The room was full of boxes.
I switched on the light. They were stacked one on top of the other, an assortment of plain cardboard and document boxes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Everyone has a past. Good or bad, it's what helps make us what we are.
This was mine.
After Kara and Alice had been killed I'd tried to run away from my old life. I'd dropped friends and colleagues, severed ties with anything and everything that connected me to what I'd lost. I'd sold or given away most of my belongings, but there had been some things that I either hadn't known what to do with or couldn't bear to let go. I'd put them in storage and done my best to forget all about them, until I'd felt able to come back and pick up the threads of my old life. Now all that remained of it was in these boxes. Photographs, diaries, memories.
Work.
I took another drink and set the glass down on a shelf. The boxes weren't in any order, but everything personal was in the plain and mismatched ones, flung into them in a barely remembered daze. I still wasn't ready to look in those. My research and case files were in the document boxes, and these at least were labelled.
I was dusty and sweating by the time I located the one I wanted. Carrying it into the living room, I set it on the low coffee table and opened it. The dry smell of old paper wafted out. The files were in alphabetical order, so it wasn't difficult to find the one containing my notes from the Monk case. There were several bulging cardboard folders, bound together with a thick rubber band. The band had perished with age, and disintegrated when I pulled them out. The folders themselves stirred echoes of memory: they were distinctive, blue and marbled, and I could remember I'd bought them in bulk to save money.
Shutting out that thought I laid them down and opened the first one. A bundle of old floppy discs slid out, meticulously labelled but useless on modern computers. Setting aside the outdated squares of plastic, I pulled out the rest of the folder's contents. There was a transparent folder containing the photographs of the grave inside the forensic tent. I flicked through them, the peat-caked remains caught starkly in the camera's flash. Each image brought a pulse of memory, but they could wait till later.
I turned to the case notes themselves. Most were printed hard copies, but mixed amongst them were pages I'd written in biro. While the script was obviously mine, it looked subtly different. Everything changes over time, including handwriting.
I wasn't even sure the person who'd written this still existed.
One of the sheets of paper was smeared with a dark smudge. It was only a few preliminary notes, hastily scribbled, and I'd started to put it to one side before I realized.
Kara mopping up the yoghurt Alice dropped on to the papers. 'Sorry, Daddy.'
I felt as though I'd been punched in the heart. Suddenly there was no air in the room. Dropping the smudged sheet on to the table I hurried out into the hallway The cold, rain-freshened air braced me when I opened the front door. I gulped it in, no longer caring who might be out there. Outside, the wet street glistened in the streetlights. The night held that fresh, post-storm silence, heightened by the drip and run of water in the gutters and the distant swish of traffic. Gradually, some measure of calm returned. The emotional jack-in-the-box was back in the compartment I'd made for it, where it would lie coiled and waiting.
Until next time.
Closing the front door, I went back into the living room. The document box and papers lay on the table where I'd left them. I picked up the page with the dark smudge and carefully tucked it away in the folder.
Then, taking a long drink of bourbon, I sat down and started to read.
* * *
Chapter 12
I guessed it wouldn't be good news when my doorbell rang next morning. It had been after three before I'd finally gone to bed, having pored over my old notes on the Monk investigation until my eyes swam. I'd felt sure I must have overlooked something, that there was some vital piece of information hidden among the dry pages. But they'd revealed nothing I hadn't known already. Tina Williams' injuries were horrific but hardly unique. I'd encountered worse since then, and even worked on a still unsolved serial-killer investigation in Scotland that bore chilling similarities. It was depressing to realize that there were others like Monk out there, still waiting to be caught.
In the end all I had to show for my efforts was another tension headache and a feeling that eight years was both a lifetime and no time at all.
I'd phoned the hospital first thing to see how Sophie was, only to be told they couldn't release any information. I'd left my number anyway, then debated what to do next. Though not for long. Whatever answers there might be, I wasn't going to find them in London. I called the university to tell them I'd be taking a few days off. I was owed holiday and Erica, the department secretary, had been telling me for weeks I needed a break.
Although this probably wasn't what she had in mind.
I didn't know how long I'd be away, so I packed enough to see me through. I'd almost finished when the chime of the doorbell echoed through the flat. I paused, tension knotting my stomach.
I knew who it would be.
Terry looked as though he'd hardly slept. Which perhaps he hadn't, given how long it would have taken him to drive here. His face was pouched and sallow, his jaw blued with stubble, and not even the mint of his chewing gum could hide the sour smell of alcohol on his breath.
'Getting to be a habit, isn't it?' he said.
I reluctantly stood back to let him in. 'Any news about Sophie?'
'Nope. No change.'
