The Calling of the Grave Read Free

sort of loss once, but twice? And twins?
        When
Tina Williams, an attractive, dark-haired nineteen-year-old, went missing as
well, it sparked the inevitable false alarms and hysteria. For a time it seemed
there was a definite lead: a white saloon car was picked up on street CCTV
cameras and reported by witnesses in the areas where both Lindsey Bennett and
Tina Williams had last been seen.
        Then
Monk claimed his fourth victim, and for ever sealed his reputation as a
monster. At twenty-five, Angela Carson was older than the others. Unlike them
she was neither dark-haired nor pretty. There was also a more significant
difference.
        She
was profoundly deaf and couldn't speak.
        Afterwards,
neighbours described hearing Monk's laughter as he'd raped her and battered her
to death in her own flat. When the two policemen who responded to the 999 calls
broke down her door they found him with her body in the wrecked bedroom, bloodied
and crazed. They were big men, yet he'd beaten them both unconscious before
disappearing into the night.
        And
then, apparently, off the face of the earth.
        Despite
one of the largest manhunts in UK history, no sign of Monk was found. Or of
either the Bennett twins or Tina Williams. A search found a hairbrush and a
lipstick belonging to Zoe Bennett hidden under his caravan, but not the girls
themselves. It was three months before Monk was seen again, spotted by the side
of a road in the middle of Dartmoor. Filthy and reeking, he made no attempt to
resist arrest, or to deny his crimes. At his trial he pleaded guilty to four
counts of murder, but refused to reveal either where he'd been hiding or what
he'd done with the missing girls' bodies. The popular theory was that he'd
buried them out on the moor before going to ground there himself. But Monk just
smiled his contemptuous smile and said nothing.
        With
the killer behind bars, the story faded from the public eye, the missing girls
just more victims whose fates were unknown.
        That
might be about to change.
        Standing
out like a beacon on the drab moorland was a bright blue forensic tent. It was
roughly halfway between the road and the rock formation, a short distance off
to one side of the rugged dirt track that linked the two. I stood for a moment
in the fine drizzle, breathing in the fecund scent of wet peat as I wondered
what I'd find inside.
        Then
I set off along the track towards it.
    ----
        

Chapter 2
        
        A
corridor of police tape had been strung from the midway point of the track out
to the forensic tent. The moor had been churned into black mud by the constant
tramp of feet, and my boots squelched as I walked between the parallel lines of
flapping tape. The area around the tent had been cordoned off, and a uniformed
dog- handler stood guard at the opening. He shifted from foot to foot to keep
warm as he and the dog, a German Shepherd, watched me approach.
        'I'm
here to see DCS Simms,' I said, a little out of breath.
        Before
he could say anything the tent flap was thrown back and a man appeared in the
gap. He was in his forties but seemed to aspire to be older. His face was
remarkably unlined, and as if to offset the blandness of his features he'd
cultivated a moustache that gave him a military bearing. The white overalls he
wore somehow didn't look right on him. He'd pushed back the protective hood,
and the black hair beneath it had managed to stay so neatly combed it looked
moulded.
        'Dr
Hunter? I'm Simms.'
        I'd
have guessed as much even if I hadn't recognized his voice. It was peremptory
and officious, confident in its authority. His pale eyes flicked over me and in
that moment I felt that, for better or worse, I'd been swiftly assessed.
        'We
were expecting you half an hour ago,' he said, before disappearing back inside.
         Nice
to meet you, too. The dog-handler moved aside to let me through, tightening
his