The Calling of the Grave (8 page)

    'Ugly
brute, isn't he?'

    I'd
been so preoccupied I hadn't noticed that Wainwright had joined us. The
forensic archaeologist was dressed in well-worn but expensive outdoor gear, a
scarf thrown flamboyantly around his neck. He made no attempt to keep his voice
down, and his words carried clearly in the still air.
That's torn it,
I
thought, as Monk's moon head swivelled towards us.

    The
photographs I'd seen hadn't done him justice. The indentation in his forehead
looked far worse in the flesh, as though he'd been struck with a hammer and
somehow survived. Below it, the skin of his face was pitted with scar tissue. A
scabbed, yellowing graze on one cheek suggested that at least some of it was
recent, while the crooked mouth was curled in the same half-smile he always
seemed to wear. It seemed to acknowledge and mock the revulsion he provoked.

    But
it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. Small and unblinking, they were
flat and empty as black glass.

    I
felt chilled as they settled on me, but I warranted only a fleeting interest.
The dead eyes went to Sophie, lingering on her for a moment before shifting to
Wainwright.

    'The
fuck you looking at?'

    The
accent was local but the voice was a surprise: gruff and disconcertingly soft.
Wainwright should have let it go. But the archaeologist wasn't used to being
spoken to like that. He gave a derisive snort.

    'My
God, it can talk!'

    Monk's
leg restraints snapped taut as he stepped towards him, feet swishing awkwardly
through the wet grass. That was as far as he got before the two prison guards
grabbed his arms. They were big men but the convict dwarfed them. I saw them
brace themselves, tensing with effort as they tried to hold him.

    'Come
on, Jerome, behave yourself,' one of the guards said, an older man with grey
hair and a lined face. The killer continued to stare at Wainwright, handcuffed
hands dangling loosely. His shoulders and upper arms were massive, as though he
had bowling balls packed inside his jacket. His black eyes remained fixed
unblinkingly on Wainwright.

    'You
got a name?'

    Terry
had looked startled at the sudden confrontation, but now he moved forward. 'His
name's none of your business.'

    'It's
all right. If he wants to know who he's dealing with I'm more than happy to
tell him.' Wainwright drew himself up, using his full height to glare at the
convict. 'I'm Professor Leonard Wainwright. I'm in charge of recovering the
bodies of the young women you murdered. And if you've any sense, then I
strongly advise you to cooperate.'

    'Jesus,'
I heard Sophie breathe beside me.

    Monk's
mouth curled. 'Professor,' he sneered, as though trying out the word. Without
warning his eyes flicked to me. 'Who's this?'

    Terry
seemed at a loss, so I answered. 'I'm David Hunter.'

    'Hunter,'
Monk echoed. 'Name to live up to.'

    'So's
Monk,' I said automatically.

    The
black eyes bored into me. Then there was a slow wheezing, and I realized Monk
was laughing.

    'Smart-arse,
aren't you?'

    Only
now did he turn to stare at Sophie. But Terry didn't give him a chance to ask
about her.

    'Right,
you've been introduced.' He motioned to the guards to lead him away. 'Come on,
we're wasting time.'

    'You
heard the man, laughing boy.' The other prison guard, a thickset man with a
beard, tried to haul Monk away. He might as well have tugged at a statue. The
convict swivelled his head, levelling that basilisk stare at him.

    'Don't
fucking pull me.'

    The
atmosphere was already tense, but now the air suddenly felt charged. I could
see Monk's chest rising and falling as his breathing grew more rapid. A bubble
of spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. Then a man pushed his way through
the encircling police officers.

    'Detective
Inspector, I'm Clyde Dobbs, Mr Monk's solicitor. My client's agreed to
cooperate in the search voluntarily. I hardly think assaulting him is called
for.'

    He
had a thin, nasal voice that managed to sound bored and wheedling at the same
time. I hadn't noticed him before. He was in his fifties, sparse grey hair
swept across an expanse of pink scalp. His briefcase looked ludicrously out of
place with his Wellingtons and waterproof jacket.

    'No
one's assaulting anyone,' Terry snapped. He shot the bearded guard a look. The
man grudgingly let go of Monk's arm.

    'Thank
you,' the solicitor said. 'Please carry on.'

    Terry's
jaw muscles tightened. He jerked his head at the guards. 'Bring him.'

    
'Fuck
off!'
Monk yelled, as the guards strained to pull him back. His eyes were
suddenly manic. I watched, stunned, unable to believe this could go wrong so
quickly. I waited for Terry to do something, to take charge, but he seemed
frozen. The moment stretched on, taut and ready to shatter into violence.

    And
then Sophie stepped forward.

    'Hi,
I'm Sophie Keller,' she said easily. 'I'm going to help you find the graves.'

    For a
second there was no response. Then the black eyes flicked from Terry to her. They
blinked as Monk's mouth worked, as though remembering how to form words.

    'Don't
need any help.'

    'Great,
then it'll be a lot easier for all of us. But I'm here just in case, OK?' She
gave him a smile. It wasn't flirtatious, or nervous. Just a normal, everyday
smile. 'Oh, and you'll probably want to lose the leg restraints. You're not
going to get very far with those on.'

    Still
smiling, she turned to include Terry in that last comment. I could see the
other police officers exchanging glances. Terry's face was red as he gave a nod
to the guards.

    'Just
the legs. Leave the cuffs on.'

