The Calling of the Grave (22 page)

    I'd
wasted my breath.

    'We
can still fry,' she insisted.

    'Sophie,
I wouldn't know where to start. We don't know if Monk buried Zoe and Lindsey
anywhere near Tina Williams. And even if he did, grave location was more
Wainwright's field than mine.'

    I'd
told Sophie about the archaeologist's condition. Not that there was much chance
she'd have wanted his help anyway. She brushed away my argument.

    'Wainwright
couldn't see past his own ego. He was more interested in preserving his
reputation than anything else. Even back then you were just as capable as he
was.'

    'I'm
flattered you think so, but even if that's true you've got to be realistic. No
one enjoys failure, but we did everything that could be done last time.'

    'I
don't accept that.'

    I
squeezed the bridge of my nose. 'Sophie . . .'

    'Look,
I'm not saying we'll be able to actually find them, not by ourselves. All I
want to do is try to come up with enough for the police to launch another
search. One day, that's all I ask. Give me one day, and if you still think
we're wasting our time you can walk away.'

    'I just
can't see how—'

    'One
day. Please.'

    I
should have said no. We couldn't hope to achieve anything in a single day, and
there was no point in building up her hopes. The refusal was on my lips, but
even in the firelight I could see the need in her eyes. She sat with her hands
clenched, waiting for my answer.
This is a mistake.

    'One
day,' I heard myself say.

    Now I
was regretting it. The face in the bathroom mirror that morning had looked like
an older, tireder version of me. I'd slept badly, turning restlessly in the
small bed in the spare room and determinedly trying not to think about Sophie
lying on the other side of the wall. When I'd finally fallen asleep it had been
to wake gasping, convinced that Monk was breaking in. But the darkened house
had been silent, and the only sound from outside was the cry of an owl.

    Before
we'd set off on Sophie's mysterious trip, I'd given her the card with Terry's
mobile number. She'd promised to tell the police about writing to Monk if I
agreed to help her search for the graves, and however much they disliked each
other it made sense for it to be him. I'd pretended to need something from my
room while she made the call, waiting until her murmured voice had stopped
before going downstairs.

    'Voicemail,'
she said, handing me his card. 'I left him a message.'

    Her
face was studiedly neutral. I tucked the card back in my wallet without saying
anything. Perhaps she had called Terry, but it hadn't sounded like she'd been
leaving a message.

    It
had sounded like a conversation.

    We
had to wait for a local joiner to come out to repair the front door, so it was
early afternoon before we finally set off. The atmosphere in the car was
awkward from the outset, and grew more so as we neared wherever it was we were
going. Sophie directed me into a cul-de-sac where the road curved round on
itself.

    'Pull
up here.'

    I
switched off the engine. The semi-detached houses lined both sides of the road.
I looked at her, waiting. She gave me a strained smile.

    'Just
bear with me. Please?'

    
You've
come this far
... I locked the car and followed her through the
wrought-iron gate of the nearest house. A short path led to the front door past
a well-kept lawn and flowerbeds. Sophie's nervousness was evident as she
pressed the plastic doorbell. Westminster chimes sounded from inside, and a
moment later the door was opened.

    The
woman who answered was in her late forties or early fifties, blond-haired and
pleasant-faced but with a drawn look about her. She was smiling, but the
expression seemed forced.

    'Hi,
Cath. Sorry we're a bit later than I thought,' Sophie said.

    The
woman's hand went to her mouth as she stared at the bruising on Sophie's face.
'Never mind that, what
happened
to you? Are you all right?'

    'Oh,
I'm fine, I just slipped in the bathroom,' she said quickly. 'Cath, I'd like
you to meet Dr David Hunter. David, this is Cath Bennett.'

    The
name hit me like cold water. Bennett. As in Zoe and Lindsey. Now I knew who
Sophie had been talking to on the phone earlier, when she'd pretended to call
Terry.

    She'd
brought me to meet the murdered twins' mother.

    The
woman turned her brittle smile to me. 'Pleased to meet you, Dr Hunter.'

    I
murmured something polite. Sophie avoided looking at me as we went inside, but
from the flush spreading up her throat she knew how angry I was. I couldn't
believe she'd done this, not without warning me first.
You don't meet the
families. Ever.
It was hard enough staying objective as it was, without
that added emotional burden. Sophie knew that, yet she'd still brought me here.

    I
wondered what else she might be keeping from me.

    I
struggled to keep my feelings under control as we went down the hallway. The
house was almost obsessively clean, the air sharp with the smell of bleach and
air-freshener. Swirling patterns from the vacuum cleaner were carved in the
carpet's thick pile, like crop circles in a field of lilac wheat.

    The
door whispered over them as Cath Bennett led us into a pristine sitting room. A
sofa and matching chairs were positioned with clinical precision, the glass
coffee table polished to a mirror finish. Ceramic figurines and animals gleamed
on the mantelpiece, free from any taint of dust.

    Framed
photographs of the dead girls were everywhere.

    'Please,
take a seat,' their mother said, with rigid politeness. 'My husband's at work,
but he isn't very good at this anyway. He still can't talk about it. Would you
like tea or coffee?'

    Sophie
was still avoiding looking at me. 'Some tea would be lovely.'

    'And
how about you, Dr Hunter?'

