The Calling of the Grave (21 page)

    I
repaired the front door as best I could, with tools Sophie provided. The lock
was broken but I salvaged an ancient iron bolt from the pantry. It wasn't
pretty, but it was big and solid, and would serve until a joiner could get
here.

    At my
insistence, Sophie went for a bath while I cleaned up the rest of the mess.
Most of the damage was superficial - her belongings had been scattered but
there were few breakages. Once I'd cleaned up and opened the windows to clear
the musky animal smell, there was little evidence of what had happened.

    It
was dark outside by the time Sophie came back down. She'd changed out of her
sister's clothes into clean jeans and a baggy sweater. Her hair was still damp,
brushed and pulled back from her face. Although her cheek was less swollen the
skin was starting to deepen into purples and yellows as the bruising ran its
course.

    'I
made some tea,' I said, as she came into the kitchen.

    'Fine.
Thank you.'

    'I've
cleared up as best I can but you might want to make sure nothing's missing. Any
jewellery or valuables.' She nodded, but didn't seem very interested. 'How's
the head?'

    Sophie
sat down at the scarred pine table, casually folding one long leg underneath
her. 'Still aching, but not as much. I took some of the painkillers the
hospital gave me.' She avoided looking at me as she reached for the teapot.

    'One
of yours?' I asked. It was an unusual shape, functional but with clean, elegant
lines.

    'Just
a one-off I tried.' Silence descended. The only sound was the slow tinkling of
the spoon as she stirred her tea. We both watched the spoon going round.

    'You'll
wear it out,' I said.

    'Sorry.'
She put the spoon down. 'Look, about earlier ... I don't usually lose it like
that.'

    'Don't
worry about it. You've been through a lot.'

    'Even
so, crying all over you like I did. I must have made a mess of your coat.'

    'I'll
send you the cleaning bill.'

    'Yes,
please do.'

    I
sighed. 'Sophie, I'm joking.'

    She
gave an embarrassed laugh. 'This is really awkward, isn't it?'

    'A
little,' I admitted. 'Look, you don't have to talk now if you don't want to.
It's getting late and I ought to set off soon.'

    'You're
driving back tonight?' She looked startled. 'I can't let you do that. There's a
spare room here.'

    'Really,
it isn't—'

    'You'd
be doing me a favour.' She gave me a nervous smile. 'Besides, you promised
Maria.'

    She
was trying hard, but I could see the cracks in her composure.

    After
what she'd been through I didn't blame her for being rattled. 'OK, if you're
sure.'

    Some
of the tension went out of her. 'Are you hungry? I don't have much in but I can
rustle something up.'

    Whatever
was on Sophie's mind, she obviously wasn't ready to talk about it yet. It was
best to let her get to it in her own time, though. Besides, I hadn't eaten
since breakfast.

    I
smiled. 'Starving.'

    Despite
her protests, I made her sit down while I prepared something to eat. She wasn't
exaggerating when she'd said there wasn't much in, but I found Cheddar and eggs
that I beat into an omelette. There was an old electric range in the kitchen,
and while the eggs sizzled in the pan I toasted slices from a stale loaf and
slathered them in butter.

    'God,
that smells delicious,' Sophie said.

    But
she only picked at her food. The tension edged up between us again as we ate,
and it was a relief when we'd finished.

    'Let's
go into the sitting room,' she said. 'We can talk better in there.'

    It
was a comfortable room: two big old sofas covered with throws, soft rugs on the
polished floorboards and a woodburning stove. I didn't argue when Sophie
insisted on lighting it herself, recognizing it as another delaying tactic.

    When
it was lit she sat on the other sofa, so that we faced each other across a low
coffee table. The flames flickered in the stove, filling the room with a smoky
scent of burning pine. It was cosier and more relaxed than the brightly lit kitchen.
Sophie and I had never been alone together like this before, and I realized how
little we really knew about each other. Sitting with her in the firelight felt
strangely intimate.

    'Do
you want a brandy or something?' she asked.

    'I'm
fine, thanks.'

    She
cleared her throat. 'Look, I've been meaning to say ... I heard about your
family. I'm so sorry.'

    I
just nodded. The wood crackled in the stove. Sophie gave a nervous smile,
plucking at her fingers.

    'I
don't know where to start.'

    'How
about how you ended up here? Making pottery's a long way from being a BIA.'

    She
smiled self-consciously. 'Yeah, just a bit. I'd had enough, I suppose. Seeing
only the dark side of life, all that pain. And the failures. After the Monk
fiasco I lost a lot of my confidence, started second-guessing everything I did.
It got to the point where I hated getting up in the morning. So I got out
before I burned out.'

    Sophie
looked around the room as if taking it in for the first time.

    'I've
been here four . . . no, five years now. God! Pottery used to be a hobby, so
when I saw this place for sale I thought why not? I'd always liked Dartmoor and
I wanted a fresh start, something completely different. Can you understand
that?'

    I
could. Probably better than she realized.

    'The
first thing I did was burn all my notes,' she went on. 'Everything. Every case
I'd ever worked on. All of it went on to the bonfire. Except one.'

    'Jerome
Monk's,' I said.

