Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

'How's Sophie?' I asked before he could speak.

'Still in surgery. There's a build-up of blood on her brain, so they need to release it. Other than that, I can't tell you.'

Even though I'd expected it the news hit me hard. There were different types of haematoma, but recovery – and survival – depended on how quickly surgery was carried out. This is your fault. You should have realized sooner.

Naysmith fished something wrapped in plastic out of his pocket. 'You might need this,' he said, setting my muddy wallet on the bedside trolley. 'We found it a couple of hours ago. We were just about to send a search team down the mine when the helicopter picked you up.'

'What about Miller and Cross?'

If he blamed me for abandoning them he didn't show it. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'Miller's got a fractured skull, busted ribs and some internal bruising. He's unconscious but stable. Cross has a broken jaw and concussion. She was already conscious when the back-up arrived, so she could tell them what happened. Sort of.'

I was relieved. It could have been a lot worse, although I wasn't sure the injured police officers would agree. 'And Monk?'

'Nothing yet. We're sending teams down and we've got police guarding both entrances. But there could be others we don't know about. Cutter's Wheal Mine's been sealed up for years, and no one had any idea there were any caves connected to it. From what we've seen it's a big system, almost as big as Bakers Pit at Buckfastleigh. If Monk's still down there we'll find him eventually, but it's going to take time.'

And if he isn't he could be anywhere by now. Naysmith crossed his legs, a man getting down to business.

'So, do you want to tell me what happened?'

I knew he'd have been briefed already, but I went through my story again. He listened without comment, even when I told him about Monk's claim that he'd been framed by a police officer. When I finished he heaved a long sigh.

'Well, he was telling the truth about Wainwright, at least. He broke his neck falling downstairs. The post-mortem found carpet burns from the stair carpet and there were patches of his blood and hair on the banister. Either he took a tumble in the dark or missed his footing from the shock of seeing Monk. Can't say I'd blame him.' He paused, his face expressionless. 'How much of the rest of it did you believe?'

It was hard to say any more. The whole of the previous night had begun to take on a surreal quality. I made an effort to focus.

'I believe what he said about the blackouts. And about his relationship with Angela Carson. He was too ill to pretend, and the seizure or whatever it was I saw him have, that was real.'

'You really think he might have killed her during one?'

'From what I saw I'd say it could have happened like that.'

'What about the other girls?'

'I don't know. I suppose it's possible he killed them all during blackouts, but I think that's stretching it. He'd have to have disposed of their bodies as well, which doesn't seem likely. He genuinely doesn't seem able to remember anything about them, but that isn't what bothers him.'

'Monk's a callous bastard. That's not new.'

'No, I mean he isn't interested in clearing his name or even having his sentence reduced. That's what makes me think he's telling the truth. The only reason he escaped was because he's desperate to convince himself he didn't kill Angela Carson.'

'He was found in a locked flat with her body, blood on his hands and her face pulped in. I don't think there's much doubt, do you?'

'Not about that, no. But for the past eight years he's had to live with knowing he killed the only person he's ever been close to, and he can't even remember doing it. He's not the most stable of personalities anyway. Can you blame him for clutching at straws?'

Naysmith was silent for a moment. 'What about this story about him being framed?'

Now we're coming to it. I sighed. Hearing Monk tell it in the caves was one thing; discussing it in the cold light of day was something else entirely. It would have been easier to dismiss it as the rambling of a deranged mind, or the invention of a guilty one.

The problem was I couldn't believe it was either.

'I don't think he was making it up,' I said.

'That doesn't mean Darren Walker wasn't. There's no record of any

DI called Jones, either now or eight years ago. Walker could have been spinning him a line, trying to fob him off. Christ, if I was cornered by Monk I'd probably do the same.'

'Why would Walker spread a story like that in the first place?'

'A petty thief like him would be out of his depth with the hard- cases in Belmarsh. He wouldn't be the first to make something up to bolster his reputation.'

'Monk believed him. And from what he told me I don't think Walker would have been in any condition to lie.' Not after what I did to him.

'There's still nothing to corroborate any of this,' Naysmith said irritably, as though he'd been arguing the point with himself. 'We've only Monk's word to go on, since he conveniently beat Darren Walker to death. And you'll have to forgive me if I don't put much faith in that, or believe that a police officer planted evidence on the say-so of a lowlife like Walker. I checked his records. He was suspected of any number of thefts and burglaries but he had more lives than a bloody cat. Always managed to slip off, until last year. And why wait till then before he started mouthing off?'

I didn't know. I couldn't quite believe myself that I was defending Monk. But I'd had time to think as I lay on the hospital trolley. I might not like the new picture that was emerging, but I couldn't ignore it.

'Perhaps because he had been caught. You said yourself Walker would be out of his depth somewhere like Belmarsh. People can do anything when they're scared.'

'Doesn't necessarily follow,' Naysmith said. 'Where would this phantom DI have got anything belonging to the Bennett twins from anyway? There's no way he could have lifted evidence from a highprofile murder investigation without it being noticed. Especially not if it turned up again at Monk's caravan.'

'Unless he didn't get it from the evidence locker.'

The words lay heavily in the small cubicle. Naysmith looked at me for a long while, his eyes lidded. 'You know what you're saying, don't you?'

'Are you telling me it hasn't occurred to you as well?'

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. We'd skirted around it so far, but I knew the same question would be preying on his mind as on mine.

If Monk didn't kill the other three girls, who did?

Naysmith kneaded the bridge of his nose. 'We're going to want to talk to you again. What are your plans when you're discharged? Will you be going back to London?'

I hadn't given it much thought. 'Not yet. I'll probably pick up my things from Sophie's and book into-'

The curtain was suddenly swept aside as Simms stepped into the cubicle. With his crisply braided uniform and peaked cap, the ACC looked ridiculously smart in the drab hospital setting. But the waxlike features were flushed a deep crimson, and his mouth was set in a thin line.

Naysmith warily got to his feet. 'Sir. I didn't know you were-'

Simms didn't look at him. He clenched his black leather gloves so tightly in his fist it looked like he was choking them.

'I'd like to speak to Dr Hunter. Alone.'

'He's already been interviewed. I can-'

'That'll be all, Detective Chief Superintendent.'

Naysmith looked furious but managed to restrain himself. He gave me the barest nod before brushing out. The distant sounds of the hospital only heightened the silence inside the cubicle. Simms glared at me.

'What the hell do you think you're trying to do?'

I wasn't in the mood for another inquisition. I felt drugged with fatigue and worry and was very conscious of lying propped up in the ridiculous hospital gown.