The Calling Of The Grave

'Thanks for coming,' she said as I sat down. She absently touched the plastic ID bracelet on her wrist. 'I'm not sure whether I should thank you or apologize.'

'There's no need for either.'

'Of course there is. I've put you to all this trouble, and if you hadn't found me…'

'But I did. And you haven't put me to any trouble.'

She gave me a wry look. 'Yeah, right.'

I smiled, still relieved that she was all right. Especially after Terry's visit. Rain drummed against the window, which reflected a reversed image of the stark hospital ward under the fluorescent lights. Sophie had a corner bed, and the one next to hers was empty, allowing us to talk without being overheard.

'How are you feeling?' I asked.

Sophie gave a wan smile. 'Apart from like I've got the world's worst hangover, about the same as I look, I expect.'

Given what she'd been through, she looked remarkably good. Eight years had barely left a mark. Her face was unlined, and apart from the bruising she didn't appear much changed from the last time I saw her. But then Sophie had the sort of bone structure that would always age well.

She looked down at her hands. 'I suppose I feel more embarrassed than anything. And confused. I don't know which is worse, the fact that somebody broke into my house and did this to me, or that I can't remember anything about it.'

Short-term memory loss is common enough after a head injury, but that doesn't make it any less distressing. 'You can't remember anything at all? Nothing about who attacked you?'

'I can't even remember being attacked.' Sophie plucked distractedly at her ID bracelet. 'I feel really stupid, but it's like I told the police. I'd just finished showering, I heard a noise from downstairs, and… and that's it. For all I know I could have just slipped and banged my head.'

That might have been more credible if not for the broken front door and ransacked rooms. Whatever had happened to her, it was no accident.

'Your memory might come back in a few days.'

'I don't know if I want it to.' She looked vulnerable lying there in the hospital gown, not at all like the Sophie I remembered. 'The police say I wasn't… that it wasn't a sexual assault. But it's horrible thinking that someone broke in and I can't even remember.'

'Have you any idea who it might have been? Anyone with a grudge?'

'No, not at all. I'm not in a relationship now, and haven't been for… well, long enough. The police seemed to think it was probably a burglar who thought I was out and panicked when he realized I was in the shower.'

That was news to me. 'Have you spoken to Terry Connors?'

The name seemed to surprise her. 'No. Why?'

'He came to see me.' I hesitated, but she'd a right to know. 'He seems to think it might have been Jerome Monk who attacked you.'

'Monk? That's ridiculous!' She frowned as she looked at me. 'There's something else, isn't there?'

'He told me I was a suspect as well. I was the one who found you and since you can't remember anything…'

'You?' Her eyes widened, then she quickly looked away. I felt my stomach dip, wondering if she might believe it herself. But when she spoke again the anger in her voice dispelled it. 'Christ, that's just like him. That's so stupid!'

'I'm glad you think so. Are you OK?' I asked, noticing how pale she'd suddenly become.

'A bit woozy… Look, I know I owe you an explanation, but can it wait? I don't really feel like talking about it right now. I

… I just want to go home.'

'Sure. Don't worry about it.'

'Thanks.' She gave another weak smile, but it quickly faded. 'I think…'

She groped for the kidney-shaped cardboard container on the cabinet next to the bed. I reached it first and handed it to her.

'Do you want me to call a nurse?'

'No, I just keep feeling queasy. They tell me it'll pass.' She put her head back on the pillow, closing her eyes. 'Sorry, I think I need to sleep…'

The kidney dish toppled slowly from her fingers as her voice tailed off. I stood up, careful not to scrape the chair on the floor. Putting the dish back on the cabinet, I turned to leave.

'David…'

Sophie hadn't moved, but her eyes were on me. 'Are you coming back?'

'Of course.'

She gave a slight nod, satisfied. Her eyelids were already starting to droop again, and when she spoke her voice was slurred and barely more than a whisper. 'I didn't mean to…'

'Didn't mean to what?' I asked, not sure if I'd heard right.

But she was already asleep. I watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing, then quietly left the ward. As I made my way down the corridor I thought about what Sophie had said. And what she hadn't.

I wondered what she was hiding.

The clouds and rain had lifted next morning, giving way to clean blue skies and bright sunshine. I'd spent the previous night running things over in my mind while I'd eaten a solitary meal in a half- empty Italian restaurant. Even though I was relieved about Sophie, I'd gone to bed feeling flat and restless, convinced there was something I was missing.

But a night's sleep had lifted my spirits, and the bright autumn day made me feel almost optimistic as I checked out of the hotel and set off for my lunch appointment with Wainwright. There was no real need to see him now Sophie was conscious, but having accepted his wife's invitation for lunch I couldn't cry off at short notice.

No matter how much I might want to.

The archaeologist lived near Sharkham Point, a headland on the southern tip of Torbay. It was less than an hour's drive, so I chose a longer route that took in more of the coast. There were high cliffs, beyond which the sun glinted on the choppy sea. Despite the chill I drove with my window down, enjoying the freshness of the breeze. This was a part of the country I didn't know well, but I liked it. Although it was only twenty miles from Dartmoor it seemed a different world; brighter and less oppressive. I didn't blame Wainwright for living here.

The house was easy enough to find: there weren't many others there. It was set back from the road behind a line of tall, bare lime trees, a pebble-dashed 1920s villa criss-crossed with black beams. A long gravel driveway was overhung by more limes on one side, the other flanked by a long expanse of lawn.

A bright blue Toyota was parked outside the double garage. I parked next to it and went up the steps to the front door. An old brass bell was set in the wall. I pressed it and listened to the distant chime coming from somewhere deep in the house. Here we go. I straightened my shoulders as brisk footsteps sounded from inside.

The woman who opened the door fitted the voice on the phone too perfectly to be anyone other than Wainwright's wife. Less matronly, perhaps, and wearing a soft crew-necked sweater over a woollen skirt rather than the twinset and pearls I'd imagined. But the perfectly coiffed grey hair and careful make-up were as I'd expected, and so was the steel-trap quality to her eyes.

They were crinkled in welcome now, though, and her smile was surprisingly warm. 'You must be David Hunter?'

'That's right.'

'I'm Jean Wainwright. So glad you found us. We're a little off the beaten track here, but that's how we like it.' She moved aside, still smiling. 'Please, do come in.'

I stepped into the house. The hallway had a beautiful parquet floor and wood-panelled walls. A large vase of white chrysanthemums stood on an antique mahogany bureau, their heavy fragrance fighting with the woman's perfume and face powder. Her low heels clipped out a staccato rhythm as she led me along the hall.