The Calling of the Grave (39 page)

    'The
heart attack wasn't faked, was it?' I said.

    Monk
stroked his hand back and forth over his head, his thumb fitting
disconcertingly into the depression in his skull. It seemed to calm him.

    'It
was charlie.'

    It
took me a moment to understand. 'You overdosed on cocaine? Deliberately?'

    The
big head nodded. His hand continued to rasp over it.

    'How
much?'

    'Enough.'

    It
explained how Monk had fooled the doctors. As well as sending his blood
pressure sky high, a cocaine overdose could trigger tachycardia, making his
heartbeat dangerously fast and irregular. The symptoms could easily be mistaken
for the onset of a heart attack, and prove just as fatal. Judging from Monk's
condition I guessed he'd suffered cardiovascular damage at the very least,
perhaps even heart failure. Throw in a respiratory infection and it was a
miracle he wasn't dead. No wonder we'd escaped from him out at Black Tor.

    He'd
been too sick to catch us.

    'You
could have killed yourself,' I said.

    His
mouth curled. 'So what?'

    'I
don't understand. You waited eight years, why escape now?'

    His
mouth twitched in what at first I mistook for a smile. Then I saw the look in
his eyes and realized it was anything but.

    'Because
the bastards stitched me up.'

    I'd been
on the verge of believing him until then. Even, God help me, pitying him. Monk
was capable of a lot of things but acting wasn't one of them. But while I'd
have sworn the bizarre seizure I'd witnessed was genuine, this was pure
paranoia. I must have let my thoughts show.

    'You
think I'm a psycho, don't you?'

    'No,
I—'

    'Don't
fucking lie!'

    He
was glaring at me, big head jutting forward.
Careful.
'Why do you think
you were set up?'

    He
glared at me for a moment longer, then examined his scabbed fists. Blood still
dripped from the one he'd hit against the rock, but it didn't seem to bother
him.

    'I
got word that this new cunt was saying he'd seen someone poking around under my
caravan before it was raided. They pulled a warrant card on him and said it was
police business. Told him to fuck off, that if he told anyone he'd get banged
up on paedo charges and thrown to the nutjobs. Said he'd be doing himself a
favour if he kept his mouth shut. So he did. Never told anyone until he got
sent to Belmarsh and wanted to big himself up to the hardmen.' Monk turned his
head and spat. 'Like I wasn't going to find out.'

    This
wasn't the paranoid rant I'd been expecting. It had been the discovery of Zoe
Bennett's lipstick and hairbrush under his caravan that had confirmed Monk's
guilt. He would have known that, of course, but even so . . .

    'This
prisoner . . .' I said.

    'Walker.
Darren Walker.'

    'Did
he tell you the policeman's name?'

    'He
said it was some bastard called Jones. A DI.'

    The
name meant nothing to me, but there was no reason it should. 'He could have
been lying.'

    'He
wasn't. Not after what I did to him.' Monk's face was pitiless. His lips
twitched back in a snarl. 'Should've said something sooner.'

    Terry
had told me about Monk beating another inmate to death when he'd broken the
news of his escape.
Put two wardens in hospital when they tried to pull him
off. Surprised you didn't hear about it.
I tried to swallow: my mouth was
so dry it took me several attempts. I pointed at a pack of unopened water
nearby.

    'Can
I have a drink?'

    He
hitched a slabbed shoulder in a shrug. I opened one of the bottles, conscious
of my hands shaking. But the water eased my parched throat, and the fact he'd
allowed it was something in itself.

    I
drank half, saving the rest for when Sophie woke. 'How does Wainwright fit into
this?' I asked, capping the bottle again. 'Why did you kill him?'

    I
half expected Monk to say he couldn't remember that either. He dredged
something up from his lungs and hawked on the floor before he answered.

    'I
didn't kill him.'

    'His
wife identified you, and your DNA was all over the house.'

    'I
didn't say I wasn't there, I said I didn't kill him. He fell downstairs. I
never touched him.'

    It
was possible, I supposed. Wainwright's body had been lying near the foot of the
stairs: he could have broken his neck falling down them. Finding Monk in your
home would have been terrifying for anyone, let alone someone with dementia.

    'Why
did you go to their house anyway? You can't have thought Wainwright had
anything to do with setting you up.'

    Monk
had clasped both hands on his head as he looked at Sophie. She stirred in her
sleep, frowning as though she could feel his eyes on her. 'Didn't know what
else to do when I couldn't find her. I thought he might know where she was. Or
know something. I tried digging holes on the moor like I saw him do, see if
that'd make me remember. Didn't expect you and her to turn up, though.'

    He
gave a death's-head grin.

    'Weren't
expecting me either, were you? You were so scared I could practically smell
you. If I wasn't knackered from digging them fucking holes I'd have caught
you.'

    So
instead, frustrated, that night he'd sought out the only other person he could
think of. Someone who was easy to find, with his name in the phone book.

    'Wainwright
was ill. He couldn't have helped.'

    Monk's
head snapped up. 'I didn't know that, did I? You think I'm sorry he's dead?
Stuck-up bastard treated me like scum, I've not forgotten that! I'd have broken
the fucker's neck anyway!'

    'I
don't—' I began, but it was as if a switch had been flicked.

