Free The Calling of the Grave by Simon Beckett Page B

graves?'
        'I
told you, they're over there.'
        'You
seem pretty sure all of a sudden. Not long ago you said you couldn't remember.'
        'I told
you, they're over there!'
        The
bearded guard clapped a hand on Monk's shoulder. 'Don't raise your voice,
laughing boy, we can hear you.' 'Fuck off, Monaghan!'
        'You
want the cuffs back on?'
        Monk
seemed to swell, but Sophie spoke before he could do anything else. 'Excuse me,
Jerome?'
        She
smiled as the big head snapped round. This time Terry made no attempt to
interrupt, and I guessed her involvement was what at least part of their
discussion had been about.
        'Nobody's
doubting you. But I just want you to think about something. You must have dug
the graves out here at night, is that right?'
        It
was a safe bet: few killers risked burying the bodies of their victims in broad
daylight. But Monk's solicitor wasn't having any of it.
        'You
don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I've already made it clear—'
        'Shut
up.'
        Monk
didn't so much as glance at him. His button eyes seemed muddied as they fixed
on Sophie. After a few seconds he jerked his head in a nod.
        'It's
always night.'
        I
wasn't sure what that meant. Judging by Sophie's slight pause neither did she,
but she covered it well.
        'Things
get confused in the dark. It's easy to make mistakes, especially when you try
to remember later. Is it possible you could have dug at least one of the graves
here? Or even both of them?'
        Monk's
eyes went from Sophie to the mound. He rubbed a hand over his bald scalp.
'Might be . . .'
        For
an instant he seemed confused. Then Terry spoke and whatever I thought I'd seen
was gone.
        'I
don't have time for this. Which is it, yes or no?'
        Suddenly
the heat and madness were back in the convict's eyes. The curved smile looked
manic as he faced Terry.
        'No.'
        'Wait,
Jerome, are you—' Sophie began, but she'd had her chance.
        'Right,
that's it. Let's get back over there,' Terry said, starting to leave the
hollow.
        'But
the body dog's here now,' she protested. 'At least give it a chance.'
        Terry
paused, indecision on his face. I think he might have overruled her if it
hadn't been for Wainwright. The archaeologist had carried on probing the mound
while the scene played out.
        'Almost
done,' he said, thrusting the probe into the soil again. 'The ground here feels
less resistant, although since it's peat I doubt—'
        There
was an audible crunch as the probe hit something. Wainwright stopped
dead. He composed his features into a thoughtful expression, avoiding looking
at me.
        'Well,
there seems to be something here.'
        Terry
went over. 'A stone?'
        'No, I
don't think so.' Wainwright beckoned to the dog-handler, quickly asserting
control. 'Start with the hole I've just made.'
        The
dog-handler, a young policewoman with red hair and wind- chapped pale skin,
took the springer spaniel towards the mound.
        'No!
We're in the wrong place!' Monk shouted, his huge fists balled.
        'Tell
your "client" if I hear one more peep out of him he's back in
handcuffs, 'Terry snapped at Dobbs.
        The
solicitor looked reluctant, but the threat worked. Monk's mouth twitched as he
cast a look behind him at the open moor and unclenched his fists.
        'No
handcuffs,' he mumbled.
        The
spaniel was almost falling over itself in its eagerness as it snuffled across
the mound. There were only a few cadaver dogs in the country, and I'd heard
nothing but good things about them. Still, I had my doubts now. Peat inhibited
decomposition, sometimes virtually halted it. No matter how sensitive a dog's
nose, it couldn't smell something that wasn't there.
        But
the spaniel's ears pricked up almost immediately. Whining with excitement, it
began scrabbling at Wainwright's last