    He
spoke brusquely, but there wasn't anyone there who didn't realize how close he'd
just come to losing control. I saw Roper watching nervously as Terry tried to
regain some semblance of authority, and there were knowing looks on the faces
of the other officers. If it hadn't been for Sophie there was no telling what
would have happened. Not only had she defused the situation, she'd also managed
to establish at least a tentative rapport with Monk.

    After
the outburst of a few moments ago, the convict seemed sullen and subdued. As he
was led off down the track, the massive head turned to stare at Sophie.

    'It
looks as though Ms Keller's got a new pet,' Wainwright said as we followed on
behind, our breath steaming in the cold morning.

    'She
did well.' Terry wasn't the only one to have just lost face, I reflected.

    'You
think so?' Wainwright's eyes were unfriendly as he watched them walk ahead of
us. 'Let's hope it doesn't decide to bite her.'

    The
moor seemed to do its best to hinder us. The temperature dropped around the
same time as the rain started to fall. It flattened the stalks of the grass and
heather, a dull monotonous downpour that chilled the spirit as much as the
flesh.

    Jerome
Monk seemed oblivious. He stood by Tina Williams' empty grave, rain running
across his bald skull to drip from features that could have graced a medieval
church gargoyle. He seemed to neither notice nor care.

    The
same couldn't be said for the rest of us.

    'This
is hopeless!' Wainwright snapped, brushing the rain from his face. The
archaeologist had pulled on heavy-duty overalls that made his big frame look
more outsized than ever. Stretched over his clothes and smeared with black mud,
they were starting to look as frayed as the archaeologist's temper.

    For
once I sympathized. My own overalls chafed at my wrists and neck, making me
sweat despite the chill. Water dripped from the top of my hood in silver beads,
a cold trickle occasionally finding its way inside. The police tape was still
draped around the area but the forensic tent had been taken down, and the empty
grave was already filling with muddy water. In the days since I'd last been
out, foul weather and the constant tramp of feet had turned the ground around
it to a treacherous mire. There was cursing from the police officers as we
picked our way out there, and once Wainwright slipped and almost fell. The
archaeologist snapped a curt 'I'm all right' when I reached out to steady him.
Even Monk seemed to be having difficulties, his balance hampered by having his
hands cuffed together.

    Except
for his solicitor, the civilians - Wainwright, Sophie and myself - stayed a
little way away from the group surrounding the convict, a token concession to
our instructions not to approach. We'd been joined by a cadaver dog and its
handler. The springer spaniel was trained to sniff out even the faintest taint
of gases produced by decomposition, but first we had to find a grave. And Monk
seemed in no hurry to help us with that.

    Flanked
by the two guards, he stared down at the shallow pit where Tina Williams had
been buried, lips curled in his habitual sneer as though at some private joke.
But I'd come to realize that it was just the natural set of his mouth: it bore
no more relation to whatever thoughts went on behind those button eyes than the
sickle grin of a shark.

    'Bring
back memories, Monk?' Terry asked.

    There
was no response. The convict could have been carved from the same granite as
the rocks of Black Tor for all the notice he took.

    The
bearded guard prodded him. 'You heard the man, laughing boy.'

    'Keep
your fucking hands to yourself,' Monk grated without looking round.

    His
solicitor gave an exaggerated sigh as the guard bridled. 'I'm sure I don't have
to remind anyone that my client is here voluntarily. If he's going to be
subjected to harassment we can call this off now.'

    'Nobody's
harassing anyone.' Terry's shoulders were hunched, but not from the rain:
tension snapped from him like static electricity. 'It was your
"client" who wanted to come out here. I'm entitled to ask why.'

    Dobbs's
wispy hair flapped in the wind, giving him the look of an irate baby bird. The
solicitor still had his briefcase. I wondered if it contained anything
important or whether he just carried it out of habit.

    'The
terms of my client's release clearly stipulate he's here to assist in locating
the graves of Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and nothing more. If you wish to
question him about anything else we can return to the prison so you can conduct
a formal interview in the proper environment.'

    'Yeah,
whatever.' Terry didn't try to hide his disgust. 'Time's up, Monk. You've done
enough sightseeing. Now tell us where the other graves are, or you can go back
to your cell.'

    Monk
raised his eyes from the pit and stared out across the moor. His restraints
chinked as he raised his hands and rubbed them over his skull.

    'Over
there.'

    Everyone
looked where he'd indicated. It was even further away from the road and track.
Except for occasional smaller outcrops of rock or islands of gorse, there was
nothing to see except a featureless plain of heather and grass.

    'Whereabouts?'
Terry asked.

    'I
told you. Over there.'

    'They're
not near where you buried Tina Williams?'

    'I
never said they were.'

    'Then
what the hell did you bring us out here for?'

    The look
in Monk's black eyes was impossible to decipher. 'I wanted to see.'

    Terry's
jaw muscles bunched. I'd never seen him so edgy, but he couldn't afford to lose
his temper now I wished Lucas was there. The older man was a calming presence,
and it was becoming obvious that Terry was getting out of his depth.

    'How
far away?' Terry asked, making a visible effort to restrain himself. 'Fifty
yards? A hundred? Half a mile?'

    'I'll
know when I get there.'

    'Can
you remember any landmarks nearby?' Sophie asked quickly. Annoyance flickered
across Terry's face, but he didn't interrupt. 'A big rock, a clump of gorse,
anything like that?'