The Calling of the Grave (26 page)

    Sophie's
face was white. 'Did you hear?'

    'Only
the last part.'

    'There's
been a murder. They haven't said who it is, but it's in Torbay. Near Sharkham
Point. Isn't that . . .'

    I
nodded, realizing I wouldn't be leaving yet after all.

    That
was where Wainwright lived.

    It
was less than an hour's drive to Sharkham Point from Padbury. Sophie had insisted
on going, and I didn't put up much of an argument. I wanted to find out who the
victim was just as much as she did. I'd called Terry straight away, but he
wasn't answering his phone. That wasn't surprising: odds were he'd have been
called out to the scene. I told myself it might not have anything to do with
Wainwright. Murders happen every day, and so do coincidences.

    But I
couldn't quite believe it.

    Two
days before when I'd driven to Torbay there had been a vaulting blue sky and
bright autumn sunshine. Now grey clouds turned the countryside drab and
colourless. The fields we passed were shorn to an untidy stubble or ploughed
into muddy ridges of soil, while the dead leaves that clung to the bare trees
gave them the ragged appearance of scarecrows.

    Neither
Sophie nor I spoke much during the journey. She sat staring out of the window,
as wrapped up in her thoughts as I was in my own. Only when we reached the
coast and saw the distant bellying of the sea beyond the cliffs did she stir. I
knew what she was thinking: we'd know soon, one way or another.

    Then
we were passing a signpost for Sharkham Point. Not far ahead of it we could see
a fairground strobing of blue lights on the road.

    Sophie's
hand went to her throat. 'Oh, God. Is that Wainwright's house?'

    A
heaviness settled in my stomach. 'Yes.'

    A
cordon of police tape stretched across the road, fluttering in the wind. Beyond
it police cars and trailers were parked on either side of the gates, along with
a few press and TV vans. An ambulance was on the driveway outside the house,
but the absence of flashing lights or sirens testified that there was no longer
any urgency.

    I
parked a little way before the cordon. 'What should we do?' Sophie asked. Her
usual confidence seemed to have abandoned her.

    'We've
come this far. No point going back now,' I said, and climbed out of the car.

    There
was a stiff wind blowing from cliffs overlooking the sea. It carried a faint
hint of saline, tainted by exhaust fumes. I could hear the chug of a generator
from somewhere nearby. A policeman in a bright yellow reflective jacket moved
to block us as we approached.

    'The
road's closed.'

    'I
know. My name's David Hunter. Is DI Connors here?' I asked.

    He
regarded us for a few seconds, then spoke into his radio. 'Got a David Hunter
here, asking for . . .'

    'DI
Terry Connors,' I said as he looked at me for confirmation.

    He
repeated it and waited. The pause seemed to go on a long time, then there was a
crackling voice. He lowered the radio.

    'Sorry.'

    Sophie
spoke up before I could say anything. 'Does that mean he isn't here or he won't
see us?'

    The
policeman regarded her stonily. 'It means you're going to have to leave.'

    'Who's
dead? Is it Professor Wainwright or his wife?'

    'Are
you relatives?'

    'No,
but—'

    'Then
you can read about it in the papers. Now, last time: go back to your car.'

    'Come
on, Sophie,' I said, taking hold of her arm. I knew the police well enough to
know we weren't going to get anywhere like this.

    She
pulled free, facing up to the PC. 'I'm not going anywhere until I know what's
happened.'

    I'm
not sure how it would have gone, but at that moment there was a flurry of
activity from the house. A group of police officers came down the driveway. At
their head was a man whose smart uniform and peaked cap marked him as police
hierarchy. The uniform was new, and the hair and moustache were more grey. But
the chipped ice of the eyes was the same, and the bland, unlined features
hardly seemed to have aged.

    Simms
didn't so much, as glance in our direction as he strode towards an unmarked
black BMW, but someone else did. One of his entourage was staring at us:
middle-aged, overweight and balding. It was only when I saw the prominent teeth
that I realized it was Roper.

    He
hurried over and spoke to his superior. Simms stopped, his pale eyes turning to
us.
Now for it,
I thought as they came over, Roper trailing behind like
a pet dog.

    The PC
who'd stopped us stood rigidly to attention. 'Sir, I was just—'

    Simms
paid him no attention. His eyes touched on Sophie without interest or
recognition before pinning me again. There had always been an aura of arrogance
about him, but it was more pronounced now. His insignia identified him as an
Assistant Chief Constable, a rank few CID officers ever made. I wasn't
surprised. If ever a man had been born to wear a uniform, it was Simms.

    Roper
also seemed to have prospered. The crumpled suits had been replaced with
well-tailored clothes and the nicotine-stained teeth had been artificially
whitened. He'd put on weight, too, at least from the waist up. While the DC's
upper body had the paunchy, well- fed look of a man who took his food and drink
seriously, his low-slung trousers still flapped loosely around skittle-thin
legs.

    Neither
of them seemed pleased to see us. Simms had a pair of black leather gloves
clenched in one hand, tapping them impatiently against his thigh.

    'Dr
Hunter, isn't it?' he said. 'May I ask what you're doing here?'

    Sophie
didn't give me a chance to answer. 'What happened? Who's been killed?'

    Simms
regarded her for a beat, then pointedly turned to me again. 'I asked what you
were doing here.'

