The Calling of the Grave (17 page)

    
You're
tired and imagining things. It's nothing
.

    Still,
as I closed the door I was annoyed at myself. It was over a year since I'd
almost been killed on my own doorstep: I'd thought I was past flinching at
shadows.

    Obviously
not.

    I
went inside the flat, switching on lights. It seemed too quiet, as it always
did. I switched on the TV and automatically flicked to a news channel, turning
down the volume until it was no more than a murmur in the background.

    I
wasn't tired any more. Adrenalin had washed away the fatigue, and I knew if I
went to bed now I wouldn't sleep. I went to the cabinet in the sitting room and
took out the odd-shaped bottle of bourbon with the miniature horse and jockey
on top. It was almost empty. I'd brought it back with me from Tennessee earlier
that year, and had been eking it out to make it last.

    But I
felt I'd earned a drink now. And I'd need one for what I was about to do.

    I
poured myself a stiff measure and took a long swallow. The bourbon was raw and
smooth at the same time, and as its burn ran through me I went out of the
sitting room and opened the door at the end of the hallway. Technically, it was
a third bedroom, but a bed would barely have fitted inside. A lot of people
have a boxroom, where old furniture and belongings are stored and forgotten
rather than thrown away. But in this case the description was literal.

    The
room was full of boxes.

    I
switched on the light. They were stacked one on top of the other, an assortment
of plain cardboard and document boxes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Everyone has a past. Good or bad, it's what helps make us what we are.

    This
was mine.

    After
Kara and Alice had been killed I'd tried to run away from my old life. I'd
dropped friends and colleagues, severed ties with anything and everything that
connected me to what I'd lost. I'd sold or given away most of my belongings,
but there had been some things that I either hadn't known what to do with or
couldn't bear to let go. I'd put them in storage and done my best to forget all
about them, until I'd felt able to come back and pick up the threads of my old
life. Now all that remained of it was in these boxes. Photographs, diaries,
memories.

    Work.

    I
took another drink and set the glass down on a shelf. The boxes weren't in any
order, but everything personal was in the plain and mismatched ones, flung into
them in a barely remembered daze. I still wasn't ready to look in those. My
research and case files were in the document boxes, and these at least were
labelled.

    I was
dusty and sweating by the time I located the one I wanted. Carrying it into the
living room, I set it on the low coffee table and opened it. The dry smell of
old paper wafted out. The files were in alphabetical order, so it wasn't
difficult to find the one containing my notes from the Monk case. There were
several bulging cardboard folders, bound together with a thick rubber band. The
band had perished with age, and disintegrated when I pulled them out. The
folders themselves stirred echoes of memory: they were distinctive, blue and
marbled, and I could remember I'd bought them in bulk to save money.

    Shutting
out that thought I laid them down and opened the first one. A bundle of old
floppy discs slid out, meticulously labelled but useless on modern computers.
Setting aside the outdated squares of plastic, I pulled out the rest of the
folder's contents. There was a transparent folder containing the photographs of
the grave inside the forensic tent. I flicked through them, the peat-caked
remains caught starkly in the camera's flash. Each image brought a pulse of
memory, but they could wait till later.

    I
turned to the case notes themselves. Most were printed hard copies, but mixed
amongst them were pages I'd written in biro. While the script was obviously
mine, it looked subtly different. Everything changes over time, including
handwriting.

    I
wasn't even sure the person who'd written this still existed.

    One
of the sheets of paper was smeared with a dark smudge. It was only a few
preliminary notes, hastily scribbled, and I'd started to put it to one side
before I realized.

    
Kara
mopping up the yoghurt Alice dropped on to the papers. 'Sorry, Daddy
.'

    I
felt as though I'd been punched in the heart. Suddenly there was no air in the
room. Dropping the smudged sheet on to the table I hurried out into the hallway
The cold, rain-freshened air braced me when I opened the front door. I gulped
it in, no longer caring who might be out there. Outside, the wet street
glistened in the streetlights. The night held that fresh, post-storm silence,
heightened by the drip and run of water in the gutters and the distant swish of
traffic. Gradually, some measure of calm returned. The emotional
jack-in-the-box was back in the compartment I'd made for it, where it would lie
coiled and waiting.

    Until
next time.

    Closing
the front door, I went back into the living room. The document box and papers
lay on the table where I'd left them. I picked up the page with the dark smudge
and carefully tucked it away in the folder.

    Then,
taking a long drink of bourbon, I sat down and started to read.

    I
guessed it wouldn't be good news when my doorbell rang next morning. It had been
after three before I'd finally gone to bed, having pored over my old notes on
the Monk investigation until my eyes swam. I'd felt sure I must have overlooked
something, that there was some vital piece of information hidden among the dry
pages. But they'd revealed nothing I hadn't known already. Tina Williams'
injuries were horrific but hardly unique. I'd encountered worse since then, and
even worked on a still unsolved serial-killer investigation in Scotland that
bore chilling similarities. It was depressing to realize that there were others
like Monk out there, still waiting to be caught.

    In
the end all I had to show for my efforts was another tension headache and a
feeling that eight years was both a lifetime and no time at all.

