The Calling of the Grave (30 page)

    The
ringing of the phone woke me. I bolted upright, hastily setting the glass
aside. The extension was on a chest of drawers.

    I
snatched it up before it could ring again, glancing at my watch. Half past two.

    No
one called at that time for anything good.

    'Hello?'
There was no answer.
Please yourself,
I thought irritably, about to hang
up. Then I heard a sound down the line. Adenoidal and laboured, the wheeze of
someone breathing.

    Suddenly
I knew it was Monk on the other end.

    The
hairs on my forearms prickled as they stood up. I found my voice.

    'What
do you want?'

    Nothing.
The breathing continued. The moment stretched on, then there was a soft
click
as the connection was broken.

    I realized
I'd been holding my own breath. I lowered the handset. The house was silent:
I'd answered the phone before it could wake Sophie. I hurried into the kitchen,
searching through drawers for a pen and paper before playing back the caller's
number and scribbling it down.

    From
the code it looked like a local landline. I stared at the piece of paper,
slowly sliding down from the rush of adrenalin. Dazed, I called Roper and left
a message on his voicemail. I'd no proof it was Monk, and an anonymous phone
call was hardly going to impress him.

    But I
knew.

    I
made sure the front door was still locked and bolted, then went from room to
room to check the windows. They seemed old and flimsy. The wooden frames
wouldn't keep anyone out, but at least I'd hear if they broke in. I went back
into the sitting room and stoked the embers in the stove before adding more
kindling and another log. As the flames crawled over it, I closed the stove
door and laid the poker within easy reach.

    Then
I settled down to wait for morning.

    Even
though I'd left a message for Roper, he wouldn't have been my first choice of
police officer to call. But I didn't have Naysmith's mobile number, and I
doubted the SIO would be at his desk in the middle of the night.

    I
waited until a reasonable hour before trying him, only to be put through to yet
another answering service. I briefly explained what had happened and gave
Sophie's number rather than trust the poor mobile reception.

    Having
done all I could, I set about trying to wake myself up. Despite my best
intentions, I'd fallen asleep on the sofa as the chorus of birdsong had begun
to sound outside. The hour's uneasy rest had left me feeling groggy and put a
crick in my neck. Leaving Sophie to sleep, I stood under a hot shower until I
began to feel a little more human.

    She
was in the kitchen, wrapped in a thick towelling bathrobe, when I went
downstairs. 'Morning. We're down to cereal today. I really have to go shopping
later.'

    'Cereal's
fine.'

    She
rubbed her eyes. 'God, I feel wrecked. I bet I look it, too.'

    I'd
been thinking just the opposite. Even with her sleep-tousled hair and loosely
tied bathrobe there was a natural poise to her. She caught me looking.

    'What?'
she asked, smiling.

    The
harsh ring of the phone brought me round like ice-water.
Damn.
I'd been
hoping to tell Sophie about the anonymous call before Roper or Naysmith phoned.

    'That
might be for me,' I said quickly, but she'd already answered it.

    'Yes
. . . Oh.' She made a moue of distaste and mouthed
Roper.
'Yes, he is.
Just a second.'

    She
gave me a questioning look as she passed me the handset. I was uncomfortably aware
of her standing there as I told Roper about the phone call.

    'What
makes you think it was Monk?' he asked.

    'The
fact he didn't speak, for one thing. People normally apologize if they call the
wrong number, and . . .' I stopped, glancing at Sophie.

    'And?'
Roper prompted.

    
Oh,
hell.
I could feel Sophie's eyes boring into me. 'It was only an
impression, but I thought he was . . . surprised. As though I wasn't who he'd
expected.'

    'All
this from a silent phone call?' I could hear his scepticism. But I'd had a lot
of time to think it through while I'd been waiting for daylight. 'How do you
even know it was a man on the other end?'

    'The
breathing was too deep to be a woman's. And I could hear him wheezing, as
though he were out of breath or asthmatic.'

    'Heavy
breathing, eh? You sure this wasn't just a dirty phone call?'

    My
hand had tightened on the receiver. 'Monk was having a suspected heart attack
when he escaped. Perhaps he wasn't faking being ill.'

    I couldn't
believe even Monk could have escaped if the attack had been genuine, but
something must have convinced the prison doctors. An odd noise came down the
line as Roper considered: he was tapping his teeth with a pen.

    'Can't
hurt to check the number, I suppose,' he said. 'Tell you what, I'll call round
and take your statement myself.'

    'Don't
go to any trouble,' I said, my stomach sinking.

    Roper
gave his nasal chuckle. 'Oh, it's no trouble, Dr Hunter. I'm in the area. And
the ACC wants me to keep an eye on you and Miss Keller.'

    Which
could be taken two ways, I thought as I hung up. Sophie was glaring at me,
hands balled on her hips.

    'Monk
rang
here
? And you didn't
say
anything?'

    'It
was the middle of the night. I didn't want to disturb you.'

    'Don't
you think I might have liked to
know
about it?'

    I was
on a short fuse myself. 'Fine! If he rings again I'll ask him to wait while I
come and get you!'

    'You
know what I mean! This is my house, I don't need protecting!'

    'I wasn't—'
But I stopped myself: there was no point in arguing. 'Look, I'm sorry. I was
about to tell you when Roper called. And I'm only guessing that it was Monk.'

