Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

I needed to work.

The past blew around me like a cold wind as I pulled into the Forensic Sciences car park. When I'd returned to London from Norfolk I'd been uneasy about returning to my old department, wary of being swamped by past associations. But in the end there hadn't been enough reason not to. I'd been based here for the past three years, technically a part of the faculty but with freedom to concentrate on police consultancy work. The university had offered me tenure, but so far I'd been reluctant to take it. The present arrangement seemed to work, even if there was still a temporary feel to it. I could live with that, though. Experience had made me reluctant to put down roots.

The building was closed on Sundays, but I often came in to work. I had my own keys, and I was used to being there alone. Still, I glanced around the empty car park as I made my way to the entrance. There's always something slightly unsettling about being alone in a normally busy public space. And while I might not be worried about Monk coming after me, there were others whose grudges were more tangible.

I still bore a scar on my stomach to warn me against complacency

The forensic anthropology department was in the basement of a former Victorian hospital. It was accessed either by a cranky old lift that always seemed to smell of disinfectant or by two flights of stairs. As usual I took the stairs. The building was listed, and the stairwell still had the original tiles and stone steps. My footsteps rang as I descended, their lonely echo emphasizing the weekend quiet.

Once through the doors at the bottom, though, I was back in the twenty-first century. There were several labs, all of them modern and well equipped. My office was attached to one at the far end of the corridor. Not large, but big enough for my purposes. I unlocked it and flicked on the lights. There were no windows down here, and I paused in the doorway as the bright overhead fluorescents stuttered to life.

It was cool inside, the heating system turned down over the weekend. But I was used to that. My office was utilitarian, most of the space taken up by the old steel filing cabinets and desk. Switching on the computer, I left it to start up and pulled on my white lab coat which hung behind the door. Then I went out into the lab.

The grislier aspects of my work – carefully cutting away the decaying soft tissue from a cadaver, or degreasing human bones in detergent – were normally done at a mortuary. Most of the remains that came here had already been through that process, or were so long dead that time and decomposition had reduced them to dry bones anyway.

The case I was currently working on was one of the former. Stripped of its flesh and neatly set out on the aluminium examination table was the partial skeleton of a man in his thirties. At least, that was my best guess. His gender had been relatively easy to determine because of the shape of the pelvis and large size of the bones. I'd estimated his age from the condition of his vertebrae and the amount of wear evident on the pubic symphysis – the part of the pelvic girdle where the two pubic bones meet.

But while the skeleton normally provides other indicators to help confirm age and sex, as well as identification, that didn't apply in this instance. The advanced state of decomposition had suggested that, whoever this was, he'd died at least two years ago, but I'd been unable to be more precise than that. And I couldn't even begin to offer a probable cause of death. In fact the only thing I could state with any real confidence was that he'd been murdered.

I'd yet to come across a suicide or accidental death where the arms, legs and head had been severed.

The man's torso had been found by a builder, dumped inside the well of a derelict farmhouse in Surrey. Neither the well nor the rest of the property had yielded the missing body parts, and without any teeth to compare against dental records, or any notable characteristics on the remaining bones, identifying the victim would be a difficult task.

Still, I hoped to at least establish how he'd been dismembered. There was none of the trauma that would indicate an axe or cleaver had been used, which pointed to it being a knife or saw. Any blade would leave distinctive marks on the bone, and from the cleanness of the ones I'd seen so far this was likely to be some sort of power tool. My money was on a circular saw, but I'd need to examine each surface under a microscope to be sure. It was dull, methodical work, but identifying what cutting tool had been used might be the first step on the long road to catching the killer.

Stranger things had happened.

I set up the first slide and tried to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. But I stared at the magnified section of bone in the viewfinder without really seeing it. Clean cut, no sign of splintering… Something scratched away at my subconscious, an irritating connection I couldn't quite unearth. I straightened, feeling it on the verge of surfacing, but then a final chime from my office as the computer started up distracted me.

Whatever I'd been trying to remember vanished. I sighed and gave in to the inevitable. OK, just get it out of the way. Then you can forget about it and do some work. Going into my office I went online to a news website. I'd expected Monk's escape to be the lead story. It was. I just hadn't realized what a shock it would be seeing that face again.

Jerome Monk's photograph stared from the screen like a still from a horror film. The sickening indentation in his forehead still made you queasy just to look at it, and the eyes…

His eyes were still dead.

I scrolled down the screen to the photographs of his four victims. The images looked dated, their subjects frozen in time. The Bennett sisters would be… what? Twenty-six or twenty-seven now, and Tina Williams twenty-eight or nine. Angela Carson, the oldest, would be about thirty-five. Old enough to be married, to have children of their own. Instead, their lives had been cut brutally short.

And now their killer was free.

I rubbed my eyes, the taste of failure as bitter now as it had been all that time ago. Again, I had the feeling that there was something I needed to remember. It wasn't so strong as before, just a niggling presence at the back of my mind. I started to scroll back to re-read the story and jumped as the phone on my desk rang.

The picture on the screen doubled in size as I accidentally clicked on the zoom. Swearing under my breath, I grabbed for the phone. 'Hello?'

There was a slight pause on the other end. 'Is that David? David Hunter?'

It was a woman's voice, strong and slightly husky, though now with an edge of uncertainty. There was something familiar about it.

'Yes. Who's this?'

'Sophie Keller?' she said, and another part of the past clicked into place. 'We worked together a few years ago. On the Jerome Monk case?'

She phrased it as a question, as though unsure I'd know who she was. She needn't have worried: it was only a few hours since Terry Connors had asked if I'd heard from her.

'Sure, of course.' I made an effort to gather myself. 'Sorry, it's just weird timing. I was just reading about Monk.'

'You've heard that he's escaped?'

'Yes, I have.'

I wasn't sure whether to mention Terry, so I didn't. The two of them had never got on. There was an embarrassed pause. 'I got your office number from the university website, but I only called to leave a message. I didn't think you'd be there on a Sunday. I hope you don't mind.'

'No, I'm just a little surprised, that's all.'

'I know, I'm sorry, this is really out of the blue, but…' I heard her take a breath. 'Well, could we meet some time?'

The surprises were coming thick and fast today. 'Is this because of Monk?'

'I'd rather tell you when I see you. I promise not to take up much of your time.'