The Calling Of The Grave

Simms didn't so much as glance at him as he pulled on overshoes and gloves. 'Not right now, but stay here until Dr Hunter and I have finished.'

Without waiting to see if I was ready, he went inside.

The genteel quietude of the house I remembered had been shattered. White-suited CSIs were packing away equipment, but evidence of what had happened was everywhere. Every surface was finely coated with fingerprint powder, as though the house had been gathering dust for years. Glass from a broken window was scattered on the parquet floor amongst the spilled soil from an overturned potted plant. The house still smelled of chrysanthemums, but beneath it was a faint taint of faeces and drying blood, a lingering essence of violent death.

'The intruder forced open the kitchen door,' Simms told me, skirting a line of muddy footprints that were being photographed by a CSI. 'No attempt at concealment, as you can see. We've also found several patches of sputum, which should enable a DNA analysis.'

'Sputum?'

'It appears the killer spat on the floor.' He was walking down the hallway in front of me, blocking my view. Now he stepped aside, and I saw Leonard Wainwright.

The forensic archaeologist looked pathetic in death. Dressed in pyjamas and an old striped bathrobe, he lay crumpled near the foot of the stairs, amongst the shattered remains of a glass-fronted china cabinet. Blood from where he'd been cut by the broken glass had dried blackly, splashed across the floor. But there wasn't enough of it for him to have bled to death. His face was obscured by a tangle of grey hair, through which the slits of his bloodshot eyes were visible. His head was twisted impossibly far to one side, almost resting on one shoulder. Broken neck, I thought automatically. For no reason I found myself staring at Wainwright's bare feet. They were calloused and yellow, and the ankles that protruded from the pyjama bottoms were an old man's, thin and hairless.

He'd have hated anyone seeing that.

I hadn't expected to find the body still there. I'm no stranger to either crime scenes or violent death, but this was different. Forty- eight hours ago I'd been talking to Wainwright, and the sight of him on the hallway floor caught me unprepared.

A diminutive figure in baggy overalls was kneeling beside his body, humming absently to itself as it took a reading from a thermometer. The tune was perky and familiar: one of Gilbert and Sullivan's, though I couldn't name it. The white-gloved hands were as small as a child's, and although the face was all but obscured by a hood and mask, I recognized the gold half-moon glasses straight away.

'Nearly done,' Pirie said without looking up.

I was surprised to see him. I'd have thought the pathologist would have retired by now. 'You remember Dr Hunter, George?' Simms asked.

The pathologist raised his head. The eyebrows bushed above the glasses like grey spider legs, but his gaze was as bright and intelligent as ever.

'Indeed I do. A pleasure as always, Dr Hunter. Although I wouldn't have thought your skills were needed in this instance.'

'He isn't here in an official capacity,' Simms told him.

'Ah. Nevertheless, if you'd care to lend a hand you'd be very welcome. I recall you extended the same courtesy to me. I'd be happy to return the favour.'

'Perhaps another time.' I appreciated the offer, but post-mortems weren't my field. 'I'd have thought the body would've been taken to the mortuary by now.'

Simms s face was impassive as he stared down at the body of his friend. 'We had to wait for Dr Pirie to finish another job. I wanted someone I knew working on this.'

'What about his wife? I asked. There was no sign of Jean Wainwright, and the news report had only mentioned a single death.

'She's been hospitalized. Hopefully only from shock, but she wasn't well herself, even before this.'

'So she wasn't actually hurt?'

'Not beyond witnessing her husband's murder. Their cleaner found them both this morning when she let herself in. Jean was in a. .. confused state. She hasn't been able to tell us much so far, but I'm hoping she'll be able to answer questions later.'

'So she hasn't said who did it?'

'Not as yet.'

But I didn't think there was much doubt. First Sophie, now Wainwright. Perhaps Terry was right after all…

'Have you found anything?' I asked Pirie.

The pathologist considered, the thermometer held aloft like a conductor's baton. 'First impressions only. Rigor and livor mortis suggest he's been dead for between eight to twelve hours, as does the body temperature. That puts the time of death between one and five o'clock this morning. As I'm sure you can see for yourself, his neck has been broken, which at this stage seems the most probable cause of death.'

'It would take a lot of force to do that,' I said, thinking how Monk had killed the police dog on the moor eight years ago.

'Oh, undoubtedly. For anyone to break a grown man's neck deliberately would have taken a huge degree of strength-'

'Thank you, George, we won't disturb you any longer,' Simms said. 'Please keep me informed.'

'Of course.' Pirie's expression was hidden by the mask. 'Goodbye, Dr Hunter. And should you change your mind my offer still stands.'

I thanked him, but Simms was already heading back down the hallway. As soon as we were outside he began stripping off his overalls, his dark uniform emerging from them like an insect from a chrysalis.

'Are there any other witnesses apart from Jean Wainwright?' I asked, unfastening my own.

'Unfortunately not. But I'm hopeful she'll be able to provide us with a detailed account before much longer.'

'It looks like Monk, though, doesn't it?'

Simms snapped off his surgical gloves and dropped them into a large plastic bin already half full of other discarded forensic gear. 'That remains to be seen. And I'd thank you not to speculate at this stage.'

'But you heard what Pirie said about the killer's strength. And spitting on the floor sounds like a sign of contempt. Who else could it be?'

'I don't know, but at the moment there's no firm evidence to suggest that Jerome Monk had anything to do with it.' Simms spoke with controlled anger. 'Hopefully Jean Wainwright will be able to tell us what happened. Until then I will not have needless scaremongering. The last thing I need is for the press to start running with unfounded rumours.'

'Hardly unfounded. It's a matter of record that Wainwright headed the search team. The press are bound to make the connection before long.'

'By which time Monk will hopefully be back in custody So until then, or we have evidence to the contrary, I'll continue to treat this as I would any other murder investigation.'

I understood then. For someone as PR-conscious as Simms it was bad enough that Monk had escaped. The last thing he wanted was for stories to circulate that the escaped killer was on some sort of vendetta. That was exactly the sort of publicity an ambitious ACC could do without.

'Jean Wainwright called me two days ago,' Simms said. 'She told me you'd been here, and that Leonard had become very agitated. Care to tell me what that was about?'

I suppose I should have expected Wainwright's wife to tell him about my visit. 'I wanted to talk to him about Monk. I didn't know about his condition. If I had-'

'Jerome Monk doesn't concern you, Dr Hunter. And now you've put me in the embarrassing position of having to ask where you were this morning between one and five o'clock?'

But I'd been waiting for that. 'I was in bed at Sophie Keller's house. And no, she can't vouch for me. As for Jerome Monk, you can't seriously think I'm not going to ask questions after what happened yesterday.'

'What are you talking about?'

'When Monk came after us on the moor.' Simms was looking at me as though I were mad. I tugged the gloves from my hands and threw them into the bin. 'Oh, come on, Terry Connors must have told you!'