    'God.'
She pushed her hands through her hair, troubled. 'Could it have been Terry
Connors?'

    'I
don't think so. If it was Terry why didn't he say something?'

    'Why
does he do anything?' she said dully, rubbing her temple. She made an attempt
to smile. 'Terry Connors or Jerome Monk. Talk about spoiled for choice.'

    'There's
more good news. Roper's calling round later.'

    Sophie
stared at me, then burst out laughing. 'Right, just for that you get to make
breakfast.'

    It
was late morning by the time Roper arrived. We were in the kiln, Sophie having
decided she needed to work. 'I haven't done anything for days. I'm supposed to
have an order for a restaurant finished by the end of the month.'

    I
watched as Sophie started the potter's wheel. She wore a pair of men's work
overalls, faded and streaked with clay. Her hands were strong and dexterous as
she worked on the wheel, manipulating the clay so easily it seemed to form
shapes of its own volition.

    'Do
you want to try it?' she asked.

    'No
thanks.'

    'Coward.'

    She
trimmed the loose edges from the rim of the plate she'd just thrown and slapped
them on to the big clay ball on the workbench.

    'What's
that?' I asked.

    'This?'
She gave an embarrassed laugh, smoothing in the lump of clay she'd just added
with her thumb. 'Nothing. Just a bad habit. I used to throw all the waste into
a bin, but then I got lazy. And it sort of grew. I quite like it, though. It
isn't trying to be anything, and it's always changing. Plus it's therapeutic.'

    She
gave it a hard slap, then wiped her hands on a cloth she'd hung from the end of
a scaffolding pole.

    'Now,
I need to get on.'

    I
took the hint and left her to it, going back out into the garden. A thin haze
of mist and drizzle hung in the air. I cut across the wet grass to the small
orchard. The trees were gnarled and ancient, probably as old as the house
itself. One or two wizened fruit still hung like forgotten Christmas ornaments
from the bare branches, unpicked and forlorn. The grass underneath was dappled
with windfall apples, sweetening the air with the cider scent of their rot.

    The
distant drone of a car engine broke the stillness. I waited for it to appear as
it slowly grew louder, the sound deceptive in the mist. A flash of grey
appeared through the hedgerows higher up the lane, and then the car was pulling
up at the bottom of the garden.

    Roper
climbed out, squeezing out from behind the seat with a grunt. 'Thought I was
never going to get here,' he grumbled, pushing open the gate. 'Not an easy
place to find, is it?'

    'I
thought you were in the area?'

    He
bared his teeth in a grin, but his eyes were taking in the house and
surroundings. 'Relatively speaking, Dr Hunter. Where's Miss Keller? Or should I
say Trask these days?'

    I
ignored the jibe. 'In the kiln.'

    He
looked doubtfully at the rusting scaffold protruding from the old brickwork.
'Is it safe?'

    'So
long as you don't sneeze.'

    We
started towards the entrance, but Sophie came out before we reached it, wiping
her hands on the cloth.

    'Afternoon,
Miss Keller,' Roper said, looking beyond her into the kiln. 'Interesting
workplace you've got here.'

    She
pulled the ill-fitting door shut behind her, cutting off his view. 'I'm busy at
the moment. Is it just David you need to talk to?'

    'Actually,
it was both of you.' Roper's grin flickered out. 'There's been a bit of a
development.'

    The
visit wasn't just about the phone call, I realized. 'What's happened?'

    The
DI looked uncomfortable. 'Wainwright's wife gave us a description of the man
who killed her husband. It was Monk.'

    'I'm
not going!'

    Sophie
stood in the kitchen, arms folded in front of her like a barred gate. She was
still wearing her work overalls, three empty mugs next to her waiting for water
from the cooling kettle. I didn't think they were going to be filled any time
soon, but right now that was the least of anyone's problems.

    Roper
wore the dogged expression of a man at the end of his tether. 'It'll only be
for a few days. You can come back as soon as Monk's in custody.'

    'Last
time it took you three months to catch him,' Sophie retorted. 'If you think I'm
going to put my life on hold until then you can forget it.'

    Roper
looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her himself. For once I
couldn't altogether blame him. Jean Wainwright had recovered from shock enough
to relate what had happened. She'd been woken in the middle of the night by a
commotion inside the house. She and her husband slept in separate rooms, the
sort of personal detail I imagined she would hate to reveal. Thinking he was
wandering — something that many dementia sufferers were prone to do - she'd
thrown on a dressing gown and hurried on to the landing. She'd turned on the
light to find Wainwright lying at the foot of the stairs, in the wreckage of
the china cabinet.

    Standing
over him was Monk.

    She'd
passed out, and had still been only semi-conscious when the cleaner arrived.
Preliminary forensic tests had confirmed her story. Monk's fingerprints were
all over the house, and DNA from the sputum found on the floor had also matched
the convicts. It was hard to see that as anything other than a clear statement
of contempt. Monk had made no attempt to cover his tracks.

    He'd
gone beyond that.

    None
of which would have involved Sophie, except for the anonymous phone call to her
house. It had been made from a lonely public phone box on the outskirts of
Princetown, a small town surrounded by high, open moors. It was also the site
of Dartmoor prison, where Monk had spent the early years of his sentence. That
could have been a coincidence, but there was a more compelling reason why the
location might have appealed to him.