The Calling of the Grave (10 page)

    She
levelled a finger back towards the track, some distance from where we'd left it
to go to Tina Williams' grave.

    'There's
a spot back there where the moor slopes gently away from the track. It's a
natural point for anyone struggling with the weight of a body to access the
moor. The way the ground runs funnels you to that big patch of gorse. It's
easier to go around the bottom side of it than the top, and then you find
yourself in a gulley that brings you right here. To a concealed hollow, where
there just happens to be a grave-sized mound of earth.'

    She
folded her arms, defying Terry to find a hole in her argument. His cheek
muscles jumped as he looked back at the mound.

    'This
is a nonsense,' Wainwright blustered, no longer bothering to hide his
animosity. 'It's wishful thinking, not science!'

    'No,
just common sense like you said,' Sophie retorted. 'I prefer it to
pig-headedness.'

    Wainwright
drew himself up to respond but I beat him to it. 'There's no point standing
round here arguing. Let's get the cadaver dog to check it out. If it finds
something then we'll need to open it up. If it doesn't, we've only wasted a few
minutes.'

    Sophie
flashed me a smile while Wainwright looked more constipated than ever. I
couldn't resist twisting the knife a little further.

    'Unless
you're absolutely certain there's nothing here?' I asked, trying not to enjoy
his discomfort too much. 'You're the expert.'

    'I
suppose it wouldn't hurt to make sure . . .' he conceded, as though it had been
his idea.

    Terry
stared down at the mound, then sighed and strode up to the top of the hollow.
'Get over here!' he shouted at Roper and the rest, then turned to Sophie. 'I
want a word.'

    The
two of them moved out of earshot. I couldn't hear what was being said, but it
seemed heated. Meanwhile Wainwright prowled around the mound, testing it with
his feet.

    'Definitely
softer,' he muttered. He was wearing a thick leather work belt, the sort used
by builders to hold tools. He took a thin metal rod from it and began opening
it out. It was a lightweight probe, a metre-long extendable tube with a point
at one end.

    'What
are you doing?' I asked.

    He
was frowning in concentration as he unfolded short handles, so the instrument
resembled a slender spade without a head. 'I'm going to probe, of course.'

    Disturbed
soil was usually less compacted than the surrounding ground, and often another
indication of a grave. But that wasn't what I meant.

    'If
there's anything buried in there you're going to damage it.'

    'We
need air holes for the dog anyway.'

    That
was true enough. Even though cadaver dogs could sniff out decay through several
feet of soil, the holes would help them detect the gases produced by
decomposition. But there were less invasive ways of making them.

    'I
don't think—'

    'Thank
you, Dr Hunter, but if I want advice I'll ask for it.'

    Gripping
the probe by its stubby handles, Wainwright jabbed it forcefully into the
mound. Knowing he wasn't going to listen, I clenched my jaw shut as he wrenched
it free and rammed it back in. Probing was a basic archaeological technique,
but it had its drawbacks in a forensic situation. While it was possible to
distinguish between damage to bone inflicted before death and that caused by a pointed
metal probe afterwards, it was an unwelcome complication. Wainwright knew that
as well as I did.

    But
then it would be my problem, not his.

    Sophie
and Terry broke off their discussion as Roper and the others reached us.
Neither of them looked happy. Terry went straight to Monk and his solicitor,
standing on the edge of the hollow so they could see the mound.

    'This
ring any bells?'

    Monk
stared down at it, hands hanging loosely at his sides. His mouth still seemed
twisted in a mocking smile, but I thought there was a wariness in his eyes now.

    'No.'

    'So
this isn't one of the graves?'

    'I
told you, they're over there.'

    'You
seem pretty sure all of a sudden. Not long ago you said you couldn't remember.'

    'I told
you, they're over there!'

    The
bearded guard clapped a hand on Monk's shoulder. 'Don't raise your voice,
laughing boy, we can hear you.' 'Fuck off, Monaghan!'

    'You
want the cuffs back on?'

    Monk
seemed to swell, but Sophie spoke before he could do anything else. 'Excuse me,
Jerome?'

    She
smiled as the big head snapped round. This time Terry made no attempt to
interrupt, and I guessed her involvement was what at least part of their
discussion had been about.

    'Nobody's
doubting you. But I just want you to think about something. You must have dug
the graves out here at night, is that right?'

    It
was a safe bet: few killers risked burying the bodies of their victims in broad
daylight. But Monk's solicitor wasn't having any of it.

    'You
don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I've already made it clear—'

    'Shut
up.'

    Monk
didn't so much as glance at him. His button eyes seemed muddied as they fixed
on Sophie. After a few seconds he jerked his head in a nod.

    'It's
always night.'

    I
wasn't sure what that meant. Judging by Sophie's slight pause neither did she,
but she covered it well.

    'Things
get confused in the dark. It's easy to make mistakes, especially when you try
to remember later. Is it possible you could have dug at least one of the graves
here? Or even both of them?'

    Monk's
eyes went from Sophie to the mound. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp.
'Might be . . .'

    For
an instant he seemed confused. Then Terry spoke and whatever I thought I'd seen
was gone.

    'I
don't have time for this. Which is it, yes or no?'

    Suddenly
the heat and madness were back in the convict's eyes. The curved smile looked
manic as he faced Terry.

