The Calling of the Grave (47 page)

    I passed
a hand over my face. My skin felt grainy. 'Let me tell you what I think,' I
said. 'You took the diary on impulse, to hurt Terry like you say. You were
angry and jealous and it gave you a hold over him. It was only after you'd
taken it that you realized the danger you'd put yourself in. But by then you
couldn't go to the police without getting yourself into trouble. So you hid it
and kept quiet, and hoped the threat of it would stop him from killing you as
well.'

    'That's
ridiculous!'

    But
there was a defensiveness behind her indignation. 'I think you blamed Terry for
spoiling your career,' I went on. 'It must have been hard, helping the police
to expose other people's secrets when you'd one like that of your own. So you
stopped working as a BIA and tried to make a fresh start. Except that takes
money, doesn't it?'

    For a
second Sophie looked afraid. She hid it behind bluster. 'What are you trying to
say?'

    I'd
had plenty of time to think it through over the past few days.

    Terry
had called Sophie a blackmailing bitch, and while I didn't give much credence
to what he said it had started me thinking. That didn't mean I liked what I was
about to do. But we'd gone too far to stop now.

    'The
cottage you're living in, it can't be cheap. And you said yourself the pottery
doesn't sell. Yet you still seem to make a decent living.'

    Sophie's
expression was defiant but brittle. 'I get by.'

    'So
you never asked Terry for money?'

    She
looked down at her hands, but not before I saw that her eyes were brimming. The
door opened and the nurse who'd been there earlier came in. The smile died on
her face.

    'Everything
all right?'

    Sophie
nodded quickly, her face averted. 'Thanks.'

    'Let
me know if you want anything.' The nurse gave me a cold look before she went
out again.

    I
didn't say anything else. Just waited. I could hear footsteps and animated
voices from the corridor, but in that small room there wasn't a sound. The
noise and energy of the hospital outside seemed like another world.

    'You
don't know what it was like,' Sophie said eventually, her voice cracked. 'You
want to know if I was scared? Of
course
I was scared! But I didn't know
what else to do. I took the diary without thinking. I — I was just so bloody
mad
!
He'd been screwing that . . . that teenage
slut
while he'd been seeing
me! But I swear at first I still thought Monk had killed her. It was only later
that . . . that I . . . Oh, Christ!'

    She
covered her face as the tears came. I hesitated, then passed her a tissue from
the bedside table.

    'I
didn't want to believe it was Terry. I kept telling myself Monk really had
killed them. That's one reason I started writing to him, trying to convince
myself. I was wrong.' She broke off to wipe her eyes. 'But I was angry as well.
I'd given up everything because of

    Terry.
My career, my home. He was the reason I moved out here. The least the bastard
could do was help me start again. I didn't ask for much, only enough to help
set me up. I thought... I thought as long as I'd got the diary I'd be safe.'

    
Oh,
Sophie . .
. 'But you weren't, were you?'

    'I
was until Monk escaped. I hadn't heard anything from Terry in over a year. Then
he phoned up, ranting and threatening what he'd do if I didn't give him the diary.
I'd never heard him like that before, I didn't know what to do!'

    'So
you phoned me,' I said tiredly. Not to help her find the graves, or at least
not only that. She'd wanted someone with her in case Terry tried anything.

    'I
couldn't think who else to call. And I knew you wouldn't say no.' She plucked
at the damp tissue. 'Next day I was getting ready to meet you when he hammered
on the door. When I wouldn't let him in he ... he broke it down. I ran upstairs
and tried to lock myself in the bathroom, but he forced his way in there as
well. I got hit by the door.'

    Her
hand went automatically to the fading bruise on her cheek. I remembered seeing
the stairs were wet when I'd found her. If I'd given it any thought I might
have realized she hadn't been surprised in the bathroom as she'd claimed.

    'Why
didn't you say something then?'

    'How
could I? I'd been hiding evidence for years! And I'd no idea Terry had been
suspended. When you said he'd been to see you . . .'

    A
shudder ran through her. Instinctively I started to reach out, but stopped
myself.

