The Calling of the Grave (9 page)

    Monk
looked at her. 'Can't remember.'

    Wainwright
gave a disdainful sniff. 'Hardly the sort of thing one would forget, I'd
think.'

    Again,
the archaeologist's bass rumble carried clearly in the damp air. Monk's head
swivelled towards him.

    'What
can
you remember, Jerome? Perhaps if you tried to—' Sophie began, but Terry
cut her off.

    'All
right, let's get this over with. Just show us.'

    Sophie
looked furious but people were already moving away, a cluster of uniforms
surrounding Monk's unmistakable figure.

    'This
is farcical,' Wainwright grumbled as we trudged after them, boots squelching on
the boggy moor. 'I don't believe that creature has any intention of telling us
anything. He's making fools of us.'

    'It
might help if you'd stop antagonizing him,' Sophie said, still angry.

    'You
can't afford to show weakness to creatures like that. They need to know who's
in charge.'

    'Really?'
Sophie's voice was dangerously sweet. 'I tell you what. You don't tell me my
job, and I won't tell you how to dig holes.'

    The
archaeologist glared at her. 'I'll be sure to pass on your thoughts to DCS Simms,'
he said, before walking on ahead.

    'Prick,'
Sophie said under her breath, though not so softly that he couldn't hear. She
glanced at me. 'What?'

    'I
didn't say anything.'

    She
smiled wryly. 'You didn't have to.'

    I
shrugged. 'If you want to fall out with the whole task force, don't let me stop
you.'

    'Sorry,
but it's just so bloody
frustrating.
What's the point of me being here
if they won't let me do my job properly? And as for Terry Connors . . .' She
sighed and shook her head. 'They're handling this all wrong. We shouldn't just
be letting Monk lead us around by the nose, not without pushing him for some
indication where the graves are. How's he going to find them again if he can't
remember any landmarks?'

    'You
think he's lying?'

    'Hard
to say. He seems vague one minute and certain the next. He's acting like he
knows where he's going now but it's a hell of a long way for anyone to carry a
body.' She frowned, staring at where Monk's pale head stood out amongst the
dark uniforms up ahead. 'I'm going to have a wander round. I'll catch you up.'

    She
struck off back towards the track that led to Black Tor. I could understand her
doubts, but there was nothing I could do about them. The going became more
difficult as we headed further into the moor. The rain-soaked peat sucked at
our boots while the heather and long marsh grass snagged our legs. Monk was
struggling more than ever, giving lie to the myth of how at home he was out
here.

    Several
times he stumbled and tripped, snarling at the guards as they steadied him.

    I
noticed that Roper had dropped back and was talking on his radio. He kept his
voice down, but as I approached the wind carried snatches of his words over to
me.

    '. . .
not confident, sir . . .Yes. . . yes . . . Of course, sir. I'll keep you
informed.'

    He
ended the call as he saw me. The 'sir' had sounded ominous, and it didn't take
a genius to guess he'd been reporting back to Simms. I wondered if Terry knew.

    'Enjoying
the walk, Dr Hunter?' The DC grinned, falling in step beside me. 'Turning into
quite a marathon, isn't it?'

    There
was something about the man that grated. He couldn't be blamed for the rat-like
teeth, but his grin was just a little too ready and too sycophantic for me to
trust.

    'The
fresh air does me good.'

    He
bobbed his head, chuckling as though I'd cracked an after- dinner joke. 'A
little too much of it for my taste, but there you go. So what do you think of
Monk? He's something, isn't he? Face like a bloody Picasso.'

    
You're
no oil painting yourself.
'How did he get the bruises? Was he in a fight?'

    'Not
exactly.' Roper's grin broadened, but his eyes were shrewd as they stared at
Monk's back. 'He kicked off on one last night and had to be
"restrained". Almost made us cancel the whole thing. One of his party
pieces, apparently, having a tantrum after lights out. That's why the guards
call him laughing boy. He seems to find it all very funny if no one else does.
Hello, now what's happening?'

    There
was a commotion up ahead. The German shepherd was being held back by its
handler, barking at the group with Monk. At first I couldn't see what was
happening for the surrounding uniforms, then two of them moved aside.

    Monk
had fallen. The big man was down in the muddy grass, struggling to get up.
Police officers and the prison guards swarmed round him, unsure whether to haul
him to his feet or not.

    '. .
. get the fuck off me!' He was clumsily trying to lever himself up in his handcuffs
as his solicitor confronted Terry.

    'Now
are you satisfied? This is completely unacceptable!'

    'He's
not hurt,' Terry said, but he sounded sullen and defensive.

    'I
hope not, because if he is I'm holding you responsible. There is absolutely no
reason for my client to remain handcuffed out here. He doesn't pose any escape
risk, and in this terrain it's positively dangerous.'

    'I'm
not taking them off.'

    'In
that case you can take us back to the van, because we're done here.'

    'Oh,
for—'

    'I
will not have my client injured because of police intransigence. Either the
restraints come off or he stops cooperating with the search.'

    Monk
was still lying in a heap, breath steaming as he glared up at them. 'You want
to try walking with these on?' he demanded, holding out his cuffed hands.

    Terry
took a step towards him, and for a second I actually thought he would launch a
kick at his face. Then he stopped, his entire body clenched and rigid.

    'You
want me to call the SIO?' Roper asked.

