Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

Up ahead the blurred tail lights of the ACC's black BMW were screened by a fine mist of spray thrown up by its tyres. The press conference had been postponed so that Simms could come out here. He'd demanded to hear everything, starting from when Terry appeared on my doorstep on the morning of Monk's escape. I'd kept nothing back, not even Sophie's letters to Monk. I'd felt guilty bout that, but we'd gone beyond keeping secrets.

Simms' pale-blue eyes had blazed, but it wasn't until I described finding the holes dug on the moor the day before, and the scrambled chase that followed, that he became incandescent.

'This was twenty-four hours ago and I'm only just hearing about it? God Almighty!'

I couldn't blame him. I was still trying to take it in myself. Not only was Terry suspended, he wasn't even a DI any more. Simms had told me he'd been demoted to detective sergeant the previous year.

Terry, what the hell are you playing at? I still had the card he'd given me: Detective Inspector Terry Connors. Still, it explained why he'd told me to call him on his mobile rather than at headquarters. I'm never there, he'd said.

At least that much had been true.

In a way I could almost understand him lying about his rank and suspension: pride had always been one of Terry's sins. What was inexcusable was that rather than admit to his charade he'd thrown away a chance to capture Monk. Now Wainwright was dead, and his killer was still on the loose.

There was no going back from that.

Beside me, Roper stifled a belch. Not very successfully. 'Pardon,' he muttered, baring his teeth in a sheepish grin. He looked out at the rainswept moor. 'Christ, it's really coming down. Couldn't have brought us here on a sunny day, could you?'

'I'll try harder next time.'

'Good one,' he said, with a snickering laugh. He stared at the rain beating against the car windscreen and sighed. 'Bloody Connors. He's shafted himself this time. And us.'

I knew an invitation when I heard one. 'Simms said he'd been demoted.'

'Stupid sod got caught altering an evidence log.' He shook his head in disgust. 'Wasn't even anything important, just got his dates mixed up. If he'd owned up he'd have been slapped on the wrist and that would have been it, but no. The golden boy from the Met couldn't admit he'd made a mistake.' He didn't try to hide his satisfaction.

'And his suspension?' I asked.

Roper sucked his teeth, as though debating whether or not to tell me. 'He assaulted a policewoman.'

'He what?'

'Nothing violent, thank God. He was just too pissed to take no for an answer. Typical Connors, thought he was God's gift. Never could keep his fly zipped.'

I realized I was squeezing the steering wheel. No, he couldn't. I forced myself to relax my grip.

'So he was drunk?'

'Drunk? He's a piss-head, he's hardly been sober for years. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a beer or two, I'm the first to admit that.' He patted his distended stomach. 'But some people can handle it and some can't. And Connors couldn't. He was on borrowed time even before he got knocked back to DS, and it was all downhill from there.'

I remembered how Terry had sounded on the phone when I'd told him about Monk. 'What'll happen to him?'

'If he's lucky he'll just be kicked off the force, but he could be looking at criminal charges. Bloody idiot. If I'd had his opportunities I wouldn't have pissed them away, I can tell you.' His regret was transparently false. He gave me a sideways look. 'How come you don't know about this? I thought you two used to be friendly.'

'We lost touch.'

'If I were you I'd keep it that way.' He fell silent. I heard him sucking his teeth again. He stopped, embarrassed, when he realized. 'So, tell me more about this attack on Miss Keller.'

I ran through what had happened. Roper listened with his hands folded on his paunch. I was starting to revise my opinion of the man.

Terry had always been dismissive of him, treating him as Simms' lapdog. But whatever else Roper might be, I didn't think he was anyone's fool.

'So the locals think it was a burglary, eh?' he said.

'That's what they say.'

'They're probably right. Single woman, living on her own in the sticks. Asking for trouble, really. And you say she's a potter now?' He smirked, shaking his head. 'Well, well.'

We didn't have much to say to each other after that, but we were almost at Black Tor. Several cars and a dog van were already waiting by the end of the track when we arrived, close to where I'd parked the day before. A mix of uniformed police and CID stood by them, coat collars turned up against the rain. None of them looked happy and several of them were drawing on cigarettes as if their lives depended on them.

But they were hastily thrown down and trodden on as Simms got out of his car, shrugging on a thick coat. One of the plain-clothes officers stepped forward to speak to him.

'That's Naysmith, the SIO,' Roper muttered as we went over.

Naysmith was a keen-looking man in his early forties, gaunt and raw-boned. He glanced in my direction but Simms made no attempt to introduce us. I wasn't close enough to hear what was said, but Naysmith gave a terse nod before moving away. The group was all business now as it prepared to go out on to the moor. The air was split by barking as a dog-handler took a German shepherd from a van and clipped a coiled length of rope to its harness.

I hoped it had better luck than the last one.

Roper had gone to talk to a small group of plain-clothes officers, so I stood on my own nearby, feeling like I didn't belong as rain dripped from my coat hood.

'Been a while, Dr Hunter.'

I looked around at the burly man who'd approached. He wore a reflective waterproof coat, and I had to peer at the face inside the hood before I recognized Jim Lucas, the POLSA from the original search. He'd never been slim, and the intervening years had given the him the ruddy nose and cheeks that spoke of either outdoor work or high blood pressure.

But his handshake was as firm as ever, and his eyes crinkled with the same warmth I remembered.

'I didn't realize you were advising on this,' I said, pleased to see a friendly face.

'For my sins. Have to admit, I'd have been happy not to set eyes on this godforsaken spot again.' His eyes roved round the moor. 'Bad business about Wainwright.'

I nodded. There was nothing to say.

'The sooner we get Monk back behind bars the better. I hear you and Sophie Keller had a run-in with him yesterday.'

The memory was already starting to seem unreal. 'I think so. We didn't get a close look at him.'

'If you had you wouldn't be here. Either of you.' He let that sink in for a second, then smiled. 'How is Sophie these days?'

'She's fine.' This wasn't the time to go into details.

'Jacked it in to make pots, didn't she? Good for her. I retire myself next year.' He scowled at the foul weather. 'Can't say I'll be sorry. I'm getting too old for this game. And the job's changed since I started. All paperwork and bureaucracy now. Speaking of which…'

He looked behind me as Simms' clipped voice rang out.

'When you're ready, Dr Hunter.'

The ACC had put on a pair of brand new Wellingtons. The shinhigh rubber boots looked ridiculous with his tailored overcoat and uniform, but not everyone there was so lucky. I saw Roper looking disconsolately at his thin-soled shoes as we set off along the muddy track. The dog-handler, a swarthy man with a shaved head, walked slightly ahead of the rest of us, feeding out the rope attached to the harness as the German shepherd snuffled the ground.

'Will the rain make any difference?' I asked him.

He answered without taking his eyes from the dog. 'Not unless it really pisses it down. It's the peat that'll be a problem. Soaks up water like a sponge, and if it gets too boggy it doesn't hold the scent.'