    She
nodded. 'I don't know why I didn't get rid of that as well. Perhaps coming out
here, not so far from where it all happened . . .' She clasped her hands in her
lap, so tightly her knuckles were white. For a few moments the only sound in
the room was the muted crackle of fire from the stove. 'Do you ever think about
it?'

    'Not
until Monk escaped.'

    'I
think about it a lot.' Sophie stared down at her clenched hands. 'We had a
golden opportunity to find where Lindsey and Zoe Bennett were buried, and we
threw it away.'

    I
sighed. 'I'm not going to pretend it was a high point for any of us, but
sometimes that's how it goes. We did our best. What happened back then wasn't
anyone's fault.'

    She
quickly shook her head, her face shadowed. 'We should have done more. I should
have done more.'

    'Monk
had his own agenda for being there, and it didn't have anything to do with
taking us to the graves. He only wanted a chance to escape.'
And almost
managed it.

    'But
that's the thing, I don't think he did.' She waved away my objection before I
could make it. 'All right, yes, escaping was part of it. Probably a big part.
But I don't think that was the
only
reason he agreed to help. The way he
reacted when he saw Tina Williams' grave, I don't think he was putting that on.
I'm certain he was genuinely trying to remember.'

    She
was looking at me earnestly, willing me to believe her. I chose my words
carefully. 'Jerome Monk knew that moor better than anyone. He'd managed to hide
out on it for months without being caught. If he'd wanted to he could have taken
us right to the other graves.'

    'Not
necessarily. I said back then that finding them wouldn't be straightforward,
not after a year, and especially not if he'd buried them at night. And people blank
things from their minds without meaning to. Painful memories sometimes, or when
their brain has too much to process and just overloads.'

    'That
might apply to an ordinary man who flipped and lost his temper, but you're
talking about Jerome Monk. He's a sociopathic serial killer, a predator. He
doesn't have a conscience.'

    'On
some level he might,' she persisted. 'I'm not defending him or what he did.
He's violent and unpredictable, but that doesn't mean he can't be reached.
That's why I—'

    She
broke off, looking down at her hands. An owl hooted outside. 'That's why you
what?' I asked.

    'That's
. . . why I've been writing to him.'

    'You've
been writing to
Monk?

    Her
chin came up, defiantly. 'Ever since I came here. I write to him once a year,
on the anniversary of Angela Carson's murder. We can't

    say
for sure when he killed any of his other victims, so I thought . . . Anyway,
once a year I write and urge him to say where the graves are. And I offer to
help him.'

    I
stared at her, aghast. 'Sophie, for God's sake!'

    'He's
never responded, but all I need is a landmark, some clue of whereabouts they
are! And if he needs help remembering, he might be more likely to turn to
someone who isn't connected to the police. What harm can it do?'

    
Christ.
I rubbed my eyes. 'Did you put your address on the letters?'

    'Well,
I . . .' Her fingers clenched and fretted at each other. She gave a guilty nod.
'I didn't know how else could he write back.'

    'Do
the police know?'

    'The police?
No, I . . .Well, I didn't think there was much point.'

    'Not
much
point
? Sophie, you get attacked the day after a rapist and murderer
escapes from prison, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning you'd been
writing
to him?'

    'I
was embarrassed, all right?' she flared. 'And yes, I know how stupid it makes
me look, but at least I've tried to
do
something! Every time I see the
moor I think that there are still two dead girls — two
sisters -
buried
out there somewhere. And no one's doing anything about it. How do you think
that makes their family feel? I know how it makes
me
feel, knowing we
could have done something about it and didn't!'

    There
was a tremor of emotion in her voice. I reminded myself she'd been through a
lot. This couldn't be easy for her.

    'You
have to tell the police,' I said gently. 'I can call Terry Connors and—'

    'No!'

    'Sophie,
you don't have any choice. You know that.'

    I
thought she was going to argue, but the defiance seemed to drain out of her.
She stared at the fire flickering in the stove.

    'I'll
tell the police, but on one condition. I called you to ask for a favour. That
still hasn't changed.'

    With
everything else that had happened I'd almost forgotten why she'd asked to see
me in the first place. 'What is it?'

    She
lifted her head. The flames from the stove tiger-striped her face, masking it
in light and shadow

    'I
want you to help me find the graves.'

    The
estate was a warren of semi-detached houses. The post-war homes had once
aspired to be middle class but now they were beginning to look tired and run down.
A few of them had made an effort; neat modern conservatories and new windows
amongst the cracked paths and peeling paintwork. But they were the exceptions,
lonely optimists in a neighbourhood that had once seen better days.

    'Take
the next left,' Sophie told me.

    She
seemed outwardly calm, but there was an underlying nervousness she was trying
hard to conceal. I still didn't know where we were going or why, just followed
the directions she gave as I drove.

    'Why
the mystery?' I'd asked.

    'No
mystery. It's just better if you wait till we get there.'

    I
hadn't argued. It seemed easier to go along with whatever she had in mind. I'd
known Sophie was stubborn, but her determination to find the bodies of Lindsey
and Zoe Bennett bordered on obsessional. The night before I'd tried to persuade
her it was useless, that the two of us couldn't hope to accomplish anything
after a full- scale police search had failed.