    I
managed a smile. 'Same for me, please.'

    She
bustled out, leaving us alone with the photographs of her murdered daughters.
They smiled at us from all over the room, two identically pretty, dark-haired
girls. I tore my eyes from them and stared at Sophie.

    'Please
don't be mad,' she said in a rush. 'I'm sorry to spring it on you, but I knew
you wouldn't come otherwise.'

    'You're
right. What the hell were you
thinking?'

    'I
wanted to remind you what's at stake. What all this is really about.'

    'You
think I don't already
know?'
I made an effort to calm down. 'Sophie,
this is wrong. We shouldn't be here.'

    'We
can't go now. Just half an hour. Please?'

    I
didn't trust myself to speak. We sat in silence until Cath Bennett returned,
carrying a tray set out with tea things. Best cups and saucers, and a plate of
neatly arranged biscuits.

    'Help
yourself to milk and sugar,' she said, taking a seat on the sofa. 'Sophie says
you're a forensic anthropologist, Dr Hunter. I'm not sure what that is,
exactly, but I appreciate what you're doing.'

    
What
you're doing?
Sophie flashed me a look of mute appeal. 'David was involved
in the original search on the moor eight years ago,' she said quickly.

    'Eight
years.' Cath Bennett reached for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. 'I
still can't get used to how long it's been. They'd have been twenty-seven this
year. In May.'

    She
handed me the photograph. I took it reluctantly, feeling as though I were
accepting a pact. It wasn't the same picture that had been used in the
newspapers, which I'd seen again on the internet only days before, but it
looked to have been taken around the same time. Not long before the two
seventeen-year-olds had been abducted and murdered by Jerome Monk, less than
three days apart. Both sisters were in it, side by side, each an almost perfect
reflection of the other. But there was still a subtle difference between them.
Although both were laughing, one of them was grinning brazenly at the camera,
shoulders thrown back as she stared at the camera with a look of challenge. By
contrast her twin seemed more subdued, head a little downcast, with a
self-conscious look about her.

    'They
had their dad's colouring,' her mother went on. 'Zoe took after Alan in most
ways. Always an extrovert, even when she was a little girl. She kept us busy, I
can tell you. Lindsey was the quiet one. They might have looked the same, but
they were like chalk and cheese in every other way. If they'd—'

    She
stopped herself. Her smile was tremulous.

    'Well.
No good playing "what if ".You've met him, haven't you? Jerome Monk.'

    The
question was aimed at me. 'Yes.'

    'I
wish I'd had the chance. I always regretted not going to the trial. I'd like to
have stood in front of him and stared him in the eye. Not that it'd have done
much good, by all accounts. And now he's escaped.'

    'I'm
sure they'll catch him soon,' Sophie said.

    'I
hope they kill him. I know you're supposed to forgive and move on, but I can't.
After what he did, someone as evil as that, I just hope he suffers. Do you have
any children, Dr Hunter?'

    The
question caught me by surprise. I felt the weight of the photograph in my hand.

    'No.'

    'Then
you can't know what it's like. Jerome Monk, he didn't just murder our
daughters, he killed our future. Seeing Zoe and Lindsey married, grandchildren,
it's all gone. And we don't even have a grave we can take flowers to. At least
Tina Williams' parents have that.'

    'I'm
sorry,' I said, although I didn't know what I was apologizing for.

    'Don't
be. I know you did your best to find them eight years ago. And I appreciate
whatever you can do now. We both do. Alan . . . well, he doesn't like to talk
about it much. That's why I told Sophie to call during the day, while he's at
work. Nothing can bring our girls back, but it'd be a comfort to both of us to
know they're somewhere safe.'

    I set
the framed picture down on the coffee table. But I could still feel the dead
girls' eyes on me, staring from every photograph in that sad and spotless room.

    There
was an icy gulf between Sophie and me as we drove back to Dartmoor. I felt
furious with her, with Monk, with myself. And behind the anger was the rawness
opened by Cath Bennett's unwitting words.

    
Do
you have any children? Then you can't know what it's like
.

    The
streets and houses gave way to country roads before Sophie broke the silence.

    'I'm sorry.
It was a bad idea, OK?' she blurted. 'I got in touch with her a few months ago,
and . . . well, I thought if you met her . . .'

    But I
was in no mood to let her off that easily 'What? That I wouldn't be able to say
no?'

    'I
didn't commit you to anything, I only said you
might
be able to help.
She must have just assumed—'

    'What
did you
expect
? Her daughters were murdered! There isn't going to be a
day goes by when she doesn't wonder if she'll hear they've been found. Raising
her hopes like that's just cruel.'

    'I
was only trying to do the right thing!' she flashed. 'I'm sorry, all right?'

    I bit
back my response. The car fishtailed slightly on a muddy stretch of road as I
took a bend too fast.

    'Careful,'
Sophie said.

    I
eased my foot off the pedal, letting the speed bleed off. Some of my anger went
with it. Of all people, I should have known better than to lose control when I
was driving.

    'I
shouldn't have shouted,' I said.

    'It's
my fault.' Sophie stared out of the window, rubbing her temple. 'You're right,
I shouldn't have done it. I thought . . .Well, it doesn't matter.'

    'Is
your head hurting?'