Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

'Look-'

'You even tried to make her think I'd been seeing somebody else. Why the hell would you do that?'

I thought something that could have been either guilt or regret showed in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

He hitched a shoulder in a shrug. 'Why not?'

'And that's it?'

'What do you want me to say? Kara's a good-looker. You should be flattered.'

His grin was mocking. Easy. Don't let him bait you. This was comfortable territory for him. If I lost control he could wipe the floor with me and still have a pub full of friendly witnesses to vouch that I'd started it. I didn't know what I'd done to him, but I no longer cared. And realizing that I also realized something else.

'Things not going so well, Terry?'

His eyes narrowed. 'What are you talking about?'

'That's why you're here, isn't it?' I nodded around the pub. 'Recapturing the glory days. Your reputation must have taken a knock after what happened with Monk.'

The smile had gone. His expression was ugly. 'I'm doing fine. Just having a few days off.'

But his eyes gave the lie to that. There had always been something reckless about Terry; that was part of his charm. Now I saw there was something self-destructive as well. He relied on luck and momentum to carry him through: both had let him down and he was lashing out in frustration.

I just happened to be a convenient target.

There was no point in staying any longer. Kara had been right: confronting him had accomplished nothing. As I walked out, I heard him saying something to the group at the bar. Their raucous laughter followed me through the door, then it had swung shut behind me and I was back in the street.

I went straight home. It was too late for me to collect Alice, and I half expected them to be home before me. They weren't, so I began preparing dinner. I was already regretting going to see Terry, berating myself for making Kara do the school run. I resolved to make it up to them both. I'd take them somewhere that weekend, perhaps the zoo for Alice, and then find a babysitter so Kara and I could go out by ourselves in the evening.

I was so busy planning it that it was a while before I realized how late they were. I called Kara's mobile but there was no answer. Her voicemail didn't cut in, which was unusual. But I didn't have time to worry about it before the doorbell rang.

'If this is somebody cold-calling…' I muttered, drying my hands as I went to answer it.

But it wasn't. Two police officers stood outside. They'd come to tell me that a businessman drunk from an expense-account lunch had lost control of his BMW and hit Kara and Alice's car. It had shunted it in front of a container lorry that had crushed the new Volvo's frame like balsa. My wife and daughter had died at the scene.

And as quickly as that my old life ended.

I'd just come out of the shower when the doorbell rang. I swore and grabbed my bathrobe. Still towelling my hair, I glanced at the kitchen clock as I hurried into the hall, wondering who would be calling at nine o'clock on a Sunday morning.

I paused to look through the peephole I'd had installed in the front door. I was expecting to see a pair of polite young men with evangelical eyes and ill-fitting suits, hoping to sell me the dream of everlasting life. But I could only see one man through the distorted bubble of glass. He had turned to gaze at the street, so all I could see of him was his broad shoulders and short dark hair. It was thinning at the crown, exposing a palm-sized patch of scalp that he'd unsuccessfully tried to hide with a comb-over.

I unlocked the door. I'd been advised by the police to fit a security chain after I'd been attacked the previous year, but I'd never got round to it. Even though the person responsible still hadn't been caught, the peephole seemed paranoid enough.

I'd take my chances.

The pewter sky cast a cold light when I opened the door. The lime trees lining the road outside my flat had shed most of their leaves, covering the street with a whispering mat of yellow. Although the October morning was cold and damp the visitor wore a suit without any sort of coat. He turned and gave a thin smile, eyes taking in my bathrobe.

'Hello, David. Not disturbing you, am I?'

What struck me afterwards was how ordinary it felt. It was as though we'd only seen each other a few weeks ago, not the eight years it had been.

Terry Connors hadn't changed. Older, yes; the hairline was higher than it used to be, and the skin of his face held a tired pallor that spoke of long hours spent in cars and offices. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. But while the good looks were more weathered, the square jawline a little heavier than I recalled, they were still intact. So was the cockiness that was part and parcel of them. He still looked down on the world in a literal and figurative sense: even though he was on the lower step, the muddy eyes were on a level with mine. I saw them flick over me, no doubt taking in changes just as mine were doing. I wondered how different I must look myself after all this time.

It was only then that the shock of seeing him hit home.

I had no idea what to say. He glanced back down the street as if it led to the past that lay behind us. I noticed that his left earlobe was missing, as though neatly snipped off with a pair of scissors, and wondered how that had happened. But then I bore scars of my own since the last time I'd seen him.

'Sorry for turning up unannounced, but I didn't think you should hear it on the news.' He turned back to me, his policeman's eyes unblinking and unapologetic. 'Jerome Monk's escaped.'

It was a name I hadn't heard in years. I was silent for a moment as it caught up with me, bringing back echoes of the bleak Dartmoor landscape and the odour of peat. Then I stepped back and held open the door.

'You'd better come in.'

Terry waited in the sitting room while I went to get dressed. I didn't rush. I stood in the bedroom, my breathing fast and shallow. My fists were clenched into tight balls. Calm down. Hear what he has to say. I pulled my clothes on automatically, fumbling at the buttons. When I realized I was delaying facing him I went back out.

He was standing by the bookshelf with his back to me, head canted at an angle so he could read the spines. He spoke without turning round.

'Nice place you've got here. Live by yourself?'

'Yes.'

He pulled a book from the shelf and read the title. 'Death's Acre. Not much for light reading, are you?'

'I don't get much time.' I clamped down on my irritation. Terry always had a knack of getting under my skin. It was part of what had made him such a good policeman. 'Can I get you a tea or coffee?'

'I'll have a coffee so long as it's not decaf. Black, two sugars.' He replaced the book and followed me to the kitchen, standing in the doorway as I filled the percolator. 'You don't seem very concerned about Monk.'

'Should I be?'

'Don't you want to know what happened?'

'It can wait till I've made the coffee.' I could feel his gaze on me as I put the percolator on the heat. 'How's Deborah?'

'Thriving since the divorce.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. She wasn't. And at least the kids were old enough to decide who they wanted to live with.' The smile crinkled his eyes without warming them. 'I get to see them every other weekend.'

There wasn't much I could say. 'Are you still in Exeter?'

'Yeah, still at HQ.'

'Detective Superintendent yet?'

'No. Still a DI.' He said it as though daring me to comment.

'The coffee'll be a few minutes,' I told him. 'We might as well sit down.'

The kitchen was big enough to double as a dining room. It was more comfortable in the sitting room, but I didn't want Terry in there. It was strange enough having him here as it was.