'So why are you here? It's a long way from Dartmoor.'
'Don't flatter yourself. I didn't come all this way just to see you. I've got other people I need to talk to while I'm here.'
He went into the sitting room without being asked. My notes from the Monk investigation were still on the coffee table, waiting for me to pack them away. Terry went over and picked up the top sheet.
'Been doing some homework?'
'Just going over a few notes.' I took it off him, put it in the folder and closed it. 'So what can I do for you?'
'No coffee this time?'
'I'm going out.'
He glanced at the bag. 'So I see. Anywhere nice?'
'Just tell me what you want, Terry.'
'I want you to tell me what happened yesterday, for a start.'
I'd been through this with the police numerous times the night before, but I knew there was no point in arguing. I went through it again now, from Sophie's phone call to how I'd found her unconscious on the bathroom floor. When I'd finished, Terry continued to stare at me without speaking. It was an old policeman's trick, but
I'd seen it done too often before to fall for it. I looked back at him and waited.
'I thought you said you hadn't kept in touch with Sophie Keller,' he said at last.
'I hadn't.'
'You expect me to believe she just called you out of the blue? After eight years?'
'That's right.' He stared at me impassively, jaw bunching rhythmically on the gum. I sighed, annoyed. 'Look, I've no idea what sort of trouble she was in or why she called me. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Have you spoken to any of the people in the village? Friends, anyone who might know why she was attacked?'
'Are you trying to tell me how to run an investigation?'
I held my temper in check. 'No, but it seems a coincidence it happened so soon after Jerome Monk escaped. I don't mean he was the one who attacked her, but there must be some connection.'
Terry had stopped chewing. 'What makes you so sure it wasn't him?'
'Why would he have anything against Sophie? She was the only person who tried to help him. And how would he even know where to find her?'
'You think you can't find out stuff like that in prison? Grow up. And if you're looking for a reason, she was probably the last woman he set eyes on. He's had years of lying in his cell, thinking what he'd like to do to her.'
That invited a question I'd no
t wanted to ask. But Terry had brought it out in the open. 'Was she raped?'
'No.' Terry's eyes were cold.
I was thankful for that, at least. 'Then it doesn't sound like Monk, does it? And he doesn't normally leave his victims alive.'
'He could have been disturbed or scared off.'
'Monk?' That was so far-fetched I almost laughed. 'Who by?' 'All right, since you don't think it was him just remind me what you were doing at Sophie's house yourself?'
'I've already told you.'
'Oh, that's right! Someone you haven't seen for years phones you up asking for help, so you jump in your car and drive two hundred miles, for lunch. And when she doesn't show up you track down where she lives, wander into her house and find her unconscious.'
'That's what happened.'
'So you say. But let's try this instead: you go to her house and force your way in. She's naked underneath her bathrobe, you get carried away. Boom. Then you panic and call it in as if you'd just found her.'
I stared at him, appalled. 'That's ridiculous!'
'Is it? The two of you always seemed pretty close on the search. I always wondered if there was something going on between you.'
I realized my fists were clenched. I opened them, fighting not to lose my temper, knowing that was what he wanted.
'Not everyone's like you, Terry.'
He gave a laugh. 'Oh, here we go! I was wondering how long it'd take.'
'If you don't believe me, ask Sophie. She'll tell you the same when she wakes up.'
'If she wakes up.' That stopped me. Terry nodded. 'A head injury like that, there's no knowing. Which puts you in an awkward position, doesn't it?'
I couldn't believe I was hearing this. Terry took a card from his wallet and tossed it on to the coffee table.
'Anything else happens, call me. My mobile number's on there. Don't bother with the office landline, I'm never there.' He went to the hallway and paused, his expression ugly. 'Don't pretend you're any different to me, Hunter. You're no better than anyone else.'
He slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls. I didn't move for a while, then went to the nearest chair and sat down. I felt stunned by Terry's hostility as much as his accusation. There was no love lost between us, but could he seriously believe that I was capable of doing something like that? Attacking Sophie?
Apparently.
Anger began to kick in again. I went to finish packing. Brooding wouldn't help, and neither would sitting around here.
I almost threw Terry's card away, but at the last minute I tucked it in my wallet. Then I set the alarm on my flat, threw my bag into the car boot and drove away. If I didn't get snarled up in traffic I could be in Exeter by mid-afternoon.
If I was going to start digging around in the past, an archaeologist was as good a place as any to start.
I hadn't given Leonard Wainwright a thought in years. I would have been more than happy to keep it that way, but it made sense to talk to him, at least. Now that Monk had reared his ugly head again, it couldn't hurt to see if he could add anything to the little I already knew.
