The Calling of the Grave (4 page)

    I was
having trouble keeping up. 'Yes, I am.'

    'Sensible
man. A good woman keeps us sane. Although how they put up with us is another
matter. My wife deserves a medal — as she frequently reminds me.' He chuckled.
'Any children?'

    'A
little girl, Alice. She's five.'

    'Ah.
A good age. I have two daughters, both flown the nest now. Enjoy them while
they're young. Believe me, ten years from now you'll be wondering where your
little girl went to.'

    I
smiled, dutifully. 'We've a while yet before she's a teenager.'

    'Make
the most of it. And may I give you a tip?'

    'Go
ahead.' This wasn't the Wainwright I'd been expecting.

    'Never
take your work home with you. I'm talking figuratively, of course. But detachment
is essential in our business, especially when you have a family. Otherwise this
will suck you dry. No matter what you see, no matter how appalling, remember
that it's just a job.'

    He
picked up his trowel again and turned back to the remains.

    'Actually,
I was talking to someone recently who knew you. Said you'd originally trained
as a medic?'

    'I
did a medical degree before switching to anthropology, yes. Who told you that?'

    He
frowned. 'Do you know, I've been racking my brains trying to remember. My
memory's not what it was. I think it was at some forensic conference. We were
talking about the new generation making their mark on the field. Your name was
mentioned.'

    I was
surprised that Wainwright would admit even having heard of me. Despite myself I
was flattered.

    'Quite
a leap, anthropology from medicine,' he went on, busily scraping the soil from
around an elbow. 'I gather you trained in the US? That research facility in
Tennessee, wasn't it? The one that specializes in decomposition.'

    'The
Anthropological Research Facility. I spent a year there.'

    It
had been before I'd met Kara, after I'd switched careers and exchanged working
with the living for the dead. I waited for the put-down. It didn't come.
'Sounds like quite a place. Although probably not for me. I have to confess I'm
not a great fan of Calliphoridae. Disgusting things.'

    'I'm
not a big fan myself, but they have their uses.' Calliphoridae was the family
classification for the blowfly, whose life cycle provided an effective clock
for charting decomposition. Wainwright was obviously keen on Latin names.

    'I
expect they do. Though not in this instance, sadly. Far too cold.' He pointed
with his trowel at the remains. 'So, what do you make of it?'

    'I'll
have a better idea once the body's at the mortuary.'

    'Of
course. But I'm sure you've already drawn some conclusions.'

    I
could see the mouth smile under the face mask. I was reluctant to commit
myself, knowing how easily things could change once the remains were cleaned.
But Wainwright was nothing like the ogre I'd been expecting, and it was just
the two of us there. Given his past antipathy to forensic anthropology, it
wouldn't hurt to let him know he wasn't the only expert there.

    I sat
back on my heels to consider what we'd uncovered.

    Feat
is a unique substance. Formed from partially decayed plant, animal and insect
remains, it's an environment that's inimical to most of the bacteria and
insects that usually populate the earth beneath our feet. Low in oxygen and
almost as acidic as vinegar, it can effectively pickle organic matter, tanning
it like specimens in a lab jar. Whole mammoth tusks have been found in peat
bogs, while human corpses buried hundreds of years before can emerge uncannily intact.

    The
body of one man discovered in the village of Tollund, Denmark in the 1950s was
so well preserved that at first it was thought he was a recent murder victim.
Given the rope tied around his neck he probably had been murdered, though if so
it was over two thousand years before.

    But
the same properties that make peat an archaeological gold mine can also make it
a forensic nightmare. Determining an accurate time-since-death interval is
difficult at the best of times: without the natural markers supplied by
decomposition it can be all but impossible.

    In
this instance, though, I doubted it would be such a problem. About half of the
body was now exposed. It was lying more or less on one side, knees roughly
pulled up, upper body curled in a crumpled foetal position. Both the thin top
that clung to the torso, through which the outline of a bra could be seen, and
the short skirt were synthetic, and contemporary in style. And while I couldn't
claim to be an expert, the high-heeled shoe on the now exposed right foot
looked to me like a relatively new fashion.

    The
entire body — hair, skin and clothes — was caked in viscous black peat. Even
so, nothing could disguise the horrific damage that had been inflicted. The
outlines of broken ribs were clearly visible beneath the muddy fabric, and
jagged bones poked through the flesh of the arms and lower legs. Beneath the
clinging mat of hair, the skull was crushed and misshapen, the cheeks and nose
caved in.

    'Not
much yet, apart from the obvious,' I said, cautiously.

    'Which
is?'

    I
shrugged. 'Female, although I suppose there's an outside chance it could be a
transsexual.'

    Wainwright
made a scoffing noise. 'God help us. In my day that would never have been an
issue. When did things get so complicated? Go on.'

    I was
beginning to warm to my theme. 'It's difficult to say yet how long the body's
been buried. There's some decomposition, but that's probably explained by how
close it was to the surface.'

    Proximity
to the air would allow aerobic bacteria to break down the soft tissues even in
a peat grave, albeit at a slower rate. Wainwright nodded agreement. 'So the
right timeframe to be one of Monk's victims? Less than two years, say?'

    'It
could be, yes,' I conceded. 'But I'm not going to speculate just yet.'

    'No,
of course. And the injuries?'

    'Too
soon to say if they're ante- or post-mortem, but she was obviously badly
beaten. Possibly with some kind of weapon. Hard to imagine anyone breaking
bones like that with their bare hands.'

