The Calling of the Grave (27 page)

    He'd
have hated anyone seeing that.

    I
hadn't expected to find the body still there. I'm no stranger to either crime
scenes or violent death, but this was different. Forty- eight hours ago I'd
been talking to Wainwright, and the sight of him on the hallway floor caught me
unprepared.

    A
diminutive figure in baggy overalls was kneeling beside his body, humming
absently to itself as it took a reading from a thermometer. The tune was perky
and familiar: one of Gilbert and Sullivan's, though I couldn't name it. The
white-gloved hands were as small as a child's, and although the face was all
but obscured by a hood and mask, I recognized the gold half-moon glasses
straight away.

    'Nearly
done,' Pirie said without looking up.

    I was
surprised to see him. I'd have thought the pathologist would have retired by
now. 'You remember Dr Hunter, George?' Simms asked.

    The
pathologist raised his head. The eyebrows bushed above the glasses like grey spider
legs, but his gaze was as bright and intelligent as ever.

    'Indeed
I do. A pleasure as always, Dr Hunter. Although I wouldn't have thought your
skills were needed in this instance.'

    'He
isn't here in an official capacity,' Simms told him.

    'Ah.
Nevertheless, if you'd care to lend a hand you'd be very welcome. I recall you
extended the same courtesy to me. I'd be happy to return the favour.'

    'Perhaps
another time.' I appreciated the offer, but post-mortems weren't my field. 'I'd
have thought the body would've been taken to the mortuary by now.'

    Simms
s face was impassive as he stared down at the body of his friend. 'We had to
wait for Dr Pirie to finish another job. I wanted someone I knew working on
this.'

    'What
about his wife? I asked. There was no sign of Jean Wainwright, and the news
report had only mentioned a single death.

    'She's
been hospitalized. Hopefully only from shock, but she wasn't well herself, even
before this.'

    'So
she wasn't actually hurt?'

    'Not
beyond witnessing her husband's murder. Their cleaner found them both this
morning when she let herself in. Jean was in a . . . confused state. She hasn't
been able to tell us much so far, but I'm hoping she'll be able to answer
questions later.'

    'So
she hasn't said who did it?'

    'Not
as yet.'

    But I
didn't think there was much doubt. First Sophie, now Wainwright. Perhaps Terry
was right after all. . .

    'Have
you found anything?' I asked Pirie.

    The
pathologist considered, the thermometer held aloft like a conductor's baton.
'First impressions only. Rigor and livor mortis suggest he's been dead for
between eight to twelve hours, as does the body temperature. That puts the time
of death between one and five o'clock this morning. As I'm sure you can see for
yourself, his neck has been broken, which at this stage seems the most probable
cause of death.'

    'It
would take a lot of force to do that,' I said, thinking how Monk had killed the
police dog on the moor eight years ago.

    'Oh,
undoubtedly. For anyone to break a grown man's neck deliberately would have
taken a huge degree of strength—'

    'Thank
you, George, we won't disturb you any longer,' Simms said. 'Please keep me
informed.'

    'Of
course.' Pirie's expression was hidden by the mask. 'Goodbye, Dr Hunter. And
should you change your mind my offer still stands.'

    I
thanked him, but Simms was already heading back down the hallway. As soon as we
were outside he began stripping off his overalls, his dark uniform emerging from
them like an insect from a chrysalis.

    'Are
there any other witnesses apart from Jean Wainwright?' I asked, unfastening my
own.

    'Unfortunately
not. But I'm hopeful she'll be able to provide us with a detailed account
before much longer.'

    'It looks
like Monk, though, doesn't it?'

    Simms
snapped off his surgical gloves and dropped them into a large plastic bin
already half full of other discarded forensic gear. 'That remains to be seen.
And I'd thank you not to speculate at this stage.'

    'But
you heard what Pirie said about the killer's strength. And spitting on the
floor sounds like a sign of contempt. Who else could it be?'

    'I
don't know, but at the moment there's no firm evidence to suggest that Jerome
Monk had anything to do with it.' Simms spoke with controlled anger. 'Hopefully
Jean Wainwright will be able to tell us what happened. Until then I will not
have needless scaremongering. The last thing I need is for the press to start
running with unfounded rumours.'

    'Hardly
unfounded. It's a matter of record that Wainwright headed the search team. The
press are bound to make the connection before long.'

    'By
which time Monk will hopefully be back in custody So until then, or we have
evidence to the contrary, I'll continue to treat this as I would any other
murder investigation.'

    I
understood then. For someone as PR-conscious as Simms it was bad enough that
Monk had escaped. The last thing he wanted was for stories to circulate that
the escaped killer was on some sort of vendetta. That was exactly the sort of
publicity an ambitious ACC could do without.

    'Jean
Wainwright called me two days ago,' Simms said. 'She told me you'd been here,
and that Leonard had become very agitated. Care to tell me what that was
about?'

    I
suppose I should have expected Wainwright's wife to tell him about my visit. 'I
wanted to talk to him about Monk. I didn't know about his condition. If I had—'

    'Jerome
Monk doesn't concern you, Dr Hunter. And now you've put me in the embarrassing
position of having to ask where you were this morning between one and five
o'clock?'