    'I
didn't really do anything
wrong
!' she blurted. 'I know I made a mistake,
but that's why I wanted to find Zoe and Lindsey s graves so badly. I thought at
least if I could do that much it might make up for . . . for . . .'

    For
what? Protecting their killer? For letting the wrong man stay in prison?
Sophie looked down at the shredded tissue in her hands.

    'So
what now?' she asked in a small voice. 'Are you going to tell Naysmith?'

    'No.
You can do that.'

    She
took hold of my hand. 'Do I have to? They already know about the diary. It
won't change anything.'

    No,
but it'll end eight years of lies.
I set her hand on the bed and stood
up.

    'Bye,
Sophie.'

    I walked
out into the corridor. My footsteps rang on the hard floor as the clamour of
the hospital enveloped me. I felt an odd detachment as I walked through it, as
though I were encased in a bubble separating me from the noise and life around
me. Even the fresh, cold air outside didn't dispel it. The bright autumn
sunlight somehow seemed flat as I went back to my car. I unlocked it and
stiffly lowered myself into the seat. My cracked ribs were manageable but still
painful.

    I
closed my eyes and put my head back. I felt empty. The idea of driving back to
London didn't appeal, but I'd been here long enough. Too long, in fact. The
past was beyond reach.

    Time
to move on.

    Rousing
myself, I reached into my pocket for my phone, wincing as my ribs protested.
I'd turned it off in the hospital and when I switched it back on it
beeped
straight away. For an instant I was back in the darkness of the cave, then I
shook my head.

    I had
a message waiting. Or rather messages: I'd missed three calls, all from the same
number. It wasn't one I recognized. I frowned, but before I could play any of
them my phone shrilled again. It was a call this time, from the same number as
before. I straightened.
Something urgent.

    I
felt the familiar quickening of interest as I answered.

    As ever,
I couldn't have written this book without the help of other people, especially
the real-life experts who were generous enough to help with the often thorny
issue of research. In no particular order, thanks are therefore due to Tony
Cook, Regional Major Crime Advisor with the National Police Improvement Agency;
Dr Markus Reuber, Academic Neurology Unit, University of Sheffield; forensic
ecologist Patricia Wiltshire; Dr Tim Thompson, Senior Lecturer in Crime Science
at the University of Teesside, and Dr Rebecca Gowland, Department of
Archaeology, Durham University, for allowing me to take their Body Location and
Recovery course; Doug Bain, retired dog-handler and CSI; Professor Sue Black
and Dr Patrick Randolph-Quinney of the University of Dundee's Centre for
Anatomy and Human Identification; Professor John Hunter, Institute of
Archaeology and Antiquity at the University of Birmingham; Dave Warne, chairman
of the Plymouth Caving Group, and the Ministry of Justice Press Office.

    The
ratio of decomposition is taken from W. R. Maples' and M. Browning's
Dead
Men Do Tell Tales,
Doubleday, 1994.

    Thanks
also to Hilary for her unfailing support, to Mom and Dad for never doubting, to
Ben Steiner, SCF, Simon Taylor and the team at Transworld, my agents Mic Cheetham
and Simon Kavanagh, all at the Marsh Agency, and to the translators who have
introduced David Hunter to a wider audience.

    Finally,
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my international rights agent Paul Marsh,
whose death in 2009 was a loss to publishing as well as to everyone who knew
him.

    
Simon
Beckett, August 2010

    
Simon
Beckett
is the international bestselling author of three thrillers
featuring forensics expert Dr David Hunter —
The Chemistry of Death, Written
in Bone
and the
Sunday Times
bestseller
Whispers of the Dead.
In 2002, he went on an assignment for the
Daily Telegraph Magazine
to
Tennessee's world-famous Anthropological Research Facility, The Body Farm. As
well as providing the inspiration for David Hunter, what he saw and learned
there, together with his meticulous approach to research, helps make his novels
so frighteningly authentic.

    Simon
Beckett lives in Sheffield. To find out more about the author and his books,
visit www.simonbeckett.com