the bodies of their victims in broad daylight. But Monk's solicitor wasn't having any of it.

'You don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I've already made it clear-'

'Shut up.'

Monk didn't so much as glance at him. His button eyes seemed muddied as they fixed on Sophie. After a few seconds he jerked his head in a nod.

'It's always night.'

I wasn't sure what that meant. Judging by Sophie's slight pause neither did she, but she covered it well.

'Things get confused in the dark. It's easy to make mistakes, especially when you try to remember later. Is it possible you could have dug at least one of the graves here? Or even both of them?'

Monk's eyes went from Sophie to the mound. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp. 'Might be…'

For an instant he seemed confused. Then Terry spoke and whatever I thought I'd seen was gone.

'I don't have time for this. Which is it, yes or no?'

Suddenly the heat and madness were back in the convict's eyes. The curved smile looked manic as he faced Terry.

'No.'

'Wait, Jerome, are you-' Sophie began, but she'd had her chance.

'Right, that's it. Let's get back over there,' Terry said, starting to leave the hollow.

'But the body dog's here now,' she protested. 'At least give it a chance.'

Terry paused, indecision on his face. I think he might have overruled her if it hadn't been for Wainwright. The archaeologist had carried on probing the mound while the scene played out.

'Almost done,' he said, thrusting the probe into the soil again. 'The ground here feels less resistant, although since it's peat I doubt-'

There was an audible crunch as the probe hit something. Wainwright stopped dead. He composed his features into a thoughtful expression, avoiding looking at me.

'Well, there seems to be something here.'

Terry went over. 'A stone?'

'No, I don't think so.' Wainwright beckoned to the dog-handler, quickly asserting control. 'Start with the hole I've just made.'

The dog-handler, a young policewoman with red hair and windchapped pale skin, took the springer spaniel towards the mound.

'No! We're in the wrong place!' Monk shouted, his huge fists balled.

'Tell your "client" if I hear one more peep out of him he's back in handcuffs, 'Terry snapped at Dobbs.

The solicitor looked reluctant, but the threat worked. Monk's mouth twitched as he cast a look behind him at the open moor and unclenched his fists.

'No handcuffs,' he mumbled.

The spaniel was almost falling over itself in its eagerness as it snuffled across the mound. There were only a few cadaver dogs in the country, and I'd heard nothing but good things about them. Still, I had my doubts now. Peat inhibited decomposition, sometimes virtually halted it. No matter how sensitive a dog's nose, it couldn't smell something that wasn't there.

But the spaniel's ears pricked up almost immediately. Whining with excitement, it began scrabbling at Wainwright's last probe hole. The handler quickly pulled it away.

'Clever girl!' Fussing the dog, she looked at Terry. 'No two ways about it. There's something there.'

A sense of anticipation ran through the hollow. Terry seemed nervous, but given the pressure he was under I didn't blame him. His career could be changed by what we found here.

'What do you want to do, chief?' Roper asked. The solemnity of the moment had wiped the nervous grin from his face.

Terry seemed to snap back to himself. 'Let's take a look.'

Wainwright clapped his hands together, his earlier scepticism evidently forgotten. 'Right, let's see what we've got, shall we?'

A CSI brought a holdall containing mattocks, spades and digging tools into the hollow, dumping it on the grass with a clank. Wainwright unzipped it and took out a spade.

'I'll help,' I said, but I was wasting my time.

'Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary. I'll let you know if I need any assistance.'

He made 'assistance' sound like a snub. The archaeologist had become suddenly proprietorial now that it looked as though we'd found something. If this was a grave I could guess who'd take credit for it.

There was nothing for the rest of us to do but watch as Wainwright used a spade to cut the outline of a narrow rectangle across the mound. Sinking an exploratory trench was a much more effective way of opening up a potential grave than excavating the whole thing at once. It would give us a better idea of what we were dealing with, allowing us to see which way the body was aligned and how deeply it was buried before the real digging started.

Wainwright made it look easy, though I knew from experience it was anything but. The spade's blade chopped into the earth with brisk efficiency, levering out neat slabs of turf.

'Signs of disturbance to the peat,' he grunted. 'There's been something going on here.'

I glanced at Monk. The convict's doll-like eyes were watching without expression. The only sound was the crunch of the spade and a gentle tearing of roots as the last piece of turf was lifted free. Once the covering of grass was removed Wainwright began sinking the trench deeper. The peat was wet and fibrous. He was about a foot down when he suddenly stopped.

'Pass me a trowel.'

The instruction wasn't aimed at anyone, but I was nearest. You aren't doing anything else. I took Wainwright the trowel, standing at the other side of the narrow trench as he squatted down to scrape peat off whatever he'd found.

'What is it? 'Terry asked.

The archaeologist frowned, peering closer. 'I'm not sure. I think it might be…'

'It's bone,' I said.

