She tried to disguise it, but I could hear the tension in her voice. 'That's OK. Are you still in London?'
There was another pause. 'No. I'm living in Dartmoor now. A little village called Padbury.'
That surprised me. Sophie had never seemed the rural type, although I remembered she'd said how much she liked the moor. 'You made it out there, then.'
'What? Oh… yes, I suppose so.' She sounded distracted. 'Look, I know it's asking a lot, but if you could spare me a couple of hours I'd really appreciate it. Please?'
There was no mistaking the need in her voice, or the anxiety underlying it. This sounded a far cry from the confident young woman I remembered.
'Are you in some kind of trouble?'
'No, it's just… Look, I'll tell you everything when I see you.'
I told myself not to get involved in a cold case, that digging up the past would be painful and pointless. But then the case wasn't really cold any more. Now that Monk had escaped it was very much alive again.
And there was that subconscious itch at the back of my mind. Until today everything about this investigation had lain dormant for the best part of a decade. So why should it all of a sudden feel like unfinished business?
'How about tomorrow?' I heard myself say. It was too late today: I wouldn't arrive there till evening.
Her relief was evident even down the line. 'That'd be great! If you're sure…'
'I'll be glad of an excuse to get out of London.' Are you certain that's the only reason? I ignored the sardonic voice.
'Do you remember the Trencherman's Arms in Oldwich?'
The name brought back another blast of memory, not all of it good. 'I remember. Is the food any better than it was?'
She laughed. I'd forgotten what a good laugh she had, unselfconscious and full-throated. It didn't last long. 'A little. But it's easier than directing you to where I live. Can you make it in time for lunch?'
I said I could. We arranged to meet at one o'clock and exchanged mobile numbers. 'Thanks again, David. I really do appreciate this,' Sophie said before she rang off.
She didn't sound grateful, though. She sounded desperate.
I lowered the phone thoughtfully. It had been quite a day for reunions. First Terry Connors, now Sophie Keller. Whatever she wanted to see me about, I doubted it was an accident that it coincided with Jerome Monk's escape. And it had to be something serious for her to get in touch after all this time. The Sophie I'd known hadn't seemed prone to panicking.
Still, eight years was a long time. People changed. I found myself wondering if she'd altered, if she still looked the same.
If she was married.
You can cut that out, I told myself, but I smiled all the same. Then without warning I shivered. I looked at the computer monitor, where the gargoyle face of Monk filled the screen. The black button eyes seemed to be watching as it smiled its mocking half-smile. I closed the connection and the photograph winked out.
But even after it had gone I still seemed to feel his eyes on me.
Chapter 10
A few wisps of purple still clung to the heather, but autumn had already leached the colour from the landscape, cloaking the moor in dead greens and browns. It stretched as far as the eye could see, bleak and windblasted. The thigh-deep lakes of bracken were starting to die off, leaving nothing to break the monotony but house-sized rocks and thickets of impenetrable gorse.
A recent case had taken me to a remote Scottish island that if anything had been even more desolate, but there had still been an impressive sweep and grandeur to it. To my mind, this part of Dartmoor seemed brooding and oppressive, although I had to admit I wasn't exactly impartial.
I didn't have good memories of this place.
The sky had promised rain, but so far none had materialized. Despite the low clouds the sun kept breaking through, picking out the heather in startling clarity before being shut off once more. I'd made good time from London, except for a traffic jam on the M5. It was the first time in years I'd been this far west, but I found myself recalling parts of the route, recognizing villages I'd forgotten till then. Then I reached the moor itself, and it was like driving back in time.
I passed signposts for half-remembered places, landmarks that nudged rusty chords of memory. I drove by the grassed-over ruins of the old tin mine's waterwheel, where Monk's decoy had lured the press away. It was even more overgrown and looked smaller than I remembered. I felt the past thicken around me, then the road curved away and in the far distance I could make out the rocky jumble of Black Tor.
I slowed for a better look. Even though I'd been expecting it, the sight still brought back the chill mists and snap of police tape vibrating in the wind. Then I'd passed the turn-off. Shaking off the memories, I drove on to meet Sophie.
Oldwich was on the edge of the MOD training area, a sizeable chunk of the national park that the military had annexed for its firing and combat exercises. Most of it still granted public access, except on days when training was taking place.
Today wasn't one of them. I passed a warning post, but there was no red flag to indicate the area was off-limits. Oldwich itself was an odd place, apparently undecided as to whether it was a town or a village. It didn't seem to have changed much; there were newer houses on its fringes, but its centre was still as drab and unprepossessing as I recalled. The pebble-dashed cottages had always put me in mind of a coastal town, facing out to the empty moor as though to a static green sea.
A two-carriage train was unhurriedly pulling away as I drove by, slowly dragging itself across the moor as if exhausted. The Trencherman's Arms wasn't far from the tiny train station. The last time I'd been here the pub had looked dilapidated and depressing; now the roof had been rethatched and the walls were freshly whitewashed. At least some things had changed for the better.
The small car park was round the back. I felt oddly nervous as I pulled in and turned off the engine. I told myself there was no need, and made my way to the entrance. The doorway leading into the pub was low, and I had to stoop to avoid banging my head. Inside was dark, but as my eyes adjusted I saw it wasn't just the thatched roof that was new. The exposed stone flags were a big improvement on the sticky carpet I remembered, and the flock wallpaper had been replaced with cleanly painted plaster.
A few tables were taken, mainly by walkers and tourists finishing lunch, but most were empty. It took only a moment to see that Sophie wasn't there, but then I was early. Relax, she's probably on her way.
A cheerful, plump woman was behind the bar. I guessed the sullen landlord had gone the same way as the flock wallpaper and beerstained carpets. I ordered a coffee and went to one of the stripped-pine tables by the fireplace. It wasn't lit, but it was stacked with fresh-cut logs, and the ash in the grate suggested they weren't only there for decoration.
I took a drink of coffee and wondered yet again what Sophie might want. It had to be connected to Jerome Monk's escape somehow, but for the life of me I couldn't see how. Or why she'd contacted me. We'd enjoyed each other's company but I wouldn't have called us friends, and neither of us had made any attempt to keep in touch.
So why would she want to see me again after all this time?
My coffee had gone cold. Looking at my watch I saw it was nearly half past one. I frowned: after the way she'd sounded the day before I wouldn't have expected her to be late. But I wasn't sure how far she had to travel, so she could easily have been held up. I picked up the menu and restlessly flicked through it, glancing at the entrance every few minutes.
I gave it another quarter of an hour before calling Sophie's mobile number. At least there was a signal, which wasn't always certain out here. I listened to the clicks of connection, then I heard her voice: Hi, you've reached Sophie. Please leave a message.