The Calling of the Grave (41 page)

    Then
something scratched my face. I jerked away, yelling out as something snagged my
hair. I shone the torch at it and saw spiky branches.
Plants?
I thought,
dumbly. I felt water dripping on to my face, but it was only when I noticed the
cold wind on my cheek that I realized it was rain.

    I was
outside.

    It
was dark. In the torch beam I saw that the passage had emerged in a clump of
gorse that clung to a sloping rock face. I had to crawl underneath the spiky,
dripping branches, tugging myself free when they snagged my skin and clothes. I
slithered the last few yards and splashed feet first into a freezing stream.

    Shivering
in the cold, I shone the torch around as I climbed out. The fog had cleared but
rain fell in a sullen, steady downpour. I was on the moor, at the foot of a
small tor. It was overgrown with gorse that completely hid the cave mouth.
There was light on the horizon, but I'd no idea if it marked dawn or dusk, or
even where I was. I tried to force my numbed mind to work.
Which way? Come
on, decide!

    A
faint noise came to me on the wind. I tilted my head, trying to catch which
direction it was coming from. It faded, and for a moment I was afraid I was
imagining it. Then I heard it again, stronger this time.

    The
distant whickering of a helicopter.

    I
clambered up the side of the tor, fatigue and cold forgotten as I waved the
torch over my head.

    'HERE!
OVER HERE!'

    I
shouted myself hoarse, oblivious of the gorse tearing at me as 1 hauled myself
on to the crest of the tor. I could see the helicopter's running lights now,
bright specks of colour perhaps half a mile away. For an awful few seconds I
thought it was going to fly straight by. Then it banked and came towards me. As
its lights grew in size I could make out the police markings on its side, and
when I saw that the last of my strength went. My legs gave way and I slumped on
to the cold stone, willing the approaching machine to fly faster.

    I
seem to have spent an disproportionate amount of my life in hospitals. I've
become too familiar with the slow tick of time passed on hard plastic chairs,
the anxiety and frustration.

    The
waiting.

    The
past twenty-four hours seemed unreal, like a bad dream I couldn't shake off. That
was partly due to the hypothermia I'd developed, not severe but bad enough to
leave me still feeling chilled and slightly detached, as though I were watching
events happening to someone else. The pale light in the sky I'd seen when I'd
emerged from the cave had been morning. It felt like I'd been underground for
days, but it was only hours since the car crash.

    In
the police helicopter I'd been wrapped in a blanket and given chocolate and hot
tea from the pilot's Thermos. I'd been shivering uncontrollably by then, but I
wouldn't let them take me to hospital. I was frantic to go straight back down
for Sophie, but there was no question of that. When the rescue team arrived
there was a bad moment when they couldn't find the cave. It had seemed like an
age until a yell from deep in the thicket of gorse announced that the entrance
had been located.

    The
next hour was one of the longest of my life. Sitting in the cramped plastic and
leather cabin of the helicopter, woozy from exhaustion and nauseated by the
smell of aviation fuel, I was free to replay all that had happened. In the cold
dawn light everything I'd done, every decision I'd made, now seemed wrong.

    Sophie
was alive but unconscious when they brought her out. By then the gorse bushes
immediately around the cave entrance had been hacked away, enough for the
stretcher to be carried to the waiting air ambulance. I went with her, knowing
better than to ask the paramedics questions they couldn't answer. When the
helicopter landed at the hospital a team of nurses and doctors rushed her away,
crouching beneath the whirling rotors.

    I was
taken more sedately to Emergency, where I was given a robe and put on an IV
drip. My cuts and abrasions were cleaned, the worst of them dressed with
antiseptic-smelling gauze. I told my story again and again, to a succession of
first uniformed and then CID officers. Finally, after I was moved to a
curtained cubicle, I was left alone. I can't remember ever feeling so tired. I
was sick with worry for Sophie, but none of the police officers who'd
questioned me seemed to know anything. Intending only to rest for a moment, I
put my head back and was instantly asleep.

    The
whisk of the curtains being opened woke me. I sat up, disorientated and aching
all over as Naysmith stepped into the cubicle.

    The
tall SIO's throat was mottled with fresh razor burn and his eyes were red and
lined with fatigue, but he seemed tense and alert.

    'How's
Sophie?' I asked before he could speak.

    'Still
in surgery. There's a build-up of blood on her brain, so they need to release
it. Other than that, I can't tell you.'

    Even
though I'd expected it the news hit me hard. There were different types of
haematoma, but recovery — and survival - depended on how quickly surgery was
carried out.
This is your fault. You should have realized sooner.

    Naysmith
fished something wrapped in plastic out of his pocket. 'You might need this,'
he said, setting my muddy wallet on the bedside trolley. 'We found it a couple
of hours ago. We were just about to send a search team down the mine when the
helicopter picked you up.'

    'What
about Miller and Cross?'

    If he
blamed me for abandoning them he didn't show it. He pulled up a chair and sat
down. 'Miller's got a fractured skull, busted ribs and some internal bruising.
He's unconscious but stable. Cross has a broken jaw and concussion. She was
already conscious when the back-up arrived, so she could tell them what
happened. Sort of.'

    I was
relieved. It could have been a lot worse, although I wasn't sure the injured
police officers would agree. 'And Monk?'

