The Calling Of The Grave

The anger drained from Terry. He straightened his shoulders. 'Right.'

'Hang on,' Sophie protested. 'What about-'

But Terry was already walking away, feet clumping on the duckboards. Roper hesitated long enough to give Sophie a toothy smile that exposed a line of pale gum above his incisors.

'Never mind, love. He's got a lot on his mind.'

She shot him an angry look as he hurried after Terry. Lucas rubbed the bridge of his nose, embarrassed.

'Well, I need to get on as well.' He hesitated, giving Sophie an uncertain glance. 'Look, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't push too hard. There's a lot riding on today.'

'All the more reason why I should be able to do my job properly.'

Lucas looked as though he were about to say something else, then thought better of it. 'Just watch yourself. Monk's a dangerous bugger. You ask me, you're better keeping well away.'

For a second I thought Sophie was going to snap at the search advisor as well, but then she gave a reluctant smile. 'I can look after myself.'

Lucas kept his thoughts to himself. He gave me a nod. 'Dr Hunter.'

We watched him walk away. Sophie blew out an exasperated breath. 'God, sometimes I hate this job.'

Sophie had made no secret of her displeasure at being left out of the decision-making process. 'You don't mean that,' I said.

'Don't bet on it. I just can't understand why Monk's suddenly so keen to help. And please don't say it's his guilty conscience.'

'Perhaps he's planning an appeal and thinks it might help him get a reduced sentence.'

'He's got at least another thirty-five years to serve. I can't see him planning that far ahead.'

'You think he's hoping to escape?' I asked.

I wouldn't have dared mention that to Terry, not given the pressure he was already under to see that didn't happen. The most dangerous part of any prisoner transfer was the transit, but everyone was well aware of what Jerome Monk was capable of. Even so, it was hard to see how even he could hope to escape out here, surrounded by guards and with a helicopter standing by only minutes away.

Sophie thrust her hands into her pockets, scowling in frustration. 'I can't see how he can, but I'd feel happier if he'd at least give us a bloody clue where the graves are. But no, he insists he'll only come out and show us. And Simms is letting him! He's so fixated on finding the Bennett twins so he can announce he's got the full set he's letting Monk dictate his own conditions. That's plain stupid, but I can't get anyone to listen.'

Not for lack of trying. I had the sense to keep that to myself, though. 'Even if the other graves are around here we'll be hard pressed to find them without Monk. I hate to sound like I agree with Simms, but what choice does he have?'

Sophie raised her eyes in exasperation. 'He could do what I've been suggesting for the past two days. I've already mapped out a few of the likeliest sites, but without more to go on I'm working blind. If he got Monk to just give us some idea of where the Bennett twins are buried, even a landmark, I might be able to find them myself.'

I looked at the blasted landscape of dead bracken, heather and rock spread out before us. It stretched for miles. I didn't say anything, but I must have looked sceptical. Twin patches of red bloomed on her cheeks.

'You don't think I can do it either.'

Oh, hell. 'No, it's just… Well, it's a big area.'

'Have you ever heard of Winthropping?' I hadn't, but she didn't give me chance to answer. 'It's a technique the army developed in Northern Ireland to find hidden arms caches. Anyone looking to make a hide – or bury a body – automatically follows the contours of the land, or uses reference points like a tree or distinctive rock to help them get their bearings. Winthropping's a way of reading a landscape to find the most likely places something would be hidden.'

'And it works?' I said without thinking.

'Amazingly enough, yes,' she said tartly. 'It isn't foolproof, but it's useful in situations like this. I don't care how well Monk's supposed to know the moor, it's still been a year since he killed the Bennett sisters. Their graves will be overgrown by now and he probably buried them at night anyway. Even if he wants to, I can't see him being able to remember exactly where they are. Not without help.'

As a rule I liked my science more clear-cut, not verging into crystal-ball territory. But she made a convincing argument. Still, it was academic now anyway. We both fell silent as we saw a distant convoy of vehicles creeping along the road towards us.

Monk was here.

Chapter 5

After the drama of the decoy's arrival, the real thing was almost an anticlimax. There were no flashing lights or motorcycles, no waiting helicopter. Just an unmarked van escorted by two police cars. A stillness seemed to fall as they headed for where Terry was waiting with Roper and a group of uniformed officers. A dog-handler stood with them, the intent-looking German shepherd kept on a short leash. The van and cars pulled up well away from the other vehicles. In the silence after their engines died the sound of the doors clunking open carried clearly in the damp air. Unlike those with Monk's 'double', none of the police officers were armed: there had to be a realistic threat of escape to merit that. But they were all big, bulky men, whose hands immediately went to the batons clipped to their belts as they fanned out around the rear doors of the van.

'Very melodramatic,' Sophie commented.

I didn't answer. There was movement in the shadowy recesses of the van. Something round and pale solidified into a bald head as it emerged into the light. A crouched figure filled the opening, ignoring the step-board below the doors to jump down. Then it straightened, and I had my first look at Jerome Monk.

Even from where we stood, twenty yards away, there was no mistaking his sheer, hulking presence. His hands were cuffed awkwardly in front of him, and I realized with a shock that he was also wearing leg restraints. Neither seemed to bother him, and the hunched shoulders looked powerful enough to snap the handcuff chain without effort. His upper body was immense, yet the shaved head still seemed outsized.

'Ugly brute, isn't he?'

I'd been so preoccupied I hadn't noticed that Wainwright had joined us. The forensic archaeologist was dressed in well-worn but expensive outdoor gear, a scarf thrown flamboyantly around his neck. He made no attempt to keep his voice down, and his words carried clearly in the still air. That's torn it, I thought, as Monk's moon head swivelled towards us.

The photographs I'd seen hadn't done him justice. The indentation in his forehead looked far worse in the flesh, as though he'd been struck with a hammer and somehow survived. Below it, the skin of his face was pitted with scar tissue. A scabbed, yellowing graze on one cheek suggested that at least some of it was recent, while the crooked mouth was curled in the same half-smile he always seemed to wear. It seemed to acknowledge and mock the revulsion he provoked.

But it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. Small and unblinking, they were flat and empty as black glass.

I felt chilled as they settled on me, but I warranted only a fleeting interest. The dead eyes went to Sophie, lingering on her for a moment before shifting to Wainwright.

'The fuck you looking at?'

The accent was local but the voice was a surprise: gruff and disconcertingly soft. Wainwright should have let it go. But the archaeologist wasn't used to being spoken to like that. He gave a derisive snort.

'My God, it can talk!'

Monk's leg restraints snapped taut as he stepped towards him, feet swishing awkwardly through the wet grass. That was as far as he got before the two prison guards grabbed his arms. They were big men but the convict dwarfed them. I saw them brace themselves, tensing with effort as they tried to hold him.

'Come on, Jerome, behave yourself,' one of the guards said, an older man with grey hair and a lined face. The killer continued to stare at Wainwright, handcuffed hands dangling loosely. His shoulders and upper arms were massive, as though he had bowling balls packed inside his jacket. His black eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on Wainwright.