The Calling Of The Grave

'What?' she asked, smiling.

The harsh ring of the phone brought me round like ice-water. Damn. I'd been hoping to tell Sophie about the anonymous call before Roper or Naysmith phoned.

'That might be for me,' I said quickly, but she'd already answered it.

'Yes… Oh.' She made a moue of distaste and mouthed Roper. 'Yes, he is. Just a second.'

She gave me a questioning look as she passed me the handset. I was uncomfortably aware of her standing there as I told Roper about the phone call.

'What makes you think it was Monk?' he asked.

'The fact he didn't speak, for one thing. People normally apologize if they call the wrong number, and…' I stopped, glancing at Sophie.

'And?' Roper prompted.

Oh, hell. I could feel Sophie's eyes boring into me. 'It was only an impression, but I thought he was… surprised. As though I wasn't who he'd expected.'

'All this from a silent phone call?' I could hear his scepticism. But I'd had a lot of time to think it through while I'd been waiting for daylight. 'How do you even know it was a man on the other end?'

'The breathing was too deep to be a woman's. And I could hear him wheezing, as though he were out of breath or asthmatic.'

'Heavy breathing, eh? You sure this wasn't just a dirty phone call?'

My hand had tightened on the receiver. 'Monk was having a suspected heart attack when he escaped. Perhaps he wasn't faking being ill.'

I couldn't believe even Monk could have escaped if the attack had been genuine, but something must have convinced the prison doctors. An odd noise came down the line as Roper considered: he was tapping his teeth with a pen.

'Can't hurt to check the number, I suppose,' he said. 'Tell you what, I'll call round and take your statement myself.'

'Don't go to any trouble,' I said, my stomach sinking.

Roper gave his nasal chuckle. 'Oh, it's no trouble, Dr Hunter. I'm in the area. And the ACC wants me to keep an eye on you and Miss Keller.'

Which could be taken two ways, I thought as I hung up. Sophie was glaring at me, hands balled on her hips.

'Monk rang here? And you didn't say anything?'

'It was the middle of the night. I didn't want to disturb you.'

'Don't you think I might have liked to know about it?'

I was on a short fuse myself. 'Fine! If he rings again I'll ask him to wait while I come and get you!'

'You know what I mean! This is my house, I don't need protecting!'

'I wasn't-' But I stopped myself: there was no point in arguing. 'Look, I'm sorry. I was about to tell you when Roper called. And I'm only guessing that it was Monk.'

'God.' She pushed her hands through her hair, troubled. 'Could it have been Terry Connors?'

'I don't think so. If it was Terry why didn't he say something?'

'Why does he do anything?' she said dully, rubbing her temple. She made an attempt to smile. 'Terry Connors or Jerome Monk. Talk about spoiled for choice.'

'There's more good news. Roper's calling round later.'

Sophie stared at me, then burst out laughing. 'Right, just for that you get to make breakfast.'

It was late morning by the time Roper arrived. We were in the kiln, Sophie having decided she needed to work. 'I haven't done anything for days. I'm supposed to have an order for a restaurant finished by the end of the month.'

I watched as Sophie started the potter's wheel. She wore a pair of men's work overalls, faded and streaked with clay. Her hands were strong and dexterous as she worked on the wheel, manipulating the clay so easily it seemed to form shapes of its own volition.

'Do you want to try it?' she asked.

'No thanks.'

'Coward.'

She trimmed the loose edges from the rim of the plate she'd just thrown and slapped them on to the big clay ball on the workbench.

'What's that?' I asked.

'This?' She gave an embarrassed laugh, smoothing in the lump of clay she'd just added with her thumb. 'Nothing. Just a bad habit. I used to throw all the waste into a bin, but then I got lazy. And it sort of grew. I quite like it, though. It isn't trying to be anything, and it's always changing. Plus it's therapeutic.'

She gave it a hard slap, then wiped her hands on a cloth she'd hung from the end of a scaffolding pole.

'Now, I need to get on.'

I took the hint and left her to it, going back out into the garden. A thin haze of mist and drizzle hung in the air. I cut across the wet grass to the small orchard. The trees were gnarled and ancient, probably as old as the house itself. One or two wizened fruit still hung like forgotten Christmas ornaments from the bare branches, unpicked and forlorn. The grass underneath was dappled with windfall apples, sweetening the air with the cider scent of their rot.

The distant drone of a car engine broke the stillness. I waited for it to appear as it slowly grew louder, the sound deceptive in the mist. A flash of grey appeared through the hedgerows higher up the lane, and then the car was pulling up at the bottom of the garden.

Roper climbed out, squeezing out from behind the seat with a grunt. 'Thought I was never going to get here,' he grumbled, pushing open the gate. 'Not an easy place to find, is it?'

'I thought you were in the area?'

He bared his teeth in a grin, but his eyes were taking in the house and surroundings. 'Relatively speaking, Dr Hunter. Where's Miss Keller? Or should I say Trask these days?'

I ignored the jibe. 'In the kiln.'

He looked doubtfully at the rusting scaffold protruding from the old brickwork. 'Is it safe?'

'So long as you don't sneeze.'

We started towards the entrance, but Sophie came out before we reached it, wiping her hands on the cloth.

'Afternoon, Miss Keller,' Roper said, looking beyond her into the kiln. 'Interesting workplace you've got here.'

She pulled the ill-fitting door shut behind her, cutting off his view. 'I'm busy at the moment. Is it just David you need to talk to?'

'Actually, it was both of you.' Roper's grin flickered out. 'There's been a bit of a development.'

The visit wasn't just about the phone call, I realized. 'What's happened?'

The DI looked uncomfortable. 'Wainwright's wife gave us a description of the man who killed her husband. It was Monk.'

'I'm not going!'

Sophie stood in the kitchen, arms folded in front of her like a barred gate. She was still wearing her work overalls, three empty mugs next to her waiting for water from the cooling kettle. I didn't think they were going to be filled any time soon, but right now that was the least of anyone's problems.

Roper wore the dogged expression of a man at the end of his tether. 'It'll only be for a few days. You can come back as soon as Monk's in custody.'

'Last time it took you three months to catch him,' Sophie retorted. 'If you think I'm going to put my life on hold until then you can forget it.'

Roper looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her himself. For once I couldn't altogether blame him. Jean Wainwright had recovered from shock enough to relate what had happened. She'd been woken in the middle of the night by a commotion inside the house. She and her husband slept in separate rooms, the sort of personal detail I imagined she would hate to reveal. Thinking he was wandering – something that many dementia sufferers were prone to do – she'd thrown on a dressing gown and hurried on to the landing. She'd turned on the light to find Wainwright lying at the foot of the stairs, in the wreckage of the china cabinet.

Standing over him was Monk.

She'd passed out, and had still been only semi-conscious when the cleaner arrived. Preliminary forensic tests had confirmed her story. Monk's fingerprints were all over the house, and DNA from the sputum found on the floor had also matched the convicts. It was hard to see that as anything other than a clear statement of contempt. Monk had made no attempt to cover his tracks.