Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

I'd been through this with the police numerous times the night before, but I knew there was no point in arguing. I went through it again now, from Sophie's phone call to how I'd found her unconscious on the bathroom floor. When I'd finished, Terry continued to stare at me without speaking. It was an old policeman's trick, but

I'd seen it done too often before to fall for it. I looked back at him and waited.

'I thought you said you hadn't kept in touch with Sophie Keller,' he said at last.

'I hadn't.'

'You expect me to believe she just called you out of the blue? After eight years?'

'That's right.' He stared at me impassively, jaw bunching rhythmically on the gum. I sighed, annoyed. 'Look, I've no idea what sort of trouble she was in or why she called me. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Have you spoken to any of the people in the village? Friends, anyone who might know why she was attacked?'

'Are you trying to tell me how to run an investigation?'

I held my temper in check. 'No, but it seems a coincidence it happened so soon after Jerome Monk escaped. I don't mean he was the one who attacked her, but there must be some connection.'

Terry had stopped chewing. 'What makes you so sure it wasn't him?'

'Why would he have anything against Sophie? She was the only person who tried to help him. And how would he even know where to find her?'

'You think you can't find out stuff like that in prison? Grow up. And if you're looking for a reason, she was probably the last woman he set eyes on. He's had years of lying in his cell, thinking what he'd like to do to her.'

That invited a question I'd not wanted to ask. But Terry had brought it out in the open. 'Was she raped?'

'No.' Terry's eyes were cold.

I was thankful for that, at least. 'Then it doesn't sound like Monk, does it? And he doesn't normally leave his victims alive.'

'He could have been disturbed or scared off.'

'Monk?' That was so far-fetched I almost laughed. 'Who by?' 'All right, since you don't think it was him just remind me what you were doing at Sophie's house yourself?'

'I've already told you.'

'Oh, that's right! Someone you haven't seen for years phones you up asking for help, so you jump in your car and drive two hundred miles, for lunch. And when she doesn't show up you track down where she lives, wander into her house and find her unconscious.'

'That's what happened.'

'So you say. But let's try this instead: you go to her house and force your way in. She's naked underneath her bathrobe, you get carried away. Boom. Then you panic and call it in as if you'd just found her.'

I stared at him, appalled. 'That's ridiculous!'

'Is it? The two of you always seemed pretty close on the search. I always wondered if there was something going on between you.'

I realized my fists were clenched. I opened them, fighting not to lose my temper, knowing that was what he wanted.

'Not everyone's like you, Terry.'

He gave a laugh. 'Oh, here we go! I was wondering how long it'd take.'

'If you don't believe me, ask Sophie. She'll tell you the same when she wakes up.'

'If she wakes up.' That stopped me. Terry nodded. 'A head injury like that, there's no knowing. Which puts you in an awkward position, doesn't it?'

I couldn't believe I was hearing this. Terry took a card from his wallet and tossed it on to the coffee table.

'Anything else happens, call me. My mobile number's on there. Don't bother with the office landline, I'm never there.' He went to the hallway and paused, his expression ugly. 'Don't pretend you're any different to me, Hunter. You're no better than anyone else.'

He slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls. I didn't move for a while, then went to the nearest chair and sat down. I felt stunned by Terry's hostility as much as his accusation. There was no love lost between us, but could he seriously believe that I was capable of doing something like that? Attacking Sophie?

Apparently.

Anger began to kick in again. I went to finish packing. Brooding wouldn't help, and neither would sitting around here.

I almost threw Terry's card away, but at the last minute I tucked it in my wallet. Then I set the alarm on my flat, threw my bag into the car boot and drove away. If I didn't get snarled up in traffic I could be in Exeter by mid-afternoon.

If I was going to start digging around in the past, an archaeologist was as good a place as any to start.

I hadn't given Leonard Wainwright a thought in years. I would have been more than happy to keep it that way, but it made sense to talk to him, at least. Now that Monk had reared his ugly head again, it couldn't hurt to see if he could add anything to the little I already knew.

The weather had steadily worsened as I'd neared Exeter, and by the time I arrived the rain was coming down in a sullen downpour. I booked into an anonymous hotel not far from the hospital. It was one of the bland chains that spring up in most city or town centres, with piped music in the lifts and plastic menus offering pre-cooked food. But it was cheap and convenient, and as well as a view of a car park my room had a Wi-Fi connection. Unpacking my laptop, I ordered a sandwich and set to work.

Finding Wainwright proved harder than I expected. I didn't have his address or phone number, and Terry had said he'd retired. I tried his old department at Cambridge anyway, hoping that someone there would be able to help. The receptionist soon set me right on that score.

'We can't reveal personal details,' she told me waspishly.

I spent a fruitless half-hour searching on the internet before it occurred to me to try the obvious. Years before Wainwright had said he lived at Torbay. There was no guarantee he still did, or wasn't exdirectory. But I typed his name into an online phone directory and there he was: Wainwright, Prof. L. The entry gave both phone number and address.

Genius, I thought ruefully, massaging my stiff neck.

The phone rang for a long time before anyone answered. 'Hello, Wainwright residence?'

It was a woman's voice, clipped and officious. 'Can I speak to Leonard Wainwright, please?'

There was a pause. 'Who is this?'

'My name's David Hunter. I worked with Professor Wainwright several years ago,' I added, not sure if he'd remember me.

The pause wasn't quite so long this time. 'I don't recognize your name. Would he know you from Cambridge?'

'No, we were…' I searched for the right phrase, then gave up. 'It was on a police investigation. I'm in the area, and-'

I didn't get the chance to finish. 'Oh, I see. I'm afraid Leonard's unavailable, but I'm his wife. You're in the area, you say?'

'Yes, but-'

'Then you must pop round! I'm sure Leonard would love to see an old colleague.'

I doubted it. 'Perhaps I should just call back later…'

'Nonsense! Are you free for lunch tomorrow? We usually have something light around one o'clock. Unless you have another appointment, of course.'

Lunch? That was the last thing I'd expected. 'If you're sure it's no trouble…'

'No trouble at all. Oh, jolly good! Leonard will look forward to it.'

I hung up, bemused by the invitation and wondering exactly what 'unavailable' meant. The prospect of lunch with the archaeologist and his wife wasn't something I relished, and I doubted Wainwright would thank his wife either. Still, I'd accepted now. That left me the rest of the evening to fill. I was wondering what to do when my phone rang. It was the hospital. Sophie was conscious.

Traumatic brain injury isn't like a broken arm. Its unpredictable nature makes any sort of prognosis difficult, but in general the longer a victim remains unconscious, the more chance there is of serious damage.

Sophie had been lucky. Although the blow to her head had left her with bad concussion, her skull wasn't fractured and the scans had revealed no sign of complications such as haemorrhaging or haematoma: cranial bleeds that could go undetected, only to incapacitate or kill days after the initial injury.