The Calling Of The Grave

He frowned. 'Do you know, I've been racking my brains trying to remember. My memory's not what it was. I think it was at some forensic conference. We were talking about the new generation making their mark on the field. Your name was mentioned.'

I was surprised that Wainwright would admit even having heard of me. Despite myself I was flattered.

'Quite a leap, anthropology from medicine,' he went on, busily scraping the soil from around an elbow. 'I gather you trained in the US? That research facility in Tennessee, wasn't it? The one that specializes in decomposition.'

'The Anthropological Research Facility. I spent a year there.'

It had been before I'd met Kara, after I'd switched careers and exchanged working with the living for the dead. I waited for the put-down. It didn't come. 'Sounds like quite a place. Although probably not for me. I have to confess I'm not a great fan of Calliphoridae. Disgusting things.'

'I'm not a big fan myself, but they have their uses.' Calliphoridae was the family classification for the blowfly, whose life cycle provided an effective clock for charting decomposition. Wainwright was obviously keen on Latin names.

'I expect they do. Though not in this instance, sadly. Far too cold.' He pointed with his trowel at the remains. 'So, what do you make of it?'

'I'll have a better idea once the body's at the mortuary.'

'Of course. But I'm sure you've already drawn some conclusions.'

I could see the mouth smile under the face mask. I was reluctant to commit myself, knowing how easily things could change once the remains were cleaned. But Wainwright was nothing like the ogre I'd been expecting, and it was just the two of us there. Given his past antipathy to forensic anthropology, it wouldn't hurt to let him know he wasn't the only expert there.

I sat back on my heels to consider what we'd uncovered.

Feat is a unique substance. Formed from partially decayed plant, animal and insect remains, it's an environment that's inimical to most of the bacteria and insects that usually populate the earth beneath our feet. Low in oxygen and almost as acidic as vinegar, it can effectively pickle organic matter, tanning it like specimens in a lab jar. Whole mammoth tusks have been found in peat bogs, while human corpses buried hundreds of years before can emerge uncannily intact.

The body of one man discovered in the village of Tollund, Denmark in the 1950s was so well preserved that at first it was thought he was a recent murder victim. Given the rope tied around his neck he probably had been murdered, though if so it was over two thousand years before.

But the same properties that make peat an archaeological gold mine can also make it a forensic nightmare. Determining an accurate time-since-death interval is difficult at the best of times: without the natural markers supplied by decomposition it can be all but impossible.

In this instance, though, I doubted it would be such a problem. About half of the body was now exposed. It was lying more or less on one side, knees roughly pulled up, upper body curled in a crumpled foetal position. Both the thin top that clung to the torso, through which the outline of a bra could be seen, and the short skirt were synthetic, and contemporary in style. And while I couldn't claim to be an expert, the high-heeled shoe on the now exposed right foot looked to me like a relatively new fashion.

The entire body – hair, skin and clothes – was caked in viscous black peat. Even so, nothing could disguise the horrific damage that had been inflicted. The outlines of broken ribs were clearly visible beneath the muddy fabric, and jagged bones poked through the flesh of the arms and lower legs. Beneath the clinging mat of hair, the skull was crushed and misshapen, the cheeks and nose caved in.

'Not much yet, apart from the obvious,' I said, cautiously.

'Which is?'

I shrugged. 'Female, although I suppose there's an outside chance it could be a transsexual.'

Wainwright made a scoffing noise. 'God help us. In my day that would never have been an issue. When did things get so complicated? Go on.'

I was beginning to warm to my theme. 'It's difficult to say yet how long the body's been buried. There's some decomposition, but that's probably explained by how close it was to the surface.'

Proximity to the air would allow aerobic bacteria to break down the soft tissues even in a peat grave, albeit at a slower rate. Wainwright nodded agreement. 'So the right timeframe to be one of Monk's victims? Less than two years, say?'

'It could be, yes,' I conceded. 'But I'm not going to speculate just yet.'

'No, of course. And the injuries?'

'Too soon to say if they're ante- or post-mortem, but she was obviously badly beaten. Possibly with some kind of weapon. Hard to imagine anyone breaking bones like that with their bare hands.'

'Not even Jerome Monk?' Behind his mask Wainwright grinned at my discomfort. 'Come on, David, admit it. This does look like one of his.'

'I'll have a better idea once the body's been cleaned and I can see the skeleton.'

'You're a cautious man: I like that. But she's the right sort of age, you can see that just from the clothes. No one over twenty-one would dare wear a skirt that short.'

'I don't think-'

He gave a bass chuckle. 'I know, I know, that isn't very politically correct. But unless this is a case of mutton – or even ram – dressed as lamb, then we've got a teenage girl, young woman or whatever, who's been savagely beaten and buried in Jerome Monk's back yard. You know what they say, if it looks like a fish and smells like a fish…'

His manner grated, but he was only saying what I'd thought myself. 'It's possible.'

'Ah, a palpable hit! I'd say probable myself, but still. Which leaves the question of which one of Monk's unfortunate paramours this might be. One of the Bennett twins or the Williams girl?'

'The clothes might tell us that.'

'True, but this is more your province than mine. And I suspect you already have an inkling.' He chuckled. 'Don't worry, you're not on the witness stand. Humour me.'

He was a hard man to refuse. 'I'd only be guessing at this stage, but…'

'Yes?'

'Well, the Bennett sisters were both quite tall.' I'd learned that from my hurried research after Simms had called: Zoe and Lindsey had the willowy grace of catwalk models. 'Whoever this is, she's more petite. It's hard to get an accurate impression of height with the body curled like this, but you can get enough of an idea of the femur's length to make a pretty good guess. I don't think whoever this was could have been more than five foot three or four at the most.'

Even when it was fully cleaned of soft tissue, which wasn't the case here, the thigh bone was only a rough indicator of stature. But I'd developed a reasonable eye for such things, and even with the remains contorted and caked in mud I was reasonably sure they wouldn't have been tall enough to be one of the Bennett sisters.

Wainwright's forehead creased as he stared down at the uppermost leg. 'Blast. Should have seen that myself.'

'It's just a guess. And as you say, it's more my area than yours.'

He shot me a look that held none of the joviality of a moment ago. Then his eyes crinkled. He gave a booming laugh.

'Yes, you're quite right. So, the odds are that this is Tina Williams. Good.' He clapped his hands together before I could say anything. 'Anyway, first things first. Let's finish digging her out, shall we?'

Picking up his trowel he set back to work, leaving me with the obscure feeling that the conversation had somehow been my idea.

We didn't speak much after that, but we made good progress. The only interruptions came when a SOCO arrived to sift through the peat from the grave. Except for a few more rabbit bones, though, it held little of interest.

It was dark outside the tent by the time the body was ready to be removed. It lay at the bottom of the muddy pit, filthy and pathetic. Simms had returned as we were finishing, accompanied by the pathologist, who he introduced as Dr Pirie.