Simon Beckett - The Calling Of The Grave

One. Two. Eight.

The numbers of decay. That's the ratio by which all organisms, large and small, decompose. In air, in water, in soil. Provided it's the same climate, a submerged body will take twice, as long to break down as one left on the surface. Underground it will take eight times as long. One, two, eight. It's a simple formula, and an inescapable truth.

The deeper something is buried, the longer it survives.

Bury a body, and you deprive it of the carrion-feeding insects that thrive on dead flesh. The microorganisms that would normally digest the soft tissues can't function without air, and the cooling insulation of dark earth further restricts the onset of decay. Biochemical reactions that would normally break down the cells themselves are slowed by the lower temperature. A process that would, under other circumstances, take days or weeks can last for months. Years, even.

Sometimes longer.

Starved of light, air and warmth, it's possible for a dead body to be preserved almost indefinitely. Cocooned in its cold burrow, it exists in near stasis, indifferent to the passing of seasons above.

But cause and effect applies here, as anywhere else. Just as, in nature, nothing is ever truly destroyed, so nothing is ever completely concealed. No matter how deeply buried, the dead can still make their presence known. One. Two. Eight.

Nothing stays hidden for ever.

Eight Years Ago

'What name is it?'

The policewoman's face was cold, in every sense. Her cheeks were chapped and ruddy, and her bulky yellow jacket was beaded with moisture from the mist that had descended like an earth-bound cloud. She regarded me with what seemed barely restrained dislike, as though holding me responsible for the foul weather, and the fact that she was standing out on the moor in it.

'Dr David Hunter. Detective Chief Superintendent Simms is expecting me.'

With a show of reluctance she considered her clipboard, then raised her radio. 'Got someone here to see the SIO. A Mr David Hunter.'

'It's Doctor,' I corrected her.

The look she gave me made it clear she didn't care. There was a squawk of static from the radio and a voice said something unintelligible. Whatever it was didn't improve her mood. With a last sour look she stepped aside and motioned me past.

'Straight ahead to where the other vehicles are parked,' she said, gracelessly.

'And thank you,' I muttered, driving on.

Beyond the windscreen the world was draped with curtains of mist. It was patchy and unpredictable, lifting one moment to reveal the drab, wet moorland before wrapping white gauze around the car again the next. A little further along a makeshift police car park had been set up on a relatively flat patch of moor. A policeman waved me on to it, and the Citroen bumped and lurched over the uneven ground as I eased it into a clear space.

I switched off the engine and stretched. It had been a long drive, and I hadn't taken a break. Anticipation and curiosity had overcome any inclination to stop en route. Simms hadn't given me many details when he'd called, only that a grave had been found on Dartmoor and he wanted me to be there while the body was recovered. It had sounded routine, the sort of case I could be called out on several times a year. But for the past twelve months the words 'murder' and 'Dartmoor' had been synonymous with only one man.

Jerome Monk.

Monk was a serial killer and rapist who had confessed to murdering four young women that we knew about. Three of them were little more than girls, and their bodies had never been found. If this grave was one of theirs, then there was a good chance the others were also nearby. It would be one of the biggest recovery and identification operations of the past decade.

And I definitely wanted to be a part of it.

'Everyone's always thought that's where he got rid of his victims,' I'd said to my wife, Kara, in the kitchen that morning as I'd rushed to get ready. We'd been living in the detached Victorian villa in south-west London for over a year, but I still needed her to tell me where things were. 'Dartmoor's a big place but there can't be so many bodies buried out there.'

'David,' Kara said, looking pointedly at where Alice was eating breakfast. I winced and mouthed sorry. Normally I knew better than to mention the grisly details of my work in front of our five-year- old daughter, but my enthusiasm had got the better of me.

'What are victims?' Alice piped up, frowning in concentration as she lifted a dripping spoonful of raspberry yoghurt. That was her food fad of the moment, having recently decided she was too grown up for cereal.

'It's just Daddy's work,' I told her, hoping she'd let it drop. There was plenty of time for her to learn about the darker aspects of life when she was older.

'Why are they buried? Are they dead?'

'Come on, sweetheart, finish your breakfast,' Kara told her. 'Daddy's got to go soon and we don't want to be late for school.'

'When are you coming back?' Alice asked me.

'Soon. I'll be home before you know it.' I bent down and lifted her up. Her small body felt warm and ridiculously light, yet it never failed to amaze me how solid she was compared to the baby she'd been it seemed only minutes before. Do they always grow up so fast? 'Are you going to be a good girl while I'm away'

'I'm always a good girl,' she said, indignant. She still had the spoon in her hand, and a glob of yoghurt dropped off and landed on the notes I'd left on the table.

'Whoops,' Kara said, tearing off a piece of kitchen towel and wiping it up. 'That's going to stain. Hope it's not important.'

Alice looked stricken. 'Sorry, Daddy.'

'No harm done.' I gave her a kiss and set her down before gathering up the notes. The top sheet had a sticky mark from the yoghurt. I tucked them into a folder and turned to Kara. 'I'd better go.'

She followed me into the hall, where I'd left my bag. I put my arms around her. Her hair smelled of vanilla.

'I'll call you later. I should have a better idea then how long I'll be away. Hopefully only a couple of nights.'

'Drive carefully,' she said.

Both of us were used to my going away. I was one of the few forensic anthropologists in the country, and it was the nature of my job to go wherever bodies happened to be found. In the past few years I'd been called out to investigations abroad as well as across the UK. My work was often grim but always necessary, and I took pride in both my skill and my growing reputation.

That didn't mean I enjoyed this part of it. Leaving my wife and daughter was always a wrench, even if it was only for a few days.

I climbed out of the car, treading carefully on the muddy grass. The air smelt of damp, heather and exhaust fumes. I went to the boot and pulled on a pair of disposable overalls from the box of protective gear I kept in there. Police forces usually provided them, but I liked to carry my own. Zipping up the overalls, I took out the aluminium flight case that contained my equipment. Until recently I'd made do with a battered suitcase, but Kara had persuaded me that I needed to look more like a professional consultant and less like a travelling salesman.

As usual, she was right.

A car pulled up as I began to make my way through the parked police vehicles. The bright yellow paintwork should have been a tipoff, but I was too preoccupied to pay it any attention until someone shouted.

'Found your way, then?'

I looked round to see two men climbing from the car. One of them was small and sharp-featured. I didn't know him, but I recognized the younger man he was with. Tall and good-looking, he carried himself with the easy confidence of an athlete, broad shoulders swinging with his characteristic swagger. I hadn't expected to see Terry Connors here but I should have realized when I saw the car. The garish Mitsubishi was his pride and joy, a far cry from CID's usual bland pool cars.