The Calling of the Grave (19 page)

    A
bright blue Toyota was parked outside the double garage. I parked next to it
and went up the steps to the front door. An old brass bell was set in the wall.
I pressed it and listened to the distant chime coming from somewhere deep in
the house.
Here we go.
I straightened my shoulders as brisk footsteps
sounded from inside.

    The
woman who opened the door fitted the voice on the phone too perfectly to be anyone
other than Wainwright's wife. Less matronly, perhaps, and wearing a soft
crew-necked sweater over a woollen skirt rather than the twinset and pearls I'd
imagined. But the perfectly coiffed grey hair and careful make-up were as I'd
expected, and so was the steel-trap quality to her eyes.

    They
were crinkled in welcome now, though, and her smile was surprisingly warm. 'You
must be David Hunter?'

    'That's
right.'

    'I'm
Jean Wainwright. So glad you found us. We're a little off the beaten track here,
but that's how we like it.' She moved aside, still smiling. 'Please, do come
in.'

    I
stepped into the house. The hallway had a beautiful parquet floor and
wood-panelled walls. A large vase of white chrysanthemums stood on an antique
mahogany bureau, their heavy fragrance fighting with the woman's perfume and
face powder. Her low heels clipped out a staccato rhythm as she led me along
the hall.

    'Leonard's
in the study. He's been looking forward to seeing you.'

    That
was so unlikely I felt suddenly certain I'd made a mistake. Could this be some
other Leonard Wainwright after all?
Too late now.
His wife opened a door
at the end of the hallway and ushered me in.

    After
the darkly panelled hallway, the room was dazzlingly bright. Sunlight flooded in
through the huge bay window that ran almost its entire length. Bookcases lined
the walls, and a handsome, leather- topped desk stood at one side, bare except
for another vase of chrysanthemums.

    Their
scent filled the room, but it was the view that commanded attention. The window
faced out over a lawn that ran down to a cliff edge, beyond which was nothing
but sea. It stretched out to the horizon, so that the effect was almost like
standing on the prow of a ship. It was so breathtaking that I was slow to take
in anything else. Then Wainwright s wife spoke.

    'Leonard,
David Hunter's here. He's an old colleague of yours. You remember him, don't
you?'

    She'd
gone to stand by a wing-backed leather armchair. I hadn't realized anyone was
sitting there. It was facing the view, and I waited for Wainwright to get up.
When he didn't, I moved further into the room until I could see past the winged
sides of the chair.

    I
wouldn't have recognized him.

    The giant
of memory no longer existed. Wainwright sat hunched in the chair, staring
blankly out at the sea. He seemed to have physically shrunk in on himself,
flesh and muscle wasting away. The patrician features were barely recognizable,
cheeks caved in and eyes sunken in their sockets, while the once thick mane of
hair was thin and grey.

    Wainwright
s wife had turned to me expectantly. The bright smile on her face now seemed as
fragile and transparent as the window itself. I'd stopped dead, shocked, but now
I forced a smile of my own as I went forward.

    'Hello,
Leonard.'

    It
was the first time I'd called him by his first name, but anything else would
have seemed wrong. I didn't bother to offer my hand: I knew there'd be no
point.

    'Dr
Hunter's come for lunch, dear,' his wife said. 'Won't that be nice? The two of
you can talk about old times.'

    As
though finally becoming aware of my presence, the big head turned ponderously
in my direction. The fogged eyes looked at me. Wainwright s mouth worked, and
for a second I thought he might speak. Then the moment passed, and he turned to
gaze back out at the sea again.

    'Can
I get you a cup of tea, Dr Hunter?' his wife said. 'Lunch will be another
twenty minutes.'

    My
smile felt glued in place. 'Tea would be nice. Can I give you a hand?'

    'That's
very kind, thank you. We won't be long, Leonard,' she added, patting her
husband's hand.

    There
was no response. With a last glance at the figure in the chair, I followed her
back into the hall.

    'I'm
sorry, I should have warned you,' she said, closing the door. 'I assumed when
you rang that you knew about Leonard's condition.'

    'I'd
no idea,' I said. 'What is it? Alzheimer's?'

    'They
don't seem entirely sure. I never realized there were so many different types
of dementia, but then I suppose one wouldn't. Leonard's developed very quickly,
as these things go. The last two years have been . . . quite hard.'

    I
could imagine. 'I'm sorry.'

    'Oh,
these things happen.' She spoke with a breezy matter-of-factness. 'I thought
seeing a familiar face might help. Our daughters don't live nearby, and we
don't get many visitors. He's usually better early on in the day. That's why I
suggested you come for lunch. Leonard tends to go sundowning after that. Are
you familiar with the term?'

    I
said I was. As a GP I'd seen how some dementia patients would grow more
confused or agitated as the day wore on. No one was entirely sure why.

    'Such
a lovely phrase for such a cruel thing, I always think,' his wife continued.
'Puts one in mind of cocktails on a summer evening.'

    Suddenly
I felt like a fraud. 'Look, Mrs Wainwright—'

    'Please,
call me Jean.'

    'Jean.'
I took a deep breath. 'Your husband and I . . . Well, to be honest, I'm not sure
how pleased he'll be to see me.'

    She
smiled. 'Yes, Leonard could be quite prickly. But I'm sure he'll be glad of the
company. Especially when you've come all this way.'

