Free The Calling of the Grave by Simon Beckett

of a deep hollow, perhaps
fifty yards from the track. It was covered in marsh grass, the tangled, wiry
stalks rippling in the wind. I went over with Wainwright and Terry, leaving
Roper with Monk and the other officers. The three of us had to detour around a
thicket of gorse and an impassable section of bog to get to her. She made no
attempt to meet us, staying impatiently beside the mound as though she were
afraid it might disappear if she turned her back.
        'I
think this could be a grave,' she said breathlessly, as we slithered down the
sides of the hollow.
        She
was right: it could be a grave. Or it could be absolutely nothing at
all. The mound was about five feet long and two wide, perhaps eighteen inches tall
at its highest point. If it had been in a flat field or parkland it would have
been a lot more likely to be significant. But this was moorland, a rugged
landscape full of random depressions and hummocks. And the grass covering the
mound looked no different from that growing anywhere else.
        'Doesn't
look like much to me.' Terry turned doubtfully to Wainwright. 'What do you
think?'
        The
archaeologist pursed his lips as he considered the mound. This was more his
territory than mine. Or Sophie's, come to that. He prodded it disparagingly
with his foot.
        'I
think if we're going to get over-excited about every bump in the ground it's
going to be a very long search.'
        Sophie
coloured up. 'I'm not over-excited. And I'm not an idiot. I know what to look
for.'
        'Really.'
Wainwright put a wealth of meaning into the word. He hadn't forgiven her for
the earlier snub. 'Well, I beg to differ. But then I only have thirty years of
archaeological experience to draw on.'
        Terry
turned away to go back. 'We don't have time to waste on this.'
        'No,
wait,' Sophie said. 'Look, I might not be an archaeologist—'
        'That's
something we agree on,' Wainwright put in.
        '—but
at least hear me out. Two minutes, that's all, OK?'
        Terry
folded his arms, his face shuttered. 'Two minutes.'
        Sophie
took a deep breath before plunging on. 'Where Monk's taking us, it doesn't make
any sense. Tina Williams' grave was exactly where I'd have expected it to be—'
        'Easy
to say, now we know where it is,' Wainwright sniffed.
        She
ignored him, concentrating on Terry. 'It wasn't far from the track, which meant
it was relatively easy to get to. And it followed the contours of the land:
anyone leaving the track around there would naturally find themselves at that
point. It made sense for it to be where we found it.'
        'So?'
        'So
Monk won't specify where the other graves are. He's just leading us further out
into the moor, which means he'd have to have carried the bodies all this way
across moorland, in the dark. I don't care how strong he is, why would he do
that? And he says he can't recall any landmarks to guide him back to where they
were buried.'
        Terry
frowned. 'What's your point?'
        'I'd
expect him to remember something at least. When people hide something they
use landmarks to align themselves, whether they realize it or not. But where
Monk's heading just seems random. Either he's forgotten or he's deliberately
leading us in the wrong direction.'
        'Or
you could just be wrong, 'Wainwright said. He turned to Terry with a
supercilious smile. 'I'm familiar with the Winthrop techniques that Miss Keller
refers to. I've used them myself on occasion, but it's mainly common sense. I
find them overrated.'
        'Then
you're not doing it right,' Sophie shot back. 'I went back to the track to find
the most likely spots where anyone carrying a body could have left it. Where
the going is nice and easy, not too steep or permanently boggy. I've found a
few of them over the past few days, but this time I tried a little further
out.'
        She
levelled a finger back towards the track, some distance from where we'd