The Calling Of The Grave

'Really, it isn't-'

'You'd be doing me a favour.' She gave me a nervous smile. 'Besides, you promised Maria.'

She was trying hard, but I could see the cracks in her composure.

After what she'd been through I didn't blame her for being rattled. 'OK, if you're sure.'

Some of the tension went out of her. 'Are you hungry? I don't have much in but I can rustle something up.'

Whatever was on Sophie's mind, she obviously wasn't ready to talk about it yet. It was best to let her get to it in her own time, though. Besides, I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

I smiled. 'Starving.'

Despite her protests, I made her sit down while I prepared something to eat. She wasn't exaggerating when she'd said there wasn't much in, but I found Cheddar and eggs that I beat into an omelette. There was an old electric range in the kitchen, and while the eggs sizzled in the pan I toasted slices from a stale loaf and slathered them in butter.

'God, that smells delicious,' Sophie said.

But she only picked at her food. The tension edged up between us again as we ate, and it was a relief when we'd finished.

'Let's go into the sitting room,' she said. 'We can talk better in there.'

It was a comfortable room: two big old sofas covered with throws, soft rugs on the polished floorboards and a woodburning stove. I didn't argue when Sophie insisted on lighting it herself, recognizing it as another delaying tactic.

When it was lit she sat on the other sofa, so that we faced each other across a low coffee table. The flames flickered in the stove, filling the room with a smoky scent of burning pine. It was cosier and more relaxed than the brightly lit kitchen. Sophie and I had never been alone together like this before, and I realized how little we really knew about each other. Sitting with her in the firelight felt strangely intimate.

'Do you want a brandy or something?' she asked.

'I'm fine, thanks.'

She cleared her throat. 'Look, I've been meaning to say… I heard about your family. I'm so sorry.'

I just nodded. The wood crackled in the stove. Sophie gave a nervous smile, plucking at her fingers.

'I don't know where to start.'

'How about how you ended up here? Making pottery's a long way from being a BIA.'

She smiled self-consciously. 'Yeah, just a bit. I'd had enough, I suppose. Seeing only the dark side of life, all that pain. And the failures. After the Monk fiasco I lost a lot of my confidence, started second-guessing everything I did. It got to the point where I hated getting up in the morning. So I got out before I burned out.'

Sophie looked around the room as if taking it in for the first time.

'I've been here four… no, five years now. God! Pottery used to be a hobby, so when I saw this place for sale I thought why not? I'd always liked Dartmoor and I wanted a fresh start, something completely different. Can you understand that?'

I could. Probably better than she realized.

'The first thing I did was burn all my notes,' she went on. 'Everything. Every case I'd ever worked on. All of it went on to the bonfire. Except one.'

'Jerome Monk's,' I said.

She nodded. 'I don't know why I didn't get rid of that as well. Perhaps coming out here, not so far from where it all happened. ..' She clasped her hands in her lap, so tightly her knuckles were white. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the muted crackle of fire from the stove. 'Do you ever think about it?'

'Not until Monk escaped.'

'I think about it a lot.' Sophie stared down at her clenched hands. 'We had a golden opportunity to find where Lindsey and Zoe Bennett were buried, and we threw it away.'

I sighed. 'I'm not going to pretend it was a high point for any of us, but sometimes that's how it goes. We did our best. What happened back then wasn't anyone's fault.'

She quickly shook her head, her face shadowed. 'We should have done more. I should have done more.'

'Monk had his own agenda for being there, and it didn't have anything to do with taking us to the graves. He only wanted a chance to escape.' And almost managed it.

'But that's the thing, I don't think he did.' She waved away my objection before I could make it. 'All right, yes, escaping was part of it. Probably a big part. But I don't think that was the only reason he agreed to help. The way he reacted when he saw Tina Williams' grave, I don't think he was putting that on. I'm certain he was genuinely trying to remember.'

She was looking at me earnestly, willing me to believe her. I chose my words carefully. 'Jerome Monk knew that moor better than anyone. He'd managed to hide out on it for months without being caught. If he'd wanted to he could have taken us right to the other graves.'

'Not necessarily. I said back then that finding them wouldn't be straightforward, not after a year, and especially not if he'd buried them at night. And people blank things from their minds without meaning to. Painful memories sometimes, or when their brain has too much to process and just overloads.'

'That might apply to an ordinary man who flipped and lost his temper, but you're talking about Jerome Monk. He's a sociopathic serial killer, a predator. He doesn't have a conscience.'

'On some level he might,' she persisted. 'I'm not defending him or what he did. He's violent and unpredictable, but that doesn't mean he can't be reached. That's why I-'

She broke off, looking down at her hands. An owl hooted outside. 'That's why you what?' I asked.

'That's… why I've been writing to him.'

'You've been writing to Monk?

Her chin came up, defiantly. 'Ever since I came here. I write to him once a year, on the anniversary of Angela Carson's murder. We can't say for sure when he killed any of his other victims, so I thought… Anyway, once a year I write and urge him to say where the graves are. And I offer to help him.'

I stared at her, aghast. 'Sophie, for God's sake!'

'He's never responded, but all I need is a landmark, some clue of whereabouts they are! And if he needs help remembering, he might be more likely to turn to someone who isn't connected to the police. What harm can it do?'

Christ. I rubbed my eyes. 'Did you put your address on the letters?'

'Well, I…' Her fingers clenched and fretted at each other. She gave a guilty nod. 'I didn't know how else could he write back.'

'Do the police know?'

'The police? No, I… Well, I didn't think there was much point.'

'Not much point? Sophie, you get attacked the day after a rapist and murderer escapes from prison, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning you'd been writing to him?'

'I was embarrassed, all right?' she flared. 'And yes, I know how stupid it makes me look, but at least I've tried to do something! Every time I see the moor I think that there are still two dead girls – two sisters – buried out there somewhere. And no one's doing anything about it. How do you think that makes their family feel? I know how it makes me feel, knowing we could have done something about it and didn't!'

There was a tremor of emotion in her voice. I reminded myself she'd been through a lot. This couldn't be easy for her.

'You have to tell the police,' I said gently. 'I can call Terry Connors and-'

'No!'

'Sophie, you don't have any choice. You know that.'

I thought she was going to argue, but the defiance seemed to drain out of her. She stared at the fire flickering in the stove.

'I'll tell the police, but on one condition. I called you to ask for a favour. That still hasn't changed.'

With everything else that had happened I'd almost forgotten why she'd asked to see me in the first place. 'What is it?'

She lifted her head. The flames from the stove tiger-striped her face, masking it in light and shadow

'I want you to help me find the graves.'