The Calling of the Grave (18 page)

    He
slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls. I didn't move for a while,
then went to the nearest chair and sat down. I felt stunned by Terry's
hostility as much as his accusation. There was no love lost between us, but
could he seriously believe that I was capable of doing something like that?
Attacking Sophie?

    Apparently.

    Anger
began to kick in again. I went to finish packing. Brooding wouldn't help, and
neither would sitting around here.

    I
almost threw Terry's card away, but at the last minute I tucked it in my
wallet. Then I set the alarm on my flat, threw my bag into the car boot and
drove away. If I didn't get snarled up in traffic I could be in Exeter by
mid-afternoon.

    If I
was going to start digging around in the past, an archaeologist was as good a
place as any to start.

    I
hadn't given Leonard Wainwright a thought in years. I would have been more than
happy to keep it that way, but it made sense to talk to him, at least. Now that
Monk had reared his ugly head again, it couldn't hurt to see if he could add
anything to the little I already knew.

    The
weather had steadily worsened as I'd neared Exeter, and by the time I arrived
the rain was coming down in a sullen downpour. I booked into an anonymous hotel
not far from the hospital. It was one of the bland chains that spring up in
most city or town centres, with piped music in the lifts and plastic menus
offering pre-cooked food. But it was cheap and convenient, and as well as a view
of a car park my room had a Wi-Fi connection. Unpacking my laptop, I ordered a
sandwich and set to work.

    Finding
Wainwright proved harder than I expected. I didn't have his address or phone
number, and Terry had said he'd retired. I tried his old department at
Cambridge anyway, hoping that someone there would be able to help. The
receptionist soon set me right on that score.

    'We
can't reveal personal details,' she told me waspishly.

    I spent
a fruitless half-hour searching on the internet before it occurred to me to try
the obvious. Years before Wainwright had said he lived at Torbay. There was no
guarantee he still did, or wasn't ex- directory. But I typed his name into an
online phone directory and there he was:
Wainwright, Prof.
L. The entry
gave both phone number and address.

    
Genius,
I thought ruefully, massaging my stiff neck.

    The
phone rang for a long time before anyone answered. 'Hello, Wainwright
residence?'

    It
was a woman's voice, clipped and officious. 'Can I speak to Leonard Wainwright,
please?'

    There
was a pause. 'Who is this?'

    'My
name's David Hunter. I worked with Professor Wainwright several years ago,' I
added, not sure if he'd remember me.

    The
pause wasn't quite so long this time. 'I don't recognize your name. Would he
know you from Cambridge?'

    'No,
we were . . .' I searched for the right phrase, then gave up. 'It was on a
police investigation. I'm in the area, and—'

    I
didn't get the chance to finish. 'Oh, I
see.
I'm afraid Leonard's
unavailable, but I'm his wife. You're in the area, you say?'

    'Yes,
but—'

    'Then
you must pop round! I'm sure Leonard would love to see an old colleague.'

    I
doubted it. 'Perhaps I should just call back later . . .'

    'Nonsense!
Are you free for lunch tomorrow? We usually have something light around one
o'clock. Unless you have another appointment, of course.'

    
Lunch?
That was the last thing I'd expected. 'If you're sure it's no trouble . . .'

    'No
trouble at all. Oh, jolly good! Leonard
will
look forward to it.'

    I
hung up, bemused by the invitation and wondering exactly what 'unavailable'
meant. The prospect of lunch with the archaeologist and his wife wasn't
something I relished, and I doubted Wainwright would thank his wife either.
Still, I'd accepted now. That left me the rest of the evening to fill. I was
wondering what to do when my phone rang. It was the hospital. Sophie was
conscious.

    Traumatic
brain injury isn't like a broken arm. Its unpredictable nature makes any sort
of prognosis difficult, but in general the longer a victim remains unconscious,
the more chance there is of serious damage.

    Sophie
had been lucky. Although the blow to her head had left her with bad concussion,
her skull wasn't fractured and the scans had revealed no sign of complications
such as haemorrhaging or haematoma: cranial bleeds that could go undetected,
only to incapacitate or kill days after the initial injury.

    She'd
woken the night before, a few hours after I'd left the hospital. She'd been groggy
at first, slipping in and out of consciousness, but the fact that she was awake
at all was good news. It had been at her insistence that the hospital had
called me. Now she was propped up in bed in a gown, the pillows splayed
untidily behind her. Her tawny hair was tied back with a band, so that the
injury to her face was clearly visible. Her skull might not be fractured but
her cheekbone was. Although the swelling had started to subside, the bruising
extended from temple to jaw in a startling kaleidoscope of colour.

    'Thanks
for coming,' she said as I sat down. She absently touched the plastic ID
bracelet on her wrist. 'I'm not sure whether I should thank you or apologize.'

    'There's
no need for either.'

    'Of
course there is. I've put you to all this trouble, and if you hadn't found me .
. .'

    'But
I did. And you haven't put me to any trouble.'

    She
gave me a wry look. 'Yeah, right.'

    I
smiled, still relieved that she was all right. Especially after Terry's visit.
Rain drummed against the window, which reflected a reversed image of the stark
hospital ward under the fluorescent lights. Sophie had a corner bed, and the
one next to hers was empty, allowing us to talk without being overheard.