    If I
hadn't heard him reporting back to Simms I might have believed he was trying to
help. His suggestion decided Terry.

    'No.'
Tight-lipped, he gave a nod to a police officer. 'Take them off.'

    The
officer stepped forward and unlocked the handcuffs. Monk's expression never
changed as he climbed to his feet, clothes soaking wet and smeared with mud. He
flexed his wrists, the big hands opening and closing like clamps.

    'OK?'
Terry asked Dobbs. Without giving him a chance to answer he stepped up to Monk.
They were of a height, but the convict somehow seemed twice his size. 'You want
to make me really happy? Try something. Please.'

    Monk
didn't speak. His mouth was still curved in its illusory half- smile, but the
black eyes were stone dead.

    'I
really don't think—' Dobbs began.

    'Shut
it.' Terry didn't take his eyes off Monk. 'How much further?'

    The
convict's big head turned to look back out at the moor, but then there was a
distant shout.

    '
Here!
Over here
!'

    Everyone
looked round. Sophie was standing on a low rise some way away, waving her hands
over her head. Her excitement was obvious even through the drizzle and mist.

    '
I've
found something
!'

    A
buried body always leaves signs. At first the body will displace the earth used
to refill the grave, leaving a visible mound on the surface. But as the slow
process of decay begins, causing flesh and muscle to leach their substance into
the soil, the mound begins to settle. Eventually, when the body has rotted away
to bone, a slight depression will be left in the earth to mark the grave's
location.

    Vegetation,
too, can provide useful clues. Plants and grasses disturbed by the digging will
take time to re-establish themselves, even when they've been carefully
replaced. As months pass and the corpse begins to decompose, the nutrients it
releases will feed the flora on the grave, causing faster growth and more
luxuriant foliage than in the surrounding vegetation. The distinctions are
subtle and often unreliable, but there if you know what to look for.

    Sophie
was standing by a low mound that lay in the centre of a deep hollow, perhaps
fifty yards from the track. It was covered in marsh grass, the tangled, wiry
stalks rippling in the wind. I went over with Wainwright and Terry, leaving
Roper with Monk and the other officers. The three of us had to detour around a
thicket of gorse and an impassable section of bog to get to her. She made no
attempt to meet us, staying impatiently beside the mound as though she were
afraid it might disappear if she turned her back.

    'I
think this could be a grave,' she said breathlessly, as we slithered down the
sides of the hollow.

    She
was right: it
could
be a grave. Or it could be absolutely nothing at
all. The mound was about five feet long and two wide, perhaps eighteen inches tall
at its highest point. If it had been in a flat field or parkland it would have
been a lot more likely to be significant. But this was moorland, a rugged
landscape full of random depressions and hummocks. And the grass covering the
mound looked no different from that growing anywhere else.

    'Doesn't
look like much to me.' Terry turned doubtfully to Wainwright. 'What do you
think?'

    The
archaeologist pursed his lips as he considered the mound. This was more his
territory than mine. Or Sophie's, come to that. He prodded it disparagingly
with his foot.

    'I
think if we're going to get over-excited about every bump in the ground it's
going to be a very long search.'

    Sophie
coloured up. 'I'm not over-excited. And I'm not an idiot. I know what to look
for.'

    'Really.'
Wainwright put a wealth of meaning into the word. He hadn't forgiven her for
the earlier snub. 'Well, I beg to differ. But then I only have thirty years of
archaeological experience to draw on.'

    Terry
turned away to go back. 'We don't have time to waste on this.'

    'No,
wait,' Sophie said. 'Look, I might not be an archaeologist—'

    'That's
something we agree on,' Wainwright put in.

    '—but
at least hear me out. Two minutes, that's all, OK?'

    Terry
folded his arms, his face shuttered. 'Two minutes.'

    Sophie
took a deep breath before plunging on. 'Where Monk's taking us, it doesn't make
any sense. Tina Williams' grave was exactly where I'd have expected it to be—'

    'Easy
to say, now we know where it is,' Wainwright sniffed.

    She
ignored him, concentrating on Terry. 'It wasn't far from the track, which meant
it was relatively easy to get to. And it followed the contours of the land:
anyone leaving the track around there would naturally find themselves at that
point. It made
sense
for it to be where we found it.'

    'So?'

    'So
Monk won't specify where the other graves are. He's just leading us further out
into the moor, which means he'd have to have carried the bodies all this way
across moorland, in the dark. I don't care how strong he is, why would he do
that? And he says he can't recall any landmarks to guide him back to where they
were buried.'

    Terry
frowned. 'What's your point?'

    'I'd
expect him to remember
something
at least. When people hide something they
use landmarks to align themselves, whether they realize it or not. But where
Monk's heading just seems random. Either he's forgotten or he's deliberately
leading us in the wrong direction.'

    'Or
you could just be wrong, 'Wainwright said. He turned to Terry with a
supercilious smile. 'I'm familiar with the Winthrop techniques that Miss Keller
refers to. I've used them myself on occasion, but it's mainly common sense. I
find them overrated.'

    'Then
you're not doing it right,' Sophie shot back. 'I went back to the track to find
the most likely spots where anyone carrying a body could have left it. Where
the going is nice and easy, not too steep or permanently boggy. I've found a
few of them over the past few days, but this time I tried a little further
out.'