    But
I'd been waiting for that. 'I was in bed at Sophie Keller's house. And no, she
can't vouch for me. As for Jerome Monk, you can't seriously think I'm not going
to ask questions after what happened yesterday.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'When
Monk came after us on the moor.' Simms was looking at me as though I were mad.
I tugged the gloves from my hands and threw them into the bin. 'Oh, come on, Terry
Connors must have told you!'

    Simms
had gone very still. The only sign of emotion on the wax-like face was the
compressed line of his lips.

    'Terry
Connors isn't involved in this investigation. He's been suspended.'

    It
started raining as I drove out to Black Tor. The water came down in sheets, so
that the windscreen wipers were hard-pressed to clear the glass. It was earlier
than when Sophie and I had come out here the day before, but by the time I
reached the overgrown mine workings the sky had darkened so much that it seemed
almost night.

    Now,
though, it was Roper who sat in the passenger seat, smelling of aftershave and
onions. He was as disgruntled at the arrangement as I was, but Simms hadn't
given either of us any choice. He'd told me to make Roper my first point of
contact rather than Naysmith, suggesting there was no love lost between him and
the SIO. Sophie was still back at Wainwright's, giving her statement. At least
I assumed she was: I hadn't had a chance to speak to her before we'd left.
Roper had returned my keys and assured me that someone would take her home, and
then a procession of cars had set off for Dartmoor.

    Up
ahead the blurred tail lights of the ACC's black BMW were screened by a fine
mist of spray thrown up by its tyres. The press conference had been postponed
so that Simms could come out here. He'd demanded to hear everything, starting
from when Terry appeared on my doorstep on the morning of Monk's escape. I'd
kept nothing back, not even Sophie's letters to Monk. I'd felt guilty bout
that, but we'd gone beyond keeping secrets.

    Simms'
pale-blue eyes had blazed, but it wasn't until I described finding the holes
dug on the moor the day before, and the scrambled chase that followed, that he
became incandescent.

    'This
was twenty-four hours ago and I'm only just
hearing
about it? God
Almighty
!
'

    I
couldn't blame him. I was still trying to take it in myself. Not only was Terry
suspended, he wasn't even a DI any more. Simms had told me he'd been demoted to
detective sergeant the previous year.

    
Terry,
what the hell
are
you playing at?
I still had the card he'd given
me:
Detective Inspector Terry Connors.
Still, it explained why he'd told
me to call him on his mobile rather than at headquarters.
I'm never there,
he'd said.

    At
least that much had been true.

    In a
way I could almost understand him lying about his rank and suspension: pride
had always been one of Terry's sins. What was inexcusable was that rather than
admit to his charade he'd thrown away a chance to capture Monk. Now Wainwright
was dead, and his killer was still on the loose.

    There
was no going back from that.

    Beside
me, Roper stifled a belch. Not very successfully. 'Pardon,' he muttered, baring
his teeth in a sheepish grin. He looked out at the rainswept moor. 'Christ,
it's really coming down. Couldn't have brought us here on a sunny day, could
you?'

    'I'll
try harder next time.'

    'Good
one,' he said, with a snickering laugh. He stared at the rain beating against
the car windscreen and sighed. 'Bloody Connors. He's shafted himself this time.
And us.'

    I
knew an invitation when I heard one. 'Simms said he'd been demoted.'

    'Stupid
sod got caught altering an evidence log.' He shook his head in disgust. 'Wasn't
even anything important, just got his dates mixed up. If he'd owned up he'd
have been slapped on the wrist and that would have been it, but no. The golden
boy from the Met couldn't admit he'd made a mistake.' He didn't try to hide his
satisfaction.

    'And his
suspension?' I asked.

    Roper
sucked his teeth, as though debating whether or not to tell me. 'He assaulted a
policewoman.'

    'He
what?'

    'Nothing
violent, thank God. He was just too pissed to take no for an answer. Typical
Connors, thought he was God's gift. Never could keep his fly zipped.'

    I
realized I was squeezing the steering wheel.
No, he couldn't.
I forced
myself to relax my grip.

    'So
he was drunk?'

    'Drunk?
He's a piss-head, he's hardly been sober for years. Don't get me wrong, there's
nothing wrong with a beer or two, I'm the first to admit that.' He patted his
distended stomach. 'But some people can handle it and some can't. And Connors
couldn't. He was on borrowed time even before he got knocked back to DS, and it
was all downhill from there.'

    I
remembered how Terry had sounded on the phone when I'd told him about Monk.
'What'll happen to him?'

    'If
he's lucky he'll just be kicked off the force, but he could be looking at
criminal charges. Bloody idiot. If I'd had his opportunities I wouldn't have
pissed them away, I can tell you.' His regret was transparently false. He gave
me a sideways look. 'How come you don't know about this? I thought you two used
to be friendly.'

    'We
lost touch.'

    'If I
were you I'd keep it that way.' He fell silent. I heard him sucking his teeth
again. He stopped, embarrassed, when he realized. 'So, tell me more about this
attack on Miss Keller.'

    I ran
through what had happened. Roper listened with his hands folded on his paunch.
I was starting to revise my opinion of the man.

    Terry
had always been dismissive of him, treating him as Simms' lapdog. But whatever
else Roper might be, I didn't think he was anyone's fool.

    'So
the locals think it was a burglary, eh?' he said.

    'That's
what they say.'

    'They're
probably right. Single woman, living on her own in the sticks. Asking for
trouble, really. And you say she's a potter now?' He smirked, shaking his head.
'Well, well.'