The Calling Of The Grave

'Leonard's in the study. He's been looking forward to seeing you.'

That was so unlikely I felt suddenly certain I'd made a mistake. Could this be some other Leonard Wainwright after all? Too late now. His wife opened a door at the end of the hallway and ushered me in.

After the darkly panelled hallway, the room was dazzlingly bright. Sunlight flooded in through the huge bay window that ran almost its entire length. Bookcases lined the walls, and a handsome, leather- topped desk stood at one side, bare except for another vase of chrysanthemums.

Their scent filled the room, but it was the view that commanded attention. The window faced out over a lawn that ran down to a cliff edge, beyond which was nothing but sea. It stretched out to the horizon, so that the effect was almost like standing on the prow of a ship. It was so breathtaking that I was slow to take in anything else. Then Wainwright s wife spoke.

'Leonard, David Hunter's here. He's an old colleague of yours. You remember him, don't you?'

She'd gone to stand by a wing-backed leather armchair. I hadn't realized anyone was sitting there. It was facing the view, and I waited for Wainwright to get up. When he didn't, I moved further into the room until I could see past the winged sides of the chair.

I wouldn't have recognized him.

The giant of memory no longer existed. Wainwright sat hunched in the chair, staring blankly out at the sea. He seemed to have physically shrunk in on himself, flesh and muscle wasting away. The patrician features were barely recognizable, cheeks caved in and eyes sunken in their sockets, while the once thick mane of hair was thin and grey.

Wainwright s wife had turned to me expectantly. The bright smile on her face now seemed as fragile and transparent as the window itself. I'd stopped dead, shocked, but now I forced a smile of my own as I went forward.

'Hello, Leonard.'

It was the first time I'd called him by his first name, but anything else would have seemed wrong. I didn't bother to offer my hand: I knew there'd be no point.

'Dr Hunter's come for lunch, dear,' his wife said. 'Won't that be nice? The two of you can talk about old times.'

As though finally becoming aware of my presence, the big head turned ponderously in my direction. The fogged eyes looked at me. Wainwright s mouth worked, and for a second I thought he might speak. Then the moment passed, and he turned to gaze back out at the sea again.

'Can I get you a cup of tea, Dr Hunter?' his wife said. 'Lunch will be another twenty minutes.'

My smile felt glued in place. 'Tea would be nice. Can I give you a hand?'

'That's very kind, thank you. We won't be long, Leonard,' she added, patting her husband's hand.

There was no response. With a last glance at the figure in the chair, I followed her back into the hall.

'I'm sorry, I should have warned you,' she said, closing the door. 'I assumed when you rang that you knew about Leonard's condition.'

'I'd no idea,' I said. 'What is it? Alzheimer's?'

'They don't seem entirely sure. I never realized there were so many different types of dementia, but then I suppose one wouldn't. Leonard's developed very quickly, as these things go. The last two years have been… quite hard.'

I could imagine. 'I'm sorry.'

'Oh, these things happen.' She spoke with a breezy matter-of-factness. 'I thought seeing a familiar face might help. Our daughters don't live nearby, and we don't get many visitors. He's usually better early on in the day. That's why I suggested you come for lunch. Leonard tends to go sundowning after that. Are you familiar with the term?'

I said I was. As a GP I'd seen how some dementia patients would grow more confused or agitated as the day wore on. No one was entirely sure why.

'Such a lovely phrase for such a cruel thing, I always think,' his wife continued. 'Puts one in mind of cocktails on a summer evening.'

Suddenly I felt like a fraud. 'Look, Mrs Wainwright-'

'Please, call me Jean.'

'Jean.' I took a deep breath. 'Your husband and I… Well, to be honest, I'm not sure how pleased he'll be to see me.'

She smiled. 'Yes, Leonard could be quite prickly. But I'm sure he'll be glad of the company. Especially when you've come all this way.'

'The thing is, this wasn't just a social call. I was hoping to talk to him about the investigation we worked on.'

'Then please do. He can be quite lucid sometimes, especially about things that happened in the past.' She opened the study door again before I could protest. 'Now, you two can talk while I get lunch ready.'

There was no way I could refuse. I gave a weak smile and went back inside. The door closed behind me, leaving me alone with Wainwright. God. The change in him was shocking. I couldn't help but think about how he'd presented my initial findings at Tina Williams' grave as his own. At the time I thought it was shameless rivalry, but now I wasn't so sure. Perhaps he'd felt the first cracks in his intellect even then and had been trying to hide them.

He gave no sign of being aware of me. He sat in the armchair, gazing out of the window at the sea. I wondered if he even knew what he was looking at.

You're here now. Make the best of it. I moved the chair from the desk until I could see him and sat down, searching for something to say. The point of my visit had vanished along with Wainwright's damaged mind, but I couldn't just sit there. There had been no love lost between us, but I wouldn't have wished this on anyone.

'Hello again, Leonard. I'm David Hunter. We worked together once, on Dartmoor.'

There was no response. I ploughed on.

'It was the Jerome Monk case. Detective Chief Superintendent Simms was SIO. Do you remember?'

Nothing. Wainwright continued to stare at the sea, the heavy features betraying no indication that he'd heard. I sighed, looking out of the window myself. The view was spectacular. Gulls wheeled against the cold blue sky, specks above the marching blue-green waves. Whatever the weather, whatever else happened, they would always be there. The archaeologist's deterioration was pitiable, but there were worse places to end one's days.

'I know you.'

I looked up in surprise. The big head had turned towards me. Wainwright s eyes were fixed on mine.

'Yes, you do,' I said. 'David Hunter. I'm a-'

'Calliph… Calli… maggots.' The voice was the same bass rumble I remembered, although more hoarse now, as though unused.

'Maggots,' I agreed.

'Rot.'

I had to smile. I supposed 'rot' could have referred to the blowfly larvae's habitat, but I doubted it. Dementia or not, some things hadn't changed.

His eyes were flicking around now, as though something inside him had started to wake. The broad forehead creased in concentration.

'Roadkill…'

I just nodded, not having a clue what he meant. His mind had obviously started to wander. He glared across at me and thumped his hand down on the chair arm.

'No! Listen!'

He'd started feebly trying to heave himself up from the chair. I hurried over. 'It's OK, Leonard, calm down.'

His arms felt thin as sticks as he struggled to get up, and a sour smell of wasting came from him. But his grip was still vicelike as he seized my wrist.

'Roadkill!' he hissed, spraying spittle into my face. 'Roadkill!'

The study door was flung open and his wife hurried in. 'Now come along, Leonard, let's not have any nonsense.'

'Bloody woman!'

'Come on, Leonard, behave yourself.' She gently but firmly eased him back into his seat. 'What happened? Did you say something to upset him?'

'No, I was just-'

'Well, something must have set him off. He isn't normally this agitated.' She looked over at me, smoothing her husband's hair as he began to subside. Her manner was still polite but now there was no mistaking the frost. 'I'm sorry, Dr Hunter, but I think you'd better go.'