Most obvious of all, though, was the broken bone that Wainwright had exposed. It was a comminuted fracture, a fragmented break typically caused by deliberate or accidental violence. A fall, say, or being hit by a car. An animal that had died in its burrow had no business with an injury like that.
There was no way of knowing when Wainwright had realized. It was possible he'd known for years, and elected to keep quiet to protect his reputation. But dementia sufferers often live more in the past than the present. Perhaps the knowledge was waiting in his subconscious, trapped there until it was brought to the surface by some random misfire of failing synapses.
I should have realized myself. And on some level I had. Even back then, when the search reached its violent denouement, I'd felt the familiar itch that told me I was overlooking something. But I'd let it go. I'd been so sure of myself, so confident in my abilities, that I hadn't thought to second-guess my findings. I'd seen only the obvious, blithely putting the Monk case from my mind as I got on with my life.
And for years I hadn't thought about it at all.
We found Zoe and Lindsey Bennett only a little deeper than the badger carcass. Whether from sentiment or convenience, he'd buried the sisters in the same grave. The pressure of earth had contorted their limbs, so it looked as though they were embracing each other, but the peat had still worked its arcane magic. Both bodies were remarkably preserved, the skin and muscles uncorrupted, the hair still plastered thickly to their heads.
Unlike Tina Williams, they had no visible injuries.
'Wonder why he didn't inflict the same sort of damage on them?' Lucas asked, looking at the undamaged, peat-stained flesh. 'A mark of respect, you think?'
I doubted respect had anything to do with it. Terry hadn't beaten Tina Williams out of contempt for her, but for himself. It had just taken that long for him to see what he'd become.
The police found Zoe Bennett's diary in his car, wrapped in a clay-coated plastic bag. He'd sold the bright yellow Mitsubishi years ago, but even the minor mystery of the white car seen when both Lindsey Bennett and Tina Williams had disappeared was now explained: at night, especially on monochrome CCTV footage, it was almost impossible to distinguish yellow from white. From what Naysmith told me, the diary contained nothing very incriminating, beyond the simple fact of Terry's name. It showed the seventeen- year-old wasn't as worldly as she'd tried to pretend, thrilled at having a police detective as a lover. Terry would have been flattered by some of what she said.
Perhaps that was why he'd kept it.
'It isn't right, what Simms is doing,' Lucas said, as we left the CSIs to complete their work and headed back to the cars. 'Makes me glad I'm retiring. You should be given credit, not treated like you've done something wrong.'
'It doesn't matter,' I said.
The search advisor gave me a sideways look, but said nothing. With no one left alive to corroborate my story, Simms was doing his best to discredit my account of what had happened. Not only had he built his reputation on wrongly convicting Monk, but now it emerged that he'd entrusted the real killer with responsibility for searching for the missing victims. The press were clamouring for blood, and for probably the first time in his life Simms was reluctant to appear in front of TV cameras. With his career at stake he'd even suggested that I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress after my recent experiences, and was therefore an unreliable witness. So far none of the mud he'd thrown had stuck, but it was clear I'd outstayed my welcome. He'd seen to it that I'd been shut out of the investigation, and it was only as a courtesy from Naysmith that I'd been allowed to accompany them on the moor that morning.
But I was long past caring about Simms. I'd just arrived back at the hotel when my phone rang. The woman's voice at the other end was instantly recognizable.
'It's Marie Eliot, Sophie's sister.' She sounded tired.
I tensed, my hand gripping the phone. 'Yes?'
'She's awake. She's asking to see you.'
Even though I'd known what to expect, Sophie's condition was a shock. The thick mane of hair had been shaved off, replaced by a white dressing. She looked thin and pale, and her arms where the tubes fed in and out were emaciated and wasted.
'Bet I look a mess…'
Her voice was a whisper. I shook my head. 'You're OK, that's the main thing.'
'David, I…' She took hold of my hand. 'I'd have died if not for you.'
'You didn't.'
Her eyes filled with tears. 'I know about Terry. Naysmith told me. I – I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything. About the diary. I need to explain…'
'Not now. We can talk later.'
She gave a faint smile. 'At least we got Zoe and Lindsey back
… I was right after all.'
Her eyes were already closing. I waited till her breathing showed she was asleep, then gently disengaged my hand. Sophie looked peaceful, the stress of the past week smoothed from her features. I sat beside the bed for a while, watching her.
Thinking.
It was still unclear whether she'd face charges for withholding Zoe Bennett's diary. Although she'd kept its existence from the police, even by Terry's admission it hadn't come into her possession until after Monk was convicted of – and had confessed to – the murders. There was nothing in the diary to undermine that, so technically it could be argued it wasn't even evidence at that point. She would have to answer some awkward questions, but from what Naysmith had told me it was unlikely she'd be prosecuted.
It wasn't as if she'd actually committed a crime.
She regained her strength quickly. The doctors expected her to make a full recovery, with no long-term impairment. After what she'd been through, they said she'd been incredibly lucky.
I agreed. Even so, I waited until I felt she was well enough to have the conversation I'd been putting off. My footsteps rang on the hospital floor as I followed the corridor to Sophie's room. It seemed a long walk. A nurse was in there with her, one of the regulars I'd seen before. They were both laughing as I went in. The nurse gave Sophie a dimpled grin, making me wonder what they'd been talking about.
'I'll leave you two to it,' she said, going out.
Sophie sat up, smiling. The dressings were off her skull and her hair was already growing out to an auburn stubble, blunting the sutured, horseshoe-shaped scar. She was starting to look more like her old self. Like the person I remembered from eight years ago. It was as though a weight had been lifted from her.
'Marie's spoken to the insurers,' Sophie said. 'They've agreed to pay out for all the stock and equipment I lost when the kiln collapsed. We're still haggling about the building itself but I'll get more than enough to set up again. That's great, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I said. I'd only been back out to the house once, to collect my car. The sight of the ruined kiln, the bricks now pulled from it and scattered over the garden by the rescue teams, had been depressing. I'd been glad to leave.
Sophie's smile faded. 'What's wrong?'
'There's something I need to ask you.'
'Oh, yes?' She tilted her head quizzically. 'Go on.'
'You knew Terry killed them, didn't you?'
I watched the swift play of emotions on her face. 'What? I don't understand…'
'You knew he'd murdered Zoe and Lindsey Bennett, and probably Tina Williams. I just can't make up my mind if you stayed quiet to protect him, or because you were scared what he'd do to you.'
She drew back slightly as she stared at me. 'That's an awful thing to say!'
'I'm not saying you had any proof. But you knew, all the same.'
'Of course I didn't!' Patches of colour had flushed her cheeks. 'You really think I'd have kept quiet if I'd known Terry was a murderer? How can you even think something like that?'