    'The
thing is, this wasn't just a social call. I was hoping to talk to him about the
investigation we worked on.'

    'Then
please do. He can be quite lucid sometimes, especially about things that
happened in the past.' She opened the study door again before I could protest.
'Now, you two can talk while I get lunch ready.'

    There
was no way I could refuse. I gave a weak smile and went back inside. The door
closed behind me, leaving me alone with Wainwright.
God.
The change in
him was shocking. I couldn't help but think about how he'd presented my initial
findings at Tina Williams' grave as his own. At the time I thought it was
shameless rivalry, but now I wasn't so sure. Perhaps he'd felt the first cracks
in his intellect even then and had been trying to hide them.

    He
gave no sign of being aware of me. He sat in the armchair, gazing out of the
window at the sea. I wondered if he even knew what he was looking at.

    
You're
here now. Make the best of it.
I moved the chair from the desk until I
could see him and sat down, searching for something to say. The point of my
visit had vanished along with Wainwright's damaged mind, but I couldn't just
sit there. There had been no love lost between us, but I wouldn't have wished
this on anyone.

    'Hello
again, Leonard. I'm David Hunter. We worked together once, on Dartmoor.'

    There
was no response. I ploughed on.

    'It
was the Jerome Monk case. Detective Chief Superintendent Simms was SIO. Do you
remember?'

    Nothing.
Wainwright continued to stare at the sea, the heavy features betraying no indication
that he'd heard. I sighed, looking out of the window myself. The view was
spectacular. Gulls wheeled against the cold blue sky, specks above the marching
blue-green waves. Whatever the weather, whatever else happened, they would
always be there. The archaeologist's deterioration was pitiable, but there were
worse places to end one's days.

    'I
know you.'

    I
looked up in surprise. The big head had turned towards me. Wainwright s eyes
were fixed on mine.

    'Yes,
you do,' I said. 'David Hunter. I'm a—'

    'Calliph
. . . Calli . . . maggots.' The voice was the same bass rumble I remembered,
although more hoarse now, as though unused.

    'Maggots,'
I agreed.

    'Rot.'

    I had
to smile. I supposed 'rot' could have referred to the blowfly larvae's habitat,
but I doubted it. Dementia or not, some things hadn't changed.

    His
eyes were flicking around now, as though something inside him had started to
wake. The broad forehead creased in concentration.

    'Roadkill.
. .'

    I
just nodded, not having a clue what he meant. His mind had obviously started to
wander. He glared across at me and thumped his hand down on the chair arm.

    'No!
Listen!'

    He'd
started feebly trying to heave himself up from the chair. I hurried over. 'It's
OK, Leonard, calm down.'

    His
arms felt thin as sticks as he struggled to get up, and a sour smell of wasting
came from him. But his grip was still vicelike as he seized my wrist.

    'Roadkill!'
he hissed, spraying spittle into my face.
'Roadkill!'

    The
study door was flung open and his wife hurried in. 'Now come along, Leonard,
let's not have any nonsense.'

    'Bloody
woman!'

    'Come
on, Leonard, behave yourself.' She gently but firmly eased him back into his
seat. 'What happened? Did you say something to upset him?'

    'No,
I was just—'

    'Well,
something must have set him off. He isn't normally this agitated.' She looked
over at me, smoothing her husband's hair as he began to subside. Her manner was
still polite but now there was no mistaking the frost. 'I'm sorry, Dr Hunter,
but I think you'd better go.'

    I
hesitated, but there was nothing I could do. Leaving the two of them in the
study, I let myself out and went back to my car. The day was still bright and
sunny, but the sickly sweet odour of chrysanthemums stayed with me as I drove
down the driveway and away from the house.

    I
didn't bother much with the coastal scenery as I drove back to Exeter. I'd
promised Sophie I'd call in at the hospital again, and I hoped that would take
my mind off the disastrous visit to Wainwright. Seeing the archaeologist reduced
like that had been a shock. He'd seemed to recognize me, and although I hadn't
intended to upset him perhaps that had been enough to set him off. Years ago
I'd taken the Hippocratic oath to do no harm.

    I
hadn't made such a bang-up job of it today.

    It
took me almost as long finding somewhere to park at the hospital as it had to
drive there from Torbay. When I reached Sophie's ward I saw that the screens
had been drawn around her bed. I slowed, thinking a doctor might be with her,
until I heard the hushed but angry voices coming from behind them.

    'Hello?'
I said hesitantly.

    The
voices stopped. There was a pause and then the screen was pulled back.

    The
young woman who'd opened it was like a subtly altered version of Sophie. She
had the same colour hair, the same shape face and eyes. But although their
features were unmistakably cast from the same mould, hers managed to be both
sharper and rounder than Sophie's. Right now they regarded me with pinched
annoyance.

    'Yes?'

    'I've
come to see Sophie,' I said. 'My name's—'

    'David!'
Sophie's voice rang out. 'It's all right, Maria.'

    The
woman's mouth tightened, but she stepped aside to let me pass. Sophie was
sitting on the bed, a leather holdall open next to her. She was dressed in a sweater
and jeans that somehow didn't look quite right, although I couldn't have said
why. She still looked tired, and the bruise on the left side of her face was
even more livid than before. But for all that she was clearly much better than
the last time I'd seen her.

    She
gave me a smile that held as much relief as anything. 'Thanks for coming.
David, this is my sister Maria.'