    'No.'

    'Wait,
Jerome, are you—' Sophie began, but she'd had her chance.

    'Right,
that's it. Let's get back over there,' Terry said, starting to leave the
hollow.

    'But
the body dog's here now,' she protested. 'At least give it a chance.'

    Terry
paused, indecision on his face. I think he might have overruled her if it
hadn't been for Wainwright. The archaeologist had carried on probing the mound
while the scene played out.

    'Almost
done,' he said, thrusting the probe into the soil again. 'The ground here feels
less resistant, although since it's peat I doubt—'

    There
was an audible
crunch
as the probe hit something. Wainwright stopped
dead. He composed his features into a thoughtful expression, avoiding looking
at me.

    'Well,
there seems to be something here.'

    Terry
went over. 'A stone?'

    'No, I
don't think so.' Wainwright beckoned to the dog-handler, quickly asserting
control. 'Start with the hole I've just made.'

    The
dog-handler, a young policewoman with red hair and wind- chapped pale skin,
took the springer spaniel towards the mound.

    'No!
We're in the wrong place!' Monk shouted, his huge fists balled.

    'Tell
your "client" if I hear one more peep out of him he's back in
handcuffs, 'Terry snapped at Dobbs.

    The
solicitor looked reluctant, but the threat worked. Monk's mouth twitched as he
cast a look behind him at the open moor and unclenched his fists.

    'No
handcuffs,' he mumbled.

    The
spaniel was almost falling over itself in its eagerness as it snuffled across
the mound. There were only a few cadaver dogs in the country, and I'd heard
nothing but good things about them. Still, I had my doubts now. Peat inhibited
decomposition, sometimes virtually halted it. No matter how sensitive a dog's
nose, it couldn't smell something that wasn't there.

    But
the spaniel's ears pricked up almost immediately. Whining with excitement, it
began scrabbling at Wainwright's last probe hole. The handler quickly pulled it
away.

    'Clever
girl!' Fussing the dog, she looked at Terry. 'No two ways about it. There's
something there.'

    A
sense of anticipation ran through the hollow. Terry seemed nervous, but given
the pressure he was under I didn't blame him. His career could be changed by
what we found here.

    'What
do you want to do, chief?' Roper asked. The solemnity of the moment had wiped
the nervous grin from his face.

    Terry
seemed to snap back to himself. 'Let's take a look.'

    Wainwright
clapped his hands together, his earlier scepticism evidently forgotten. 'Right,
let's see what we've got, shall we?'

    A CSI
brought a holdall containing mattocks, spades and digging tools into the
hollow, dumping it on the grass with a clank. Wainwright unzipped it and took
out a spade.

    'I'll
help,' I said, but I was wasting my time.

    'Oh,
I don't think that'll be necessary. I'll let you know if I need any
assistance.'

    He
made 'assistance' sound like a snub. The archaeologist had become suddenly
proprietorial now that it looked as though we'd found something. If this was a
grave I could guess who'd take credit for it.

    There
was nothing for the rest of us to do but watch as Wainwright used a spade to
cut the outline of a narrow rectangle across the mound. Sinking an exploratory
trench was a much more effective way of opening up a potential grave than
excavating the whole thing at once. It would give us a better idea of what we
were dealing with, allowing us to see which way the body was aligned and how
deeply it was buried before the real digging started.

    Wainwright
made it look easy, though I knew from experience it was anything but. The
spade's blade chopped into the earth with brisk efficiency, levering out neat
slabs of turf.

    'Signs
of disturbance to the peat,' he grunted. 'There's been something going on here.'

    I
glanced at Monk. The convict's doll-like eyes were watching without expression.
The only sound was the crunch of the spade and a gentle tearing of roots as the
last piece of turf was lifted free. Once the covering of grass was removed
Wainwright began sinking the trench deeper. The peat was wet and fibrous. He
was about a foot down when he suddenly stopped.

    'Pass
me a trowel.'

    The
instruction wasn't aimed at anyone, but I was nearest.
You aren't doing
anything else.
I took Wainwright the trowel, standing at the other side of
the narrow trench as he squatted down to scrape peat off whatever he'd found.

    'What
is it? 'Terry asked.

    The
archaeologist frowned, peering closer. 'I'm not sure. I think it might be . .
.'

    'It's
bone,' I said.

    Something
smooth and pale was visible in the dark mulch. There wasn't much of it showing,
but I'd cut my teeth differentiating between the smoothly ossified texture of
bone and stones or tree roots.

    'Human?'
Sophie asked.

    'I
can't see enough to say yet.'

    'Certainly
bone, though,' Wainwright said, his voice betraying his displeasure at my
interruption. The scratch of the trowel filled the hollow as he began digging
away at the surrounding peat. Everyone's attention was fixed on the archaeologist.
Sophie hugged herself anxiously. Terry stood with his shoulders bunched, hands
jammed deep in his pockets as though to brace himself, while just behind him
Roper gnawed his lip. Only Monk seemed unconcerned. He wasn't even bothering to
watch, I saw, big head twisted to look back over the moor behind him.

    Then
Wainwright spoke again. 'There's some sort of fabric here. Clothing, perhaps.
No, wait, I think it. . .' He bent closer, obscuring whatever he'd found.
Abruptly, the tension seemed to leave him. 'It's fur.'