    'How
are you feeling?' I asked.

    Sophie
gave a wan smile. 'Apart from like I've got the world's worst hangover, about
the same as I look, I expect.'

    Given
what she'd been through, she looked remarkably good. Eight years had barely
left a mark. Her face was unlined, and apart from the bruising she didn't
appear much changed from the last time I saw her. But then Sophie had the sort
of bone structure that would always age well.

    She
looked down at her hands. 'I suppose I feel more embarrassed than anything. And
confused. I don't know which is worse, the fact that somebody broke into my
house and did this to me, or that I can't remember anything about it.'

    Short-term
memory loss is common enough after a head injury, but that doesn't make it any
less distressing. 'You can't remember anything at all? Nothing about who
attacked you?'

    'I
can't even remember
being
attacked.' Sophie plucked distractedly at her
ID bracelet. 'I feel really stupid, but it's like I told the police. I'd just
finished showering, I heard a noise from downstairs, and . . . and that's it.
For all I know I could have just slipped and banged my head.'

    That
might have been more credible if not for the broken front door and ransacked
rooms. Whatever had happened to her, it was no accident.

    'Your
memory might come back in a few days.'

    'I
don't know if I want it to.' She looked vulnerable lying there in the hospital
gown, not at all like the Sophie I remembered. 'The police say I wasn't . . .
that it wasn't a sexual assault. But it's horrible thinking that someone broke
in and I can't even remember.'

    'Have
you any idea who it might have been? Anyone with a grudge?'

    'No,
not at all. I'm not in a relationship now, and haven't been for . . . well,
long enough. The police seemed to think it was probably a burglar who thought I
was out and panicked when he realized I was in the shower.'

    That
was news to me. 'Have you spoken to Terry Connors?'

    The
name seemed to surprise her. 'No. Why?'

    'He
came to see me.' I hesitated, but she'd a right to know. 'He seems to think it
might have been Jerome Monk who attacked you.'

    'Monk?
That's ridiculous!' She frowned as she looked at me. 'There's something else,
isn't there?'

    'He
told me I was a suspect as well. I was the one who found you and since you
can't remember anything . . .'

    'You?'
Her eyes widened, then she quickly looked away. I felt my stomach dip,
wondering if she might believe it herself. But when she spoke again the anger
in her voice dispelled it. 'Christ, that's just like him. That's so stupid!'

    'I'm
glad you think so. Are you OK?' I asked, noticing how pale she'd suddenly
become.

    'A
bit woozy . . . Look, I know I owe you an explanation, but can it wait? I don't
really feel like talking about it right now. I ... I just want to go home.'

    'Sure.
Don't worry about it.'

    'Thanks.'
She gave another weak smile, but it quickly faded. 'I think . . .'

    She
groped for the kidney-shaped cardboard container on the cabinet next to the
bed. I reached it first and handed it to her.

    'Do
you want me to call a nurse?'

    'No,
I just keep feeling queasy. They tell me it'll pass.' She put her head back on
the pillow, closing her eyes. 'Sorry, I think I need to sleep . . .'

    The kidney
dish toppled slowly from her fingers as her voice tailed off. I stood up,
careful not to scrape the chair on the floor. Putting the dish back on the
cabinet, I turned to leave.

    'David
. . .'

    Sophie
hadn't moved, but her eyes were on me. 'Are you coming back?'

    'Of
course.'

    She
gave a slight nod, satisfied. Her eyelids were already starting to droop again,
and when she spoke her voice was slurred and barely more than a whisper. 'I
didn't mean to . . .'

    'Didn't
mean to what?' I asked, not sure if I'd heard right.

    But
she was already asleep. I watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing,
then quietly left the ward. As I made my way down the corridor I thought about
what Sophie had said. And what she hadn't.

    I
wondered what she was hiding.

    The
clouds and rain had lifted next morning, giving way to clean blue skies and
bright sunshine. I'd spent the previous night running things over in my mind
while I'd eaten a solitary meal in a half- empty Italian restaurant. Even
though I was relieved about Sophie, I'd gone to bed feeling flat and restless,
convinced there was something I was missing.

    But a
night's sleep had lifted my spirits, and the bright autumn day made me feel
almost optimistic as I checked out of the hotel and set off for my lunch
appointment with Wainwright. There was no real need to see him now Sophie was
conscious, but having accepted his wife's invitation for lunch I couldn't cry
off at short notice.

    No
matter how much I might want to.

    The
archaeologist lived near Sharkham Point, a headland on the southern tip of
Torbay. It was less than an hour's drive, so I chose a longer route that took
in more of the coast. There were high cliffs, beyond which the sun glinted on
the choppy sea. Despite the chill I drove with my window down, enjoying the
freshness of the breeze. This was a part of the country I didn't know well, but
I liked it. Although it was only twenty miles from Dartmoor it seemed a
different world; brighter and less oppressive. I didn't blame Wainwright for
living here.

    The
house was easy enough to find: there weren't many others there. It was set back
from the road behind a line of tall, bare lime trees, a pebble-dashed 1920s
villa criss-crossed with black beams. A long gravel driveway was overhung by
more limes on one side, the other flanked by a long expanse of lawn.