    'Not
even Jerome Monk?' Behind his mask Wainwright grinned at my discomfort. 'Come
on, David, admit it. This does look like one of his.'

    'I'll
have a better idea once the body's been cleaned and I can see the skeleton.'

    'You're
a cautious man: I like that. But she's the right sort of age, you can see that
just from the clothes. No one over twenty-one would dare wear a skirt that
short.'

    'I
don't think—'

    He
gave a bass chuckle. 'I know, I know, that isn't very politically correct. But
unless this is a case of mutton - or even ram - dressed as lamb, then we've got
a teenage girl, young woman or whatever, who's been savagely beaten and buried
in Jerome Monk's back yard. You know what they say, if it looks like a fish and
smells like a fish . . .'

    His
manner grated, but he was only saying what I'd thought myself. 'It's possible.'

    'Ah,
a palpable hit! I'd say probable myself, but still. Which leaves the question
of which one of Monk's unfortunate paramours this might be. One of the Bennett
twins or the Williams girl?'

    'The
clothes might tell us that.'

    'True,
but this is more your province than mine. And I suspect you already have an
inkling.' He chuckled. 'Don't worry, you're not on the witness stand. Humour
me.'

    He
was a hard man to refuse. 'I'd only be guessing at this stage, but. . .'

    'Yes?'

    'Well,
the Bennett sisters were both quite tall.' I'd learned that from my hurried
research after Simms had called: Zoe and Lindsey had the willowy grace of catwalk
models. 'Whoever this is, she's more petite. It's hard to get an accurate
impression of height with the body curled like this, but you can get enough of
an idea of the femur's length to make a pretty good guess. I don't think
whoever this was could have been more than five foot three or four at the
most.'

    Even
when it was fully cleaned of soft tissue, which wasn't the case here, the thigh
bone was only a rough indicator of stature. But I'd developed a reasonable eye
for such things, and even with the remains contorted and caked in mud I was
reasonably sure they wouldn't have been tall enough to be one of the Bennett
sisters.

    Wainwright's
forehead creased as he stared down at the uppermost leg. 'Blast. Should have
seen that myself.'

    'It's
just a guess. And as you say, it's more my area than yours.'

    He
shot me a look that held none of the joviality of a moment ago. Then his eyes
crinkled. He gave a booming laugh.

    'Yes,
you're quite right. So, the odds are that this is Tina Williams. Good.' He
clapped his hands together before I could say anything. 'Anyway, first things
first. Let's finish digging her out, shall we?'

    Picking
up his trowel he set back to work, leaving me with the obscure feeling that the
conversation had somehow been my idea.

    We
didn't speak much after that, but we made good progress. The only interruptions
came when a SOCO arrived to sift through the peat from the grave. Except for a
few more rabbit bones, though, it held little of interest.

    It was
dark outside the tent by the time the body was ready to be removed. It lay at
the bottom of the muddy pit, filthy and pathetic. Simms had returned as we were
finishing, accompanied by the pathologist, who he introduced as Dr Pirie.

    Pirie
cut an odd figure. He couldn't have been much more than five feet tall, so that
his pristine overalls looked too big for his small frame. The face looking at
me from beneath the hood was so fine- boned it could have belonged to a child,
except that the skin was lined and wrinkled, and the eyes behind the gold
half-moon spectacles were old and knowing.

    'Good
evening, gentlemen. Making progress?' His voice was precise and waspish as he
came to the graveside. Next to Wainwright's towering bulk the pathologist
looked smaller than ever, a chihuahua to the archaeologist's Great Dane. But
there was no mistaking the authority he brought with him.

    Wainwright
stood back to give him room. Reluctantly, I thought. 'Nearly done. I was about
to hand over to the SOCOs to finish off.'

    'Good.'
The small mouth pursed as he crouched beside the shallow hole. 'Oh yes, very
nice . . .'

    I
wasn't sure if he was referring to the excavation or the remains themselves.
Pathologists were renowned for being an eccentric breed: Pirie was apparently
no exception.

    'The
victim's female, probably in her late teens or early twenties, judging by her
clothes. 'Wainwright had lowered his face mask now he'd moved away from the
grave. His mouth quirked in amusement. 'Dr Hunter thought she might be a
transsexual but I think we can discount that.'

    I
looked at him in surprise. Simms gave a dismissive sniff.

    'Quite.'

    'You
can see her injuries for yourself,' Wainwright boomed, all business now.
'Probably caused by either a clubbing weapon or someone with prodigious
strength.'

    'A
little early to say, I think?' Pirie commented from beside the grave.

    'Yes,
of course. That's for the post-mortem to decide, 'Wainwright corrected himself smoothly.
'As for how long it's been here, if I was pushed I'd say less than two years.'

    'You're
sure?' Simms asked sharply

    Wainwright
spread his hands. 'It's only a guess at this stage, but given the peat
conditions and the level of decomp I'm fairly confident.'

    I
stared at him, unable to believe I'd heard right. Simms nodded in satisfaction.
'So this could be one of Monk's victims, then?'

    'Oh,
I'd say that was a distinct possibility. In fact if I had to hazard another
guess I'd say this filly could well be the Williams girl. The femur's far too
short to belong to anyone as tall as the Bennett twins, but if memory serves
she was, oh, five three, five four? That'd be about right. And the injuries
certainly point to Monk after what he did to Angela Carter.'