Val McDermid - The Grave Tattoo

VAL McDERMID

The Grave Tattoo

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2006

Copyright © Val McDermid 2006

Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

Ebook Edition © 2006 ISBN: 9780007327669

Version: 2021-01-29

‘Absorbing modern mystery…McDermid’s mix of historical and literary clues with modern detection is handled with panache’

The Times

‘One of the world’s leading mystery writers, combining acuity of perception about the pathological mind with a rare talent for blindsiding the reader and graphic descriptive powers. Thomas Harris crossed with Agatha Christie, if you will… The Grave Tattoo is a great read. England’s heritage history has never been so chilling’

Observer

‘McDermid has lion-hearted courage as a writer…the complex plot is handled with [her] usual narrative confidence’

Independent

‘[A] cleverly plotted thriller…lost manuscripts, 200-year-old enigmas, an isolated Lake District village mystery and oodles of atmosphere: McDermid concocts a fascinating brew which is miles away from her customary bloody excursions into the realms of the perverse. It should gain her a crowd of new fans’

Guardian

‘One of our most accomplished crime writers…compelling’

Glasgow Herald

‘Cunning…gripping…so adroit in her pulling together of various items of historical conjecture and marrying them up to a murderous plot that has as many twists and turns as one of her Tony Hills…a substantially entertaining novel which grips the reader’s interest from the first page until the final deeply satisfying sentence’

Daily Express

‘Bodies pile up–one with bizarre tattoos–and trying to solve a 200-year-old mystery becomes increasingly lethal and readable’

Daily Mirror

‘Safe for the squeamish…one of her best’

Literary Review

‘An irresistible combination of contemporary psychological thriller and historical mystery filled with the moody atmosphere of the Lake District. And in Wordsworth scholar Jane Gresham, McDermid has created a character whose keen intellect matches her generous heart’

Tess Gerritsen

For Kelly – my blossom of snow

O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle Reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

William Wordsworth, Simon Lee

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

The Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Val McDermid

About the Publisher

September 2005

All landscapes hold their own secrets. Layer on layer, the past is buried beneath the surface. Seldom irretrievable, it lurks, waiting for human agency or meteorological accident to force the skeleton up through flesh and skin back into the present. Like the poor, the past is always with us.

That summer, it rained as if England had been transported to the tropics. Water fell in torrents, wrecking glorious gardens, turning meadows into quagmires where livestock struggled hock-deep in mud. Rivers burst their banks, their suddenly released waters finding their own level by demolishing whatever was vulnerable in their path. In the flooded streets of one previously picturesque village, cars were swept up like toys and deposited in the harbour, choking it in a chaos of mangled metal. Landslips swamped cars with mud and farmers mourned lost crops.

No part of the country was immune from the sheets of stinging rain. City and countryside alike struggled under the weight of water. In the Lake District, it sheeted down over fell and dale, subtly altering the contours of a centuries-old landscape. The water levels in the lakes reached record summer highs; the only discernible benefit was that when the sun did occasionally shine, it revealed a lusher green than usual.

Above the village of Fellhead on the shores of Langmere, ancient peat hags were carved into new shapes under the onslaught of water. And as autumn crept in, gradually the earth gave up one of its close-held secrets.

From a distance, it looked like a scrunched-up tarpaulin stained brown by the brackish water of the bog. At first glance, it seemed insignificant; another piece of discarded rubbish that had worked its way to the surface. But closer inspection revealed something far more chilling. Something that would reach across the centuries and bring even more profound changes in its wake than the weather.

My beloved son ,

I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your father’s hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You, will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit.

Your loving Mother

The way it rained that summer It would have broken your heart to see. It smashed its sheets to smithereens And flowed down the corrugated roofs Of dismal railway stations. And I would sit waiting for trains, Feet in puddles, My head starry with rain, Thinking of you miles from me In Grecian sunlight Where rain never falls.