Something smooth and pale was visible in the dark mulch. There wasn't much of it showing, but I'd cut my teeth differentiating between the smoothly ossified texture of bone and stones or tree roots.

'Human?' Sophie asked.

'I can't see enough to say yet.'

'Certainly bone, though,' Wainwright said, his voice betraying his displeasure at my interruption. The scratch of the trowel filled the hollow as he began digging away at the surrounding peat. Everyone's attention was fixed on the archaeologist. Sophie hugged herself anxiously. Terry stood with his shoulders bunched, hands jammed deep in his pockets as though to brace himself, while just behind him Roper gnawed his lip. Only Monk seemed unconcerned. He wasn't even bothering to watch, I saw, big head twisted to look back over the moor behind him.

Then Wainwright spoke again. 'There's some sort of fabric here. Clothing, perhaps. No, wait, I think it…' He bent closer, obscuring whatever he'd found. Abruptly, the tension seemed to leave him. 'It's fur.'

'Fur?' Terry hurried forward to see for himself.

Wainwright was gouging the peat away now with savage strokes. 'Yes, fur! It's a bloody animal.'

The bone he'd uncovered was revealed as part of a broken pelvis, jutting through a bristly pelt that was coated with peat.

'What is it, a fox?'

'A badger.' Wainwright tugged a muddy paw free of the ooze, the dirt-clogged claws curved for digging. He let it drop. 'Congratulations, Miss Keller. You've Winthropped your way to an old badger sett.'

For once Sophie had no response. She looked as though she wanted to crawl into the hole herself as everyone moved closer for a better look. The badger was badly mangled, broken bones visible through the matted bristles.

'We had to make sure,' I said, annoyed. 'It could have been a grave for all we knew.'

Wainwright gave a wintry smile. 'Neither Miss Keller nor you are forensic archaeologists, Dr Hunter. Perhaps in future you'll-'

I didn't see what happened next, only heard the sudden commotion. Someone cried out behind us and I looked round to see both prison guards and a policeman on the ground.

Beyond them, Monk was running from the hollow.

He'd waited for his moment, when everyone's attention was distracted. The convict didn't so much as pause as another officer lunged for him. He charged right through the man, knocking him aside as though he'd been hit by a bull.

Then there was nothing in front of Monk but open moor.

'Get after him!' Terry yelled, breaking into a sprint.

Brute force and surprise had given Monk a few yards' lead but it was never going to be enough. The air rang with curses as heavy boots pounded after him. Then he jinked and changed direction, and suddenly the men who'd been about to catch him found themselves splashing through a grassy bog. Within seconds they were floundering to a halt as the soft mud sucked and dragged at their feet.

Monk barely slowed. The clumsiness that had led to his handcuffs being removed had vanished. He ran without hesitation, finding solid ground that looked indistinguishable from the bog around it I realized now why he'd been looking back at the moor instead of watching Wainwright.

He'd been planning his route.

'Use the dog! Use the bloody dog!' Terry shouted, trying to detour round the mire.

The handler didn't need any prompting. As soon as he'd released it the German shepherd streaked over the moor towards Monk. Either luck or its lighter weight helped it through the mud, and in seconds it had closed the distance between them. I saw Monk's pale face glance back at it, losing yet more ground as he slowed to shuck out of his coat. What the hell is he doing?

A moment later I understood: as the dog caught up he spun round, thrusting out a forearm wrapped in the coat. He took a step back under its weight as the animal leapt at him, its jaws clamping on to the thick padding. Bracing himself, he slapped his other hand on to the back of its neck and heaved. There was a shrill yelp that suddenly cut off, then Monk flung the dog's limp body aside and carried on running.

The stunned silence was broken by a cry as the German shepherd's handler began sprinting towards the dog's unmoving form.

'Jesus Christ!' Roper breathed. He scrabbled for his radio. 'Get the chopper in the air! Don't ask fucking questions, just do it!'

Monk was going flat out, hammering across the uneven moorland as easily as if he were in a park. Most of the police were still struggling through the bog, but Terry had managed to bypass the worst of it. And the dog had cost Monk his lead. From the top of the hollow where I'd gone to help the injured men, I felt my breath quicken as I saw that Terry was going to catch him.

Sophie's hands had gone to her mouth. 'He's going to get killed!'

She was right. Terry could handle himself against most men, but we'd just seen Monk snap the neck of a police dog.

But so had Terry. He launched himself at the convict's legs in a rugby tackle, hitting him just below the knees. Monk fell as if he'd been poleaxed, crashing to the ground with Terry's arms still wrapped around his legs. It didn't even seem to wind him. He twisted round and began clubbing wildly at the man clinging to his legs, trying to reach him. Terry ducked his head into his shoulders and held on. Then one of the punches connected, and Terry jerked and let go. Monk kicked himself free and scrambled on to his knees, but that was as far as he got before a mud-spattered policeman rammed into him, bowling him away from where Terry sprawled on the ground. Another launched himself on to them, and then uniforms were swarming over the convict like ants over a wasp.

