The Calling of the Grave by Simon Beckett Page A

was mocking. Easy. Don't let him bait you. This was comfortable territory
for him. If I lost control he could wipe the floor with me and still have a pub
full of friendly witnesses to vouch that I'd started it. I didn't know what I'd
done to him, but I no longer cared. And realizing that I also realized
something else.
        'Things
not going so well, Terry?'
        His
eyes narrowed. 'What are you talking about?'
        'That's
why you're here, isn't it?' I nodded around the pub. 'Recapturing the glory
days. Your reputation must have taken a knock after what happened with
Monk.'
        The
smile had gone. His expression was ugly. 'I'm doing fine. Just having a few
days off.'
        But
his eyes gave the lie to that. There had always been something reckless about
Terry; that was part of his charm. Now I saw there was something self-destructive
as well. He relied on luck and momentum to carry him through: both had let him
down and he was lashing out in frustration.
        I
just happened to be a convenient target.
        There
was no point in staying any longer. Kara had been right: confronting him had
accomplished nothing. As I walked out, I heard him saying something to the
group at the bar. Their raucous laughter followed me through the door, then it
had swung shut behind me and I was back in the street.
        I
went straight home. It was too late for me to collect Alice, and I half
expected them to be home before me. They weren't, so I began preparing dinner.
I was already regretting going to see Terry, berating myself for making Kara do
the school run. I resolved to make it up to them both. I'd take them somewhere
that weekend, perhaps the zoo for Alice, and then find a babysitter so Kara and
I could go out by ourselves in the evening.
        I was
so busy planning it that it was a while before I realized how late they were. I
called Kara's mobile but there was no answer. Her voicemail didn't cut in,
which was unusual. But I didn't have time to worry about it before the doorbell
rang.
        'If
this is somebody cold-calling . . .' I muttered, drying my hands as I went to
answer it.
        But
it wasn't. Two police officers stood outside. They'd come to tell me that a
businessman drunk from an expense-account lunch had lost control of his BMW and
hit Kara and Alice's car. It had shunted it in front of a container lorry that
had crushed the new Volvo's frame like balsa. My wife and daughter had died at
the scene.
        And
as quickly as that my old life ended.
    ----

THE PRESENT
    ----
        

Chapter 8
        
        I'd
just come out of the shower when the doorbell rang. I swore and grabbed my
bathrobe. Still towelling my hair, I glanced at the kitchen clock as I hurried
into the hall, wondering who would be calling at nine o'clock on a Sunday
morning.
        I
paused to look through the peephole I'd had installed in the front door. I was
expecting to see a pair of polite young men with evangelical eyes and
ill-fitting suits, hoping to sell me the dream of everlasting life. But I could
only see one man through the distorted bubble of glass. He had turned to gaze
at the street, so all I could see of him was his broad shoulders and short dark
hair. It was thinning at the crown, exposing a palm-sized patch of scalp that he'd
unsuccessfully tried to hide with a comb-over.
        I
unlocked the door. I'd been advised by the police to fit a security chain after
I'd been attacked the previous year, but I'd never got round to it. Even though
the person responsible still hadn't been caught, the peephole seemed paranoid
enough.
        I'd
take my chances.
        The
pewter sky cast a cold light when I opened the door. The lime trees lining the
road outside my flat had shed most of their leaves, covering the street with a
whispering mat of yellow. Although the October morning was cold and damp the
visitor wore a suit without any sort of coat. He turned and gave a thin smile,
eyes taking in my