'You got a name?'
Terry had looked startled at the sudden confrontation, but now he moved forward. 'His name's none of your business.'
'It's all right. If he wants to know who he's dealing with I'm more than happy to tell him.' Wainwright drew himself up, using his full height to glare at the convict. 'I'm Professor Leonard Wainwright. I'm in charge of recovering the bodies of the young women you murdered. And if you've any sense, then I strongly advise you to cooperate.'
'Jesus,' I heard Sophie breathe beside me.
Monk's mouth curled. 'Professor,' he sneered, as though trying out the word. Without warning his eyes flicked to me. 'Who's this?'
Terry seemed at a loss, so I answered. 'I'm David Hunter.'
'Hunter,' Monk echoed. 'Name to live up to.'
'So's Monk,' I said automatically.
The black eyes bored into me. Then there was a slow wheezing, and I realized Monk was laughing.
'Smart-arse, aren't you?'
Only now did he turn to stare at Sophie. But Terry didn't give him a chance to ask about her.
'Right, you've been introduced.' He motioned to the guards to lead him away. 'Come on, we're wasting time.'
'You heard the man, laughing boy.' The other prison guard, a thickset man with a beard, tried to haul Monk away. He might as well have tugged at a statue. The convict swivelled his head, levelling that basilisk stare at him.
'Don't fucking pull me.'
The atmosphere was already tense, but now the air suddenly felt charged. I could see Monk's chest rising and falling as his breathing grew more rapid. A bubble of spittle clung to the corner of his mouth. Then a man pushed his way through the encircling police officers.
'Detective Inspector, I'm Clyde Dobbs, Mr Monk's solicitor. My client's agreed to cooperate in the search voluntarily. I hardly think assaulting him is called for.'
He had a thin, nasal voice that managed to sound bored and wheedling at the same time. I hadn't noticed him before. He was in his fifties, sparse grey hair swept across an expanse of pink scalp. His briefcase looked ludicrously out of place with his Wellingtons and waterproof jacket.
'No one's assaulting anyone,' Terry snapped. He shot the bearded guard a look. The man grudgingly let go of Monk's arm.
'Thank you,' the solicitor said. 'Please carry on.'
Terry's jaw muscles tightened. He jerked his head at the guards. 'Bring him.'
'Fuck off!' Monk yelled, as the guards strained to pull him back. His eyes were suddenly manic. I watched, stunned, unable to believe this could go wrong so quickly. I waited for Terry to do something, to take charge, but he seemed frozen. The moment stretched on, taut and ready to shatter into violence.
And then Sophie stepped forward.
'Hi, I'm Sophie Keller,' she said easily. 'I'm going to help you find the graves.'
For a second there was no response. Then the black eyes flicked from Terry to her. They blinked as Monk's mouth worked, as though remembering how to form words.
'Don't need any help.'
'Great, then it'll be a lot easier for all of us. But I'm here just in case, OK?' She gave him a smile. It wasn't flirtatious, or nervous. Just a normal, everyday smile. 'Oh, and you'll probably want to lose the leg restraints. You're not going to get very far with those on.'
Still smiling, she turned to include Terry in that last comment. I could see the other police officers exchanging glances. Terry's face was red as he gave a nod to the guards.
'Just the legs. Leave the cuffs on.'
He spoke brusquely, but there wasn't anyone there who didn't realize how close he'd just come to losing control. I saw Roper watching nervously as Terry tried to regain some semblance of authority, and there were knowing looks on the faces of the other officers. If it hadn't been for Sophie there was no telling what would have happened. Not only had she defused the situation, she'd also managed to establish at least a tentative rapport with Monk.
After the outburst of a few moments ago, the convict seemed sullen and subdued. As he was led off down the track, the massive head turned to stare at Sophie.
'It looks as though Ms Keller's got a new pet,' Wainwright said as we followed on behind, our breath steaming in the cold morning.
'She did well.' Terry wasn't the only one to have just lost face, I reflected.
'You think so?' Wainwright's eyes were unfriendly as he watched them walk ahead of us. 'Let's hope it doesn't decide to bite her.'
The moor seemed to do its best to hinder us. The temperature dropped around the same time as the rain started to fall. It flattened the stalks of the grass and heather, a dull monotonous downpour that chilled the spirit as much as the flesh.
Jerome Monk seemed oblivious. He stood by Tina Williams' empty grave, rain running across his bald skull to drip from features that could have graced a medieval church gargoyle. He seemed to neither notice nor care.
The same couldn't be said for the rest of us.
'This is hopeless!' Wainwright snapped, brushing the rain from his face. The archaeologist had pulled on heavy-duty overalls that made his big frame look more outsized than ever. Stretched over his clothes and smeared with black mud, they were starting to look as frayed as the archaeologist's temper.
For once I sympathized. My own overalls chafed at my wrists and neck, making me sweat despite the chill. Water dripped from the top of my hood in silver beads, a cold trickle occasionally finding its way inside. The police tape was still draped around the area but the forensic tent had been taken down, and the empty grave was already filling with muddy water. In the days since I'd last been out, foul weather and the constant tramp of feet had turned the ground around it to a treacherous mire. There was cursing from the police officers as we picked our way out there, and once Wainwright slipped and almost fell. The archaeologist snapped a curt 'I'm all right' when I reached out to steady him. Even Monk seemed to be having difficulties, his balance hampered by having his hands cuffed together.
Except for his solicitor, the civilians – Wainwright, Sophie and myself – stayed a little way away from the group surrounding the convict, a token concession to our instructions not to approach. We'd been joined by a cadaver dog and its handler. The springer spaniel was trained to sniff out even the faintest taint of gases produced by decomposition, but first we had to find a grave. And Monk seemed in no hurry to help us with that.
Flanked by the two guards, he stared down at the shallow pit where Tina Williams had been buried, lips curled in his habitual sneer as though at some private joke. But I'd come to realize that it was just the natural set of his mouth: it bore no more relation to whatever thoughts went on behind those button eyes than the sickle grin of a shark.
'Bring back memories, Monk?' Terry asked.
There was no response. The convict could have been carved from the same granite as the rocks of Black Tor for all the notice he took.
The bearded guard prodded him. 'You heard the man, laughing boy.'
'Keep your fucking hands to yourself,' Monk grated without looking round.
His solicitor gave an exaggerated sigh as the guard bridled. 'I'm sure I don't have to remind anyone that my client is here voluntarily. If he's going to be subjected to harassment we can call this off now.'
'Nobody's harassing anyone.' Terry's shoulders were hunched, but not from the rain: tension snapped from him like static electricity. 'It was your "client" who wanted to come out here. I'm entitled to ask why.'
Dobbs's wispy hair flapped in the wind, giving him the look of an irate baby bird. The solicitor still had his briefcase. I wondered if it contained anything important or whether he just carried it out of habit.