The Calling of the Grave (11 page)

    '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.'

    Spring
came and went. Summer moved into autumn, then winter. Christmas approached.
Alice had another birthday, started ballet classes and caught chicken pox. Kara
was promoted and given a small wage rise. To celebrate we spent the money in
advance on a new car, a Volvo estate. Something nice and safe for the two of
them. I flew to the Balkans to work on a mass grave and came down with flu in
the freezing conditions. Life went on.

    And
the abortive search for Jerome Monk's missing victims receded further into the
past.

    I'd
expected there to be more hue and cry over his failed escape attempt, but Simms
managed to keep the story out of the press. The operation continued afterwards,
but the heart had been taken out of it. Simms brought in technicians with
geophysical equipment, hoping that the ground's electrical resistivity and
magnetic field might reveal a human body. But they were desperation measures,
not designed for rugged peat moorland, and everyone knew it. After a few more
days the search was quietly called off.

    Wherever
Lindsey and Zoe Bennett were buried, they were going to stay there.

    I
wasn't sorry to leave. It hadn't been a good experience, and I'd missed my
family. The only thing I regretted was that I didn't get a chance to say
goodbye to Sophie. She went before I did, still berating herself over what had
happened. I hoped she'd get over it. Incidents like that had a habit of
following you around, particularly if the SIO was looking for someone to blame.
But Simms had another scapegoat in mind.

    I
only spoke to Terry once before I left. It was on my last morning, when I was
just loading my bags into the car outside the Trencherman's Arms. I slammed the
boot as his garish yellow Mitsubishi pulled in alongside.