    'We
heard about the murder and wanted to find out if Professor Wainwright and his
wife were involved.'

    'And
that concerned you how, exactly?'

    ACC
or not, his attitude was beginning to rankle. 'Because I thought Jerome Monk
might have killed them.'

    Roper
glanced uneasily at Simms. The ACC's expression didn't change but his eyes were
glacial.

    'Let
him through,' he told the PC.

    I hid
my surprise and ducked under the tape. Sophie moved to do the same.

    'Just
Dr Hunter,' Simms said.

    The
PC stepped in front of her. 'Oh, come
on
!
'
Sophie protested.

    'Dr
Hunter's a police consultant.' Simms gaze lingered dispassionately on her
bruised cheek. 'As far as I'm aware you no longer are.'

    Sophie
drew herself up to argue. 'I'll see you back at the car,' I said quickly,
knowing Simms wouldn't change his mind. She shot me a furious look, then
snatched the keys off me and strode back down the road.

    Simms
was already heading towards the house, polished black shoes crunching on the
gravel driveway. Roper fell into step beside me. The wind plucked at his
thinning hair. He still used too much aftershave, but like everything else
about him it was more expensive now.

    'Turning
into quite a reunion, isn't it?' His grin was almost a nervous tick. He motioned
with his head back at Sophie. 'Not happy, is she? What happened to her face?'

    I was
surprised he didn't know. But then I'd no idea if he and Terry still worked
together. 'Someone broke into her house and attacked her.'

    'She
needs better locks. When was this?'

    'Four
days ago.'

    The
grin left his face as he made the connection: four days made it right after
Monk's escape. 'Did they get who did it?'

    I'd
all but forgotten Terry's warning — or threat — that I might be a suspect
myself. It wasn't a comfortable thought. 'Not yet. She can't remember much
about what happened.'

    'Was
she raped?'

    'No.'

    'Anything
stolen?'

    'No.'

    Roper
gave a huff of amusement. 'Bloody lucky, eh?'

    I changed
the subject. 'When did Simms make ACC?'

    'Must
be . . . oh, four or five years ago now. Around the same time I made DI.'

    He
gave me a little sideways look as he said it.
Roper? A detective inspector?
I wouldn't have thought he'd have made detective sergeant. Hitching his wagon
to Simms' star obviously hadn't done his career any harm.

    'Congratulations,'
I said. 'Who's SIO here?'

    'Steve
Naysmith. He's a bit of a highflier, only made Detective Chief Super last
year.' Roper's tone made it clear he didn't approve. I took that as a point in
Naysmith s favour. 'But the ACC's taking a very personal interest. The SIO's
got to run everything by him.'

    
Naysmith
must love that.
But then Simms had known Wainwright well. He wasn't about
to sit this one out.

    Especially
if Monk was the main suspect.

    Simms
had stopped by the entrance to the house, where a trestle table had been set up
with boxes of protective gear.

    'I
wasn't anticipating having to do this again,' he said irritably, tearing open a
sealed packet of overalls. 'I don't have long to spare. I have a press
conference soon.'

    
Some
things don't change.
I didn't know why Simms was doing this, but I doubted
it was just for my benefit. As he struggled into the overalls I thought he
looked even less comfortable in them now than he had eight years ago, and
suddenly I realized why. The smooth features were so bland that it was only his
clothes that gave them character. The white, all-in-one suits robbed him of
that, making him look peculiarly unfinished.

    'Need
me for anything else, sir?' Roper asked.

    Simms
didn't so much as glance at him as he pulled on overshoes and gloves. 'Not
right now, but stay here until Dr Hunter and I have finished.'

    Without
waiting to see if I was ready, he went inside.

    The
genteel quietude of the house I remembered had been shattered. White-suited
CSIs were packing away equipment, but evidence of what had happened was
everywhere. Every surface was finely coated with fingerprint powder, as though
the house had been gathering dust for years. Glass from a broken window was
scattered on the parquet floor amongst the spilled soil from an overturned
potted plant. The house still smelled of chrysanthemums, but beneath it was a
faint taint of faeces and drying blood, a lingering essence of violent death.

    'The
intruder forced open the kitchen door,' Simms told me, skirting a line of muddy
footprints that were being photographed by a CSI. 'No attempt at concealment,
as you can see. We've also found several patches of sputum, which should enable
a DNA analysis.'

    'Sputum?'

    'It
appears the killer spat on the floor.' He was walking down the hallway in front
of me, blocking my view. Now he stepped aside, and I saw Leonard Wainwright.

    The
forensic archaeologist looked pathetic in death. Dressed in pyjamas and an old
striped bathrobe, he lay crumpled near the foot of the stairs, amongst the
shattered remains of a glass-fronted china cabinet. Blood from where he'd been
cut by the broken glass had dried blackly, splashed across the floor. But there
wasn't enough of it for him to have bled to death. His face was obscured by a
tangle of grey hair, through which the slits of his bloodshot eyes were
visible. His head was twisted impossibly far to one side, almost resting on one
shoulder.
Broken neck,
I thought automatically. For no reason I found
myself staring at Wainwright's bare feet. They were calloused and yellow, and
the ankles that protruded from the pyjama bottoms were an old man's, thin and
hairless.