The Calling of the Grave (16 page)

    But I
was here now. With a sigh I got out of the car and made my way up the church
path. Ancient stone gravestones flanked it, many of them set flat into the
overgrowing turf, their inscriptions eroded to illegibility. The church door
was wooden, black with age and hard as iron. It was also locked.

    'Can
I help you?'

    The
accent was pure Devon, sounding like something from an older, more peaceful
age. I turned to find an elderly woman standing by the church gate. She wore a
quilted jacket and tweed skirt, and an expression that was as watchful as it
was polite.

    'I'm
looking for someone called Sophie Keller. I think she lives in the village?'

    She pondered,
slowly shaking her head. 'No, I don't think so.'

    'This
is Padbury, isn't it?' I asked, wondering if I might be at the wrong place.

    'It
is, but there's no Sophie Keller lives here.' Her face brightened. 'There's a
Sophie Trask, though. Are you sure you've got the right name?'

    It
was possible that Sophie could have changed it - or married - since I'd last
seen her, but she'd made no mention of it when we'd spoken. Still, I might as
well make sure. I agreed that I might have made a mistake and asked for
directions.

    'You
can't miss it,' the woman called after me as I got back into my car. 'Watch out
for the kiln.'

    
Kiln?
That
made less sense than ever. But I realized what she meant soon enough.
I followed the road out of the village, passing the point where I'd turned
around earlier, and saw the curving shape through the bare trees about a
quarter of a mile ahead. It was a squat, inverted cone, built of the same
rusty-coloured bricks as the house it stood next to. When I drew closer I saw
it looked on the verge of collapse. A rickety framework of scaffolding clung to
one side, either to repair it or prop it up.

    I
pulled on to the verge in front of the overgrown garden fence. The dusk was
thickening, but the house windows were unlit.

    Whoever
lived here didn't appear to be home. A neat contemporary sign was fixed to one
of the wooden gateposts:
Trask Ceramics.

    I
almost drove away when I saw that. This had to be someone else. Yet Sophie had
said she lived in Padbury, and according to the map there was only one in
Dartmoor.
You've come this far . . .

    A
stone-flagged path led to the house through a voguishly overgrown garden. A
small orchard grew at one side, its scrubby apple trees now bare of leaves and
fruit. The kiln sprouted on the other, tall and faintly sinister. The air held
an autumnal odour of woodsmoke as I pushed open the gate. A vague sense of
trespassing mingled with embarrassment that I was here at all. I told myself
again how ridiculous this was, but there was also an uneasy sense of deja vu.
I'd been in this situation once before, gone to check on someone to convince
myself I was worrying about nothing.

    I
hoped history wasn't about to repeat itself.

    Blown
leaves from the orchard crisped underfoot as I walked up the path. There was
still no sign of life from the house, its windows sheer panes of black. If
someone was in I would simply make my apologies; if not . . .Well, first things
first. I reached out to knock on the door.

    And
saw the freshly splintered wood where the lock had been forced.

    All
the doubts I'd had seemed to congeal in that second. The door was partly ajar,
but I didn't push it open. The possibility that this could still be a
stranger's house, that there might be an innocent reason for the smashed door,
flashed through my mind, but I dismissed it. I looked around, half expecting to
see someone behind me. But there was only the dark path, and the whispering
branches of the trees.

    The
door creaked as I pushed it open with my fingertips. It swung back to reveal a
darkened hallway.

    'Anyone
home?'

    The
silence was deafening. If I went inside I could be laying myself open to all
sorts of trouble, but I didn't see that I'd any choice. If I called the police
what would I say? That there were signs of forced entry at a house that might
or might not belong to someone I knew?

    
If
somebody's just lost their key you're going to look really stupid, I
thought,
and stepped into the hallway. Everything looked normal, but then I saw an old
pine cabinet at the foot of the stairs, its drawers pulled open and their
contents scattered. A vase lay shattered nearby, the broken pottery looking
like pieces of bone on the floor.

    'Sophie!'

    I
hurried inside, turning on the lights. There was no answer. I knew I should
call the police but if I did I'd be told to wait outside until a car arrived.

    That
might be too late.

    I
quickly checked the downstairs rooms. They'd been ransacked, drawers and
cupboards torn open and emptied, cushions flung off sofas and chairs. There was
no sign of anyone so I ran upstairs. I noticed now that the carpet had wet
patches on it, but I ignored it when I realized it was only water. All the
doors at the top were closed, except for the bathroom. It was slightly ajar.

    Through
the gap I could see a pair of bare legs on the floor.

    I
rushed forward. A woman's body lay behind the door, blocking it so that I had
to squeeze through. She was lying on her back, a towelling bathrobe fallen
open. One arm was flung across her face, and a tangle of still-damp hair
covered it further.

    
No
blood.
That was my first thought, but when I knelt beside her I saw that
one side of her face was swollen in a livid purple bruise.

    But
even with that, and the fact that it was eight years since I'd last seen her, I
still recognized Sophie Keller.

    I
moved aside the spill of hair and felt her throat. Her skin was cold but the
pulse was steady.
Thank God.
I eased her into the recovery position,
gently pulling the bathrobe down to cover her. There was no mobile reception,
so I ran back down to the phone I'd seen in the kitchen. My voice wasn't quite
steady as I called emergency

    Hurrying
back upstairs, I covered Sophie with a quilt from the bedroom. Then, sitting
next to her on the hard floor, I took her hand and waited for the ambulance to
arrive.

    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.