'Come on then, bastards!'

Batons rose and fell as Monk lashed out, knocking his attackers away. But sheer weight of numbers carried him to the ground. He regained his feet once, surging up again before a baton cut his legs from under him. Face down, he struggled to rise as his arms were wrenched behind his back. Before he could free himself he'd been handcuffed and it was over.

He howled like a wounded animal as the police pinned him down and fastened restraints round his ankles. Then they stood back while he thrashed on the ground, raging and helpless. Some of them had gone to attend to Terry. He was on his hands and knees, still dazed. As we watched he shrugged off the attempts to help him and stood up by himself. We were too far away to hear what he said, but he must have made some quip. A burst of laughter came from the men around him, raucous and slightly hysterical.

Sophie sagged against me. 'Oh, God.'

I put my arm around her automatically. Both prison guards and the policeman Monk had knocked down to escape were back on their feet. The older guard had blood smeared down his face from a broken nose but he was able to walk. Pale and shaking, he tilted his head back, staunching the blood with the tissues I'd given him. Of the two guards he'd been the more humane towards Monk. It hadn't done him any good.

Monk's solicitor had been conspicuously silent, but seemed to feel obliged to speak as we hurried over to Terry and the other officers.

'You realize this marks a failing of the police force's duty of care to my client,' he panted to Roper, briefcase tucked under his arm as he struggled to keep up. 'He should never have been allowed to escape. I intend to lodge a formal complaint about the whole handling of this exercise.'

'Please yourself,' Roper said.

Dobbs took his indifference as encouragement. 'And as for justifiable force… The way he was subdued was completely excessive, a textbook example of police brutality.'

Roper turned to him, baring his rat's teeth in a feral grin. 'If you don't shut up I'm going to shove that briefcase up your arse.'

The solicitor was silent after that.

The police officers around Monk all bore the scars of their encounter. Smeared in mud from the bog, there wasn't one of them who wasn't bleeding or nursing some injury. Terry himself had a grazed lump the size of an egg on his forehead, but wasn't badly hurt. He seemed pumped up by what had happened, adrenalin giving him a manic edge.

'Nice one, chief,' Roper said, slapping him on the back. 'How's the head?'

Terry gingerly touched the bump. 'I'll survive.' He grinned at Sophie. 'Doesn't spoil my good looks, does it?'

'Anything's an improvement,' she said coolly.

Wainwright strode up to where Monk lay trussed in the grass and heather. The convict's chest was heaving, and his face and mouth were slick with blood. He'd stopped struggling except for jerking against the restraints from time to time, testing them. The handcuffs were tempered steel, and the strap round his legs wasn't going to break any time soon, but I was still glad I didn't have to take him back to prison.

Fists planted on his hips, Wainwright glared down at him. 'My God, to think society wastes money keeping animals like this alive!'

Monk stilled. Blood stained his teeth as he twisted his head to stare up at the archaeologist. There was neither fear nor anger in his eyes, only cold appraisal.

'Oh, for God's sake leave him alone,' Sophie said. 'You're not impressing anybody.'

'Neither are you,' Wainwright shot back. 'And after your display back there you'll be lucky to find another police force willing to hire you again.'

'That's enough,' Terry said, coming over. The energy that had buoyed him moments ago seemed to have gone. 'We're finished here. We'll wait for the helicopter but the rest of you might as well go back.'

'What about the graves?' Sophie asked. She seemed subdued: Wainwright's jibe had struck home.

Terry watched as the dog-handler carried the body of the German shepherd towards us, its head dangling loosely. 'What do you think?' he said, turning away.

Sophie and I began making our way back to the track. She was quiet, but I didn't say anything until I saw her angrily brush the tears from her eyes.

'Don't take any notice of Wainwright. It wasn't your fault.'

'Yeah, right.'

'It could have been a grave. We had to check it out.'

Something flickered at the edge of my mind as I spoke, but I couldn't quite pull it into view. It didn't seem important: I let it go, concentrating on Sophie.

She gave a bleak smile. 'I'm sure Simms will see it that way. God, I made a real fool of myself, didn't I? Offering to help Monk remember, so sure I knew what was going on. And he was playing us. He only said he'd show us where the graves were so he could try to escape.'

'You weren't to know that.'

She wasn't listening. 'I just don't understand it. How far did he think he was going to get out here? Where did he think he could go?'

'I don't know.' I felt too dispirited myself for a post-mortem on why things had gone wrong. 'He probably wasn't thinking at all. Just making it up as he went along.'

'I don't believe that.' Sophie looked troubled. She pushed a strand of hair from her face. 'Nobody does anything without a reason.'