    
'
The bastards stitched me up!
Eight years I thought I was too cracked to
remember what I did!
Eight fucking years!'

    'If
you didn't kill the other girls—'

    'I
don't give a fuck about them! But if I was set up then I could have been for
the rest of it. For Ange!’ The dark eyes were fevered and manic. His head
jerked, an unconscious twitch of his jaw. 'The fuckers could've tricked me,
made me think I killed her as

    well!
You get it? I might not have done it,
and I need to fucking remember!'

    Any
hope I'd had of reasoning with him died then. Monk wasn't interested in
retrieving any lost memories, only in absolving himself of guilt over Angela
Carson. But that wasn't going to happen. Whatever the fate of the other
victims, whether he'd intended it or not, he'd killed her himself.

    And
nothing Sophie said could alter that.

    'Look,
whatever you did, if it happened during a blackout then you're not fully
responsible,' I said. 'There are types of sleep disorders that—'

    'Shut
the fuck up!' He surged to his feet, fists clenched. 'Wake her up!'

    'No,
wait—'

    He
moved so fast I didn't see it coming. It was little more than a backhand cuff,
but it snapped my head to one side as if I'd been hit with a plank. I fell on
to the debris littering the floor as Monk grabbed hold of Sophie.

    'Come
on! Wake up!'

    Sophie
moaned feebly, her body still limp. I lunged at him, grabbing hold of his arm
as he drew it back to slap her. He thrust me away and I slammed into the rock.

    But
Monk made no further attempt to hit Sophie. He was staring at his fist as if
he'd only just become aware of it. It was the one he'd struck against the rock,
and as he looked at the blood on it the rage left him as quickly as it had
arrived.

    He
lowered his arm as Sophie stirred.

    'David
. . .'

    'I'm
here.' There was blood in my mouth, and my jaw and teeth throbbed as I went to
her. This time Monk didn't try to stop me.

    Sophie
rubbed her head, brow creased in pain. 'I don't feel so good,' she said, her
voice slurred, and then she vomited.

    I
supported her until the spasm had passed. She gave something between a groan
and a sob, shielding her eyes from the lantern light. 'My head ... it really
hurts.'

    'Look
at me, Sophie.'

    'Hurts
. . .'

    'I
know, but just look at me.'

    I
smoothed the hair back from her face. She squinted, blinking as she opened her
eyes. Shock ran through me. While her left pupil was normal, the right was
dilated and huge.
Oh, God.

    'What's
wrong with her?' Monk demanded. He sounded suspicious, as though this were some
sort of trick.

    I
took a deep breath as Sophie tried to huddle away from the light.
Keep calm.
Don't lose it now.
'I think it's a haematoma.'

    'A
what?'

    'A
haemorrhage. She's bleeding inside her skull. We need to get her to a
hospital.'

    'You
think I'm fucking stupid?' Monk said, and seized hold of her arm.

    'Don't
touch her!' I snapped, shoving him away.

    At
least, I tried to: it was like pushing a side of meat. But he stopped, his eyes
unblinking as they stared at me. There was the same stillness about him that
I'd witnessed earlier, a sense of poised violence barely held in check.

    'There's
blood collecting inside her head,' I said, my voice unsteady. 'It could be from
the car crash or before. But if the pressure isn't released . . .'
She'll
die.
'I have to get her out of here. Please.'

    Monk's
mouth twisted in frustration, his wheezing breaths growing even more ragged.
'You're a doctor. Can't you do something?'

    'No,
she needs surgery.'

    'Fuck!'
He slapped his hand against the wall. In the small chamber it echoed like a
pistol shot.
'Fuck!'

    I
ignored him. Sophie had slumped against me. 'Sophie? Come on, you have to stay
awake.'

    If
she lapsed into unconsciousness down here I'd never be able to get her out. She
stirred feebly. 'Don't want to . . .'

    'Come
on, I need you to sit up straight. We're getting out of here.'

    Monk's
hand thrust against my chest. 'No! She said she'd help me!'

    'Does
she look like she can help anybody?'

    'She's
staying here!'

    'Then
she's going to die!' I was shaking, but from anger now. 'All she's done is try
to help you. Do you want more blood on your hands?'

    
'Shut UP!'

    I saw
his fist coming but I had no chance of avoiding it. I flinched as it whipped by
my face, his coat sleeve skimming my cheek as he punched the rock by my head.

    I
didn't move. The only sound was Monk's ragged wheezing. His breath stank in my
face. Chest heaving, he dropped his arm and stepped back. Blood dripped from
his hand. He'd struck the rock full on this time: it had to be broken.

    But
if it hurt he gave no sign. He looked at the swollen knuckles as though they
didn't belong to him, then down at Sophie. For all his size, there was
something pathetic about him. Beaten.

    'She
couldn't have helped anyway, could she?' he asked. 'It wouldn't have made any
difference.'

    I
tried to think of a safe answer, then gave up. 'No.'

    Monk
lowered his head. When he raised it again the gargoyle face was unreadable.

    'Let's
get her out.'

    I
used one of the bottles of smelling salts to rouse Sophie. She moaned in
protest, trying to move her head away. The ammonia was a temporary measure at
best, but it wouldn't make her any worse. And I needed her as aware as
possible.