The weather had steadily worsened as I'd neared Exeter, and by the time I arrived the rain was coming down in a sullen downpour. I booked into an anonymous hotel not far from the hospital. It was one of the bland chains that spring up in most city or town centres, with piped music in the lifts and plastic menus offering pre-cooked food. But it was cheap and convenient, and as well as a view of a car park my room had a Wi-Fi connection. Unpacking my laptop, I ordered a sandwich and set to work.
Finding Wainwright proved harder than I expected. I didn't have his address or phone number, and Terry had said he'd retired. I tried his old department at Cambridge anyway, hoping that someone there would be able to help. The receptionist soon set me right on that score.
'We can't reveal personal details,' she told me waspishly.
I spent a fruitless half-hour searching on the internet before it occurred to me to try the obvious. Years before Wainwright had said he lived at Torbay. There was no guarantee he still did, or wasn't ex- directory. But I typed his name into an online phone directory and there he was: Wainwright, Prof. L. The entry gave both phone number and address.
Genius, I thought ruefully, massaging my stiff neck.
The phone rang for a long time before anyone answered. 'Hello, Wainwright residence?'
It was a woman's voice, clipped and officious. 'Can I speak to Leonard Wainwright, please?'
There was a pause. 'Who is this?'
'My name's David Hunter. I worked with Professor Wainwright several years ago,' I added, not sure if he'd remember me.
The pause wasn't quite so long this time. 'I don't recognize your name. Would he know you from Cambridge?'
'No, we were . . .' I searched for the right phrase, then gave up. 'It was on a police investigation. I'm in the area, and—'
I didn't get the chance to finish. 'Oh, I see. I'm afraid Leonard's unavailable, but I'm his wife. You're in the area, you say?'
'Yes, but—'
'Then you must pop round! I'm sure Leonard would love to see an old colleague.'
I doubted it. 'Perhaps I should just call back later . . .'
'Nonsense! Are you free for lunch tomorrow? We usually have something light around one o'clock. Unless you have another appointment, of course.'
Lunch? That was the last thing I'd expected. 'If you're sure it's no trouble . . .'
'No trouble at all. Oh, jolly good! Leonard will look forward to it.'
I hung up, bemused by the invitation and wondering exactly what 'unavailable' meant. The prospect of lunch with the archaeologist and his wife wasn't something I relished, and I doubted Wainwright would thank his wife either. Still, I'd accepted now. That left me the rest of the evening to fill. I was wondering what to do when my phone rang. It was the hospital. Sophie was conscious.
* * *
Chapter 13
Traumatic brain injury isn't like a broken arm. Its unpredictable nature makes any sort of prognosis difficult, but in general the longer a victim remains unconscious, the more chance there is of serious damage.
Sophie had been lucky. Although the blow to her head had left her with bad concussion, her skull wasn't fractured and the scans had revealed no sign of complications such as haemorrhaging or haematoma: cranial bleeds that could go undetected, only to incapacitate or kill days after the initial injury.
She'd woken the night before, a few hours after I'd left the hospital. She'd been groggy at first, slipping in and out of consciousness, but the fact that she was awake at all was good news. It had been at her insistence that the hospital had called me. Now she was propped up in bed in a gown, the pillows splayed untidily behind her. Her tawny hair was tied back with a band, so that the injury to her face was clearly visible. Her skull might not be fractured but her cheekbone was. Although the swelling had started to subside, the bruising extended from temple to jaw in a startling kaleidoscope of colour.
'Thanks for coming,' she said as I sat down. She absently touched the plastic ID bracelet on her wrist. 'I'm not sure whether I should thank you or apologize.'
'There's no need for either.'
'Of course there is. I've put you to all this trouble, and if you hadn't found me . . .'
'But I did. And you haven't put me to any trouble.'
She gave me a wry look. 'Yeah, right.'
I smiled, still relieved that she was all right. Especially after Terry's visit. Rain drummed against the window, which reflected a reversed image of the stark hospital ward under the fluorescent lights. Sophie had a corner bed, and the one next to hers was empty, allowing us to talk without being overheard.
'How are you feeling?' I asked.
Sophie gave a wan smile. 'Apart from like I've got the world's worst hangover, about the same as I look, I expect.'
Given what she'd been through, she looked remarkably good. Eight years had barely left a mark. Her face was unlined, and apart from the bruising she did
n't appear much changed from the last time I saw her. But then Sophie had the sort of bone structure that would always age well.
She looked down at her hands. 'I suppose I feel more embarrassed than anything. And confused. I don't know which is worse, the fact that somebody broke into my house and did this to me, or that I can't remember anything about it.'