    I'd
phoned the hospital first thing to see how Sophie was, only to be told they
couldn't release any information. I'd left my number anyway, then debated what
to do next. Though not for long. Whatever answers there might be, I wasn't
going to find them in London. I called the university to tell them I'd be
taking a few days off. I was owed holiday and Erica, the department secretary,
had been telling me for weeks I needed a break.

    Although
this probably wasn't what she had in mind.

    I
didn't know how long I'd be away, so I packed enough to see me through. I'd
almost finished when the chime of the doorbell echoed through the flat. I
paused, tension knotting my stomach.

    I
knew who it would be.

    Terry
looked as though he'd hardly slept. Which perhaps he hadn't, given how long it
would have taken him to drive here. His face was pouched and sallow, his jaw
blued with stubble, and not even the mint of his chewing gum could hide the
sour smell of alcohol on his breath.

    'Getting
to be a habit, isn't it?' he said.

    I
reluctantly stood back to let him in. 'Any news about Sophie?'

    'Nope.
No change.'

    'So
why are you here? It's a long way from Dartmoor.'

    'Don't
flatter yourself. I didn't come all this way just to see you. I've got other people
I need to talk to while I'm here.'

    He
went into the sitting room without being asked. My notes from the Monk
investigation were still on the coffee table, waiting for me to pack them away.
Terry went over and picked up the top sheet.

    'Been
doing some homework?'

    'Just
going over a few notes.' I took it off him, put it in the folder and closed it.
'So what can I do for you?'

    'No
coffee this time?'

    'I'm
going out.'

    He
glanced at the bag. 'So I see. Anywhere nice?'

    'Just
tell me what you want, Terry.'

    'I
want you to tell me what happened yesterday, for a start.'

    I'd
been through this with the police numerous times the night before, but I knew
there was no point in arguing. I went through it again now, from Sophie's phone
call to how I'd found her unconscious on the bathroom floor. When I'd finished,
Terry continued to stare at me without speaking. It was an old policeman's
trick, but

    I'd
seen it done too often before to fall for it. I looked back at him and waited.

    'I
thought you said you hadn't kept in touch with Sophie Keller,' he said at last.

    'I
hadn't.'

    'You
expect me to believe she just called you out of the blue? After eight years?'

    'That's
right.' He stared at me impassively, jaw bunching rhythmically on the gum. I
sighed, annoyed. 'Look, I've no idea what sort of trouble she was in or why she
called me. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Have you spoken to any of
the people in the village? Friends, anyone who might know why she was
attacked?'

    'Are
you trying to tell me how to run an investigation?'

    I
held my temper in check. 'No, but it seems a coincidence it happened so soon
after Jerome Monk escaped. I don't mean he was the one who attacked her, but
there must be some connection.'

    Terry
had stopped chewing. 'What makes you so sure it wasn't him?'

    'Why
would he have anything against Sophie? She was the only person who tried to
help him. And how would he even know where to find her?'

    'You
think you can't find out stuff like that in prison? Grow up. And if you're
looking for a reason, she was probably the last woman he set eyes on. He's had
years of lying in his cell, thinking what he'd like to do to her.'

    That
invited a question I'd not wanted to ask. But Terry had brought it out in the
open. 'Was she raped?'

    'No.'
Terry's eyes were cold.

    I was
thankful for that, at least. 'Then it doesn't sound like Monk, does it? And he
doesn't normally leave his victims alive.'

    'He
could have been disturbed or scared off.'

    'Monk?'
That was so far-fetched I almost laughed. 'Who by?' 'All right, since you don't
think it was him just remind me what you were doing at Sophie's house
yourself?'

    'I've
already told you.'

    'Oh,
that's right! Someone you haven't seen for years phones you up asking for help,
so you jump in your car and drive two hundred miles, for
lunch.
And when
she doesn't show up you track down where she lives, wander into her house and
find her unconscious.'

    'That's
what happened.'

    'So
you say. But let's try this instead: you go to her house and force your way in.
She's naked underneath her bathrobe, you get carried away. Boom. Then you panic
and call it in as if you'd just found her.'

    I
stared at him, appalled. 'That's ridiculous!'

    'Is
it? The two of you always seemed pretty close on the search. I always wondered
if there was something going on between you.'

    I
realized my fists were clenched. I opened them, fighting not to lose my temper,
knowing that was what he wanted.

    'Not
everyone's like you, Terry.'

    He
gave a laugh. 'Oh, here we go! I was wondering how long it'd take.'

    'If
you don't believe me, ask Sophie. She'll tell you the same when she wakes up.'

    'If
she wakes up.' That stopped me. Terry nodded. 'A head injury like that, there's
no knowing. Which puts you in an awkward position, doesn't it?'

    I
couldn't believe I was hearing this. Terry took a card from his wallet and
tossed it on to the coffee table.

    'Anything
else happens, call me. My mobile number's on there. Don't bother with the
office landline, I'm never there.' He went to the hallway and paused, his
expression ugly. 'Don't pretend you're any different to me, Hunter. You're no
better than anyone else.'