    'Nothing
yet. We're sending teams down and we've got police guarding both entrances. But
there could be others we don't know about. Cutter's Wheal Mine's been sealed up
for years, and no one had any idea there were any caves connected to it. From
what we've seen it's a big system, almost as big as Bakers Pit at
Buckfastleigh. If Monk's still down there we'll find him eventually, but it's
going to take time.'

    
And
if he isn't he could be anywhere by now.
Naysmith crossed his legs, a man
getting down to business.

    'So,
do you want to tell me what happened?'

    I
knew he'd have been briefed already, but I went through my story again. He
listened without comment, even when I told him about Monk's claim that he'd
been framed by a police officer. When I finished he heaved a long sigh.

    'Well,
he was telling the truth about Wainwright, at least. He broke his neck falling
downstairs. The post-mortem found carpet burns from the stair carpet and there
were patches of his blood and hair on the banister. Either he took a tumble in
the dark or missed his footing from the shock of seeing Monk. Can't say I'd
blame him.' He paused, his face expressionless. 'How much of the rest of it did
you believe?'

    It
was hard to say any more. The whole of the previous night had begun to take on
a surreal quality. I made an effort to focus.

    'I
believe what he said about the blackouts. And about his relationship with
Angela Carson. He was too ill to pretend, and the seizure or whatever it was I
saw him have, that was real.'

    'You
really think he might have killed her during one?'

    'From
what I saw I'd say it could have happened like that.'

    'What
about the other girls?'

    'I don't
know. I suppose it's possible he killed them all during blackouts, but I think
that's stretching it. He'd have to have disposed of their bodies as well, which
doesn't seem likely. He genuinely doesn't seem able to remember anything about
them, but that isn't what bothers him.'

    'Monk's
a callous bastard. That's not new.'

    'No,
I mean he isn't interested in clearing his name or even having his sentence
reduced. That's what makes me think he's telling the truth. The only reason he
escaped was because he's desperate to convince himself he didn't kill Angela
Carson.'

    'He
was found in a locked flat with her body, blood on his hands and her face
pulped in. I don't think there's much doubt, do you?'

    'Not about
that, no. But for the past eight years he's had to live with knowing he killed
the only person he's ever been close to, and he can't even remember doing it.
He's not the most stable of personalities anyway. Can you blame him for
clutching at straws?'

    Naysmith
was silent for a moment. 'What about this story about him being framed?'

    
Now
we're coming to it.
I sighed. Hearing Monk tell it in the caves was one
thing; discussing it in the cold light of day was something else entirely. It
would have been easier to dismiss it as the rambling of a deranged mind, or the
invention of a guilty one.

    The
problem was I couldn't believe it was either.

    'I
don't think he was making it up,' I said.

    'That
doesn't mean Darren Walker wasn't. There's no record of any

    DI
called Jones, either now or eight years ago. Walker could have been spinning
him a line, trying to fob him off. Christ, if I was cornered by Monk I'd
probably do the same.'

    'Why
would Walker spread a story like that in the first place?'

    'A
petty thief like him would be out of his depth with the hard- cases in
Belmarsh. He wouldn't be the first to make something up to bolster his
reputation.'

    'Monk
believed him. And from what he told me I don't think Walker would have been in any
condition to lie.'
Not after what I did to him.

    'There's
still nothing to corroborate any of this,' Naysmith said irritably, as though
he'd been arguing the point with himself. 'We've only Monk's word to go on,
since he conveniently beat Darren Walker to death. And you'll have to forgive
me if I don't put much faith in that, or believe that a police officer planted
evidence on the say-so of a lowlife like Walker. I checked his records. He was
suspected of any number of thefts and burglaries but he had more lives than a
bloody cat. Always managed to slip off, until last year. And why wait till then
before he started mouthing off?'

    I
didn't know. I couldn't quite believe myself that I was defending Monk. But I'd
had time to think as I lay on the hospital trolley. I might not like the new
picture that was emerging, but I couldn't ignore it.

    'Perhaps
because he
had
been caught. You said yourself Walker would be out of his
depth somewhere like Belmarsh. People can do anything when they're scared.'

    'Doesn't
necessarily follow,' Naysmith said. 'Where would this phantom DI have got
anything belonging to the Bennett twins from anyway? There's no way he could
have lifted evidence from a high- profile murder investigation without it being
noticed. Especially not if it turned up again at Monk's caravan.'

    'Unless
he didn't get it from the evidence locker.'

    The
words lay heavily in the small cubicle. Naysmith looked at me for a long while,
his eyes lidded. 'You know what you're saying, don't you?'

    'Are
you telling me it hasn't occurred to you as well?'

    He
didn't answer. He didn't have to. We'd skirted around it so far, but I knew the
same question would be preying on his mind as on mine.

    If
Monk didn't kill the other three girls, who did?

    Naysmith
kneaded the bridge of his nose. 'We're going to want to talk to you again. What
are your plans when you're discharged? Will you be going back to London?'

    I
hadn't given it much thought. 'Not yet. I'll probably pick up my things from
Sophie's and book into—'

    The
curtain was suddenly swept aside as Simms stepped into the cubicle. With his
crisply braided uniform and peaked cap, the ACC looked ridiculously smart in
the drab hospital setting. But the waxlike features were flushed a deep crimson,
and his mouth was set in a thin line.