I smiled, although I felt the usual mixed feelings at seeing him. While it was good to find a familiar face among the impersonal police machinery, for some reason there was always an edge between Terry and me that never quite went away.
'I didn't know you were on the investigation,' I said as they came over.
He grinned, cheek muscles bunching on the inevitable piece of gum. He'd lost a little weight since the last time I'd seen him, so that the square-jawed features looked more pronounced. 'I'm deputy SIO. Who do you think put in a word for you?'
I kept my smile in place. Back when I first knew Terry Connors he'd been a DI in the Metropolitan Police, but we hadn't met through work. His wife, Deborah, had gone to the same prenatal clinic as Kara, and the two of them had become friends. Terry and I had been wary of each other at first. Except for the overlap of our professions we had little in common. He was ambitious and fiercely competitive, a keen sportsman whose career was another arena in which to excel. His self-assurance and ego could grate at times, but the success of the few cases he'd steered my way hadn't hurt either of us.
Then, just over a year ago, he'd surprised everyone by transferring out of the Met. I never did find out why. There had been talk of Deborah's wanting to be closer to her family in Exeter, but exchanging the high-octane policing of London for Devon had seemed an inexplicable career move for someone like Terry.
The last time we'd seen them had been shortly before their move. The four of us had gone out for dinner, but it had been an awkward affair. There was a barely suppressed tension crackling between Terry and his wife all evening, and it was a relief when it was over. Although Kara and Deborah made a token effort to keep in touch afterwards it was a lost cause, and I'd not seen or spoken to Terry since.
But he was obviously doing well if he was deputy SIO on an investigation as big as this: I'd have expected that sort of responsibility to go to someone more senior than a DI. Given the pressure he must be under, I wasn't surprised he'd lost weight.
'I wondered how Simms got my name,' I said. Although I was an accredited police consultant, most of my work came through recommendations. I just wished this one hadn't come from Terry Connors.
'I gave you a big build-up, so don't let me down.'
I suppressed the flare of irritation.'I'll do my best.'
He cocked a thumb at the smaller man with him. 'This is DC Roper. Bob, this is David Hunter, the forensic anthropologist I told you about. He can tell more things from rotting bodies than you want to know.'
The detective constable gave me a grin. He had a snaggle of tobacco-stained teeth and eyes that wouldn't overlook much. A potent wave of cheap aftershave came from him as he gave me a nod.
'This should be right up your street.' His voice was nasal, with the distinctive accent of a local. 'Specially if it's what we think it is.'
'We don't know what it is yet,' Terry told him tersely. 'You go on ahead, Bob. I want to have a word with David.'
The dismissal was borderline rude. The other man's eyes hardened at the slight but his grin stayed in place.
'Right you are, chief.'
Terry watched him go with a sour expression. 'Watch yourself with Roper. He's the SIO's lapdog. He's so deep in Simms' pocket he could scratch his balls.'
It sounded as though there were some personality clashes, but Terry was always butting heads with people. And I wasn't about to get involved in internal politics. 'Is there some dispute about the body?'
'No dispute. Everyone's just falling over themselves hoping it's one of Monk's.'
'What do you think?'
'I've no idea. That's what you're here to find out. And we need to get this one right.' He took a deep breath, looking strained. 'Anyway, on, it's this way. Simms is out there now, so you'd better not keep him waiting.'
'What's he like?' I asked, as we set off down the road towards a cluster of trailers and Portakabins.
'He's a humourless bastard. You don't want to cross him. But he's no fool, I'll give him that. You know he was SIO of the original murder investigation?'
I nodded. Simms had come to prominence the previous year, making his reputation as the man who had put Jerome Monk behind bars. 'That can't have done his career any harm.'
I thought there was a touch of bitterness in Terry's grin. 'You could say that. Word is he's got his sights set on the Assistant Chief Constable's desk in a few more years. This could clinch it for him, so he'll be expecting results.'
He isn't the only one, I thought, looking at Terry. There was an almost palpable nervous energy coming off him. But that was hardly surprising if he was deputy SIO of something as potentially high profile as this.
We'd reached the Portakabins. They'd been set up next to a track that ran from the road. Thick black cables snaked between them, and the misty air was tainted by diesel fumes from the chugging generators. Terry stopped by the trailer housing the Major Incident Room.
'You'll find Simms out at the grave. If I get back in time I'll let you buy me a drink. We're staying at the same place.'
'Aren't you coming?' I asked, surprised.
'Seen one grave, you've seen them all.' He tried to sound blasй but it didn't quite come off. 'I'm only here to collect some papers. Got a long drive ahead of me.'
'Where?'
He tapped the side of his nose. 'Tell you later. Wish me luck, though.'
He clattered up the steps into the MIR. I wondered why he needed luck, but I'd more to think about than Terry's games just then.
Turning away, I looked out across the moor.
Wreathed in mist, the barren landscape spread out in front of me. There were no trees, only patches of dark, spiky gorse. The year was still young, and patches of winter-brown fern and bracken sprouted amongst the heather and rocks and thick, coarse grass. Looking out from the road, the ground fell gently downhill before rising again in a long slope. Cresting it perhaps quarter of a mile away was a low, ungainly formation of rock that Simms had mentioned.
Black Tor.
Dartmoor had more impressive tors – outcrops of weathered rock that rose from the moorland like carbuncles – but Black Tor's windsculpted profile was unmistakable against the skyline. It sat on top of a low escarpment, a broad, squat tower, as though a giant child had stacked flattened boulders one on top of the other. It didn't look any blacker than any of the other tors I'd seen, so perhaps the name was down to some dark event in its past. But it sounded suitably portentous, the sort of detail the newspapers would gleefully seize on.
Especially if it was Jerome Monk's graveyard.
After Simms' telephone call I'd searched the internet for background to the case. Monk had been a journalist's dream. A misfit and loner who supplemented his precarious living as a casual labourer with poaching and theft, he was an orphan whose mother had died during his birth, leading some of the more lurid tabloids to claim that she'd been his first victim. He was often described as a gypsy, but that wasn't true. While he'd lived most of his life around Dartmoor in a caravan, he'd been shunned by the local traveller population as well as the rest of society. Unpredictable and prone to outbursts of terrifying violence, his personality matched his exterior.
If anyone looked the part of a murderer, it was Monk.
Freakishly strong, he was a physical grotesque, a sport of nature.
The photographs and footage from his trial showed a hulk of a man, whose bald cannonball of a skull housed deep-set, sullen features. His black, button eyes glinted with all the expression of a doll's above a mouth that seemed curved in a permanent sneer. Even more unsettling was the indentation on one side of his forehead, as though a giant thumb had been pressed into a ball of clay. It was disturbing to see, the sort of disfigurement that looked as if it should have been fatal.