VAL McDERMID
The Grave Tattoo
Copyright
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006
Copyright © Val McDermid 2006
Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
Ebook Edition © 2006 ISBN: 9780007327669
Version: 2021-01-29
Acclaim for The Grave Tattoo
Absorbing modern mysteryMcDermids mix of historical and literary clues with modern detection is handled with panache
The Times
One of the worlds leading mystery writers, combining acuity of perception about the pathological mind with a rare talent for blindsiding the reader and graphic descriptive powers. Thomas Harris crossed with Agatha Christie, if you willThe Grave Tattoo is a great read. Englands heritage history has never been so chilling
Observer
McDermid has lion-hearted courage as a writerthe complex plot is handled with [her] usual narrative confidence
Independent
[A] cleverly plotted thrillerlost manuscripts, 200-year-old enigmas, an isolated Lake District village mystery and oodles of atmosphere: McDermid concocts a fascinating brew which is miles away from her customary bloody excursions into the realms of the perverse. It should gain her a crowd of new fans
Guardian
One of our most accomplished crime writerscompelling
Glasgow Herald
Cunninggrippingso adroit in her pulling together of various items of historical conjecture and marrying them up to a murderous plot that has as many twists and turns as one of her Tony Hillsa substantially entertaining novel which grips the readers interest from the first page until the final deeply satisfying sentence
Daily Express
Bodies pile upone with bizarre tattoosand trying to solve a 200-year-old mystery becomes increasingly lethal and readable
Daily Mirror
Safe for the squeamishone of her best
Literary Review
An irresistible combination of contemporary psychological thriller and historical mystery filled with the moody atmosphere of the Lake District. And in Wordsworth scholar Jane Gresham, McDermid has created a character whose keen intellect matches her generous heart
Tess Gerritsen
Dedication
For Kelly my blossom of snow
Epigraph
O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
William Wordsworth, Simon Lee
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Epigraph
The Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Val McDermid
About the Publisher
The Prelude
September 2005
All landscapes hold their own secrets. Layer on layer, the past is buried beneath the surface. Seldom irretrievable, it lurks, waiting for human agency or meteorological accident to force the skeleton up through flesh and skin back into the present. Like the poor, the past is always with us.
That summer, it rained as if England had been transported to the tropics. Water fell in torrents, wrecking glorious gardens, turning meadows into quagmires where livestock struggled hock-deep in mud. Rivers burst their banks, their suddenly released waters finding their own level by demolishing whatever was vulnerable in their path. In the flooded streets of one previously picturesque village, cars were swept up like toys and deposited in the harbour, choking it in a chaos of mangled metal. Landslips swamped cars with mud and farmers mourned lost crops.
No part of the country was immune from the sheets of stinging rain. City and countryside alike struggled under the weight of water. In the Lake District, it sheeted down over fell and dale, subtly altering the contours of a centuries-old landscape. The water levels in the lakes reached record summer highs; the only discernible benefit was that when the sun did occasionally shine, it revealed a lusher green than usual.
Above the village of Fellhead on the shores of Langmere, ancient peat hags were carved into new shapes under the onslaught of water. And as autumn crept in, gradually the earth gave up one of its close-held secrets.
From a distance, it looked like a scrunched-up tarpaulin stained brown by the brackish water of the bog. At first glance, it seemed insignificant; another piece of discarded rubbish that had worked its way to the surface. But closer inspection revealed something far more chilling. Something that would reach across the centuries and bring even more profound changes in its wake than the weather.
My beloved son,
I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your fathers hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You, will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit.
Your loving Mother
1
The way it rained that summer It would have broken your heart to see. It smashed its sheets to smithereens And flowed down the corrugated roofs Of dismal railway stations. And I would sit waiting for trains, Feet in puddles, My head starry with rain, Thinking of you miles from me In Grecian sunlight Where rain never falls.
Jane Gresham stared at what she had written then with an impatient stroke of her pen crossed it through so firmly the paper tore and split in the wake of the nib. Bloody Jake, she thought angrily. She was a grownup, not some lovestruck adolescent. Sub-poetic maundering was something she should have left behind years ago. Shed had insight enough to know she was never going to be a poet by the time shed finished her first degree. Studying other peoples poetry was what she was good at; interpreting their work, exploring thematic links in their verse and opening up their complexity to those who were, she hoped, an assorted number of steps behind her in the process. Bloody, bloody Jake, she said out loud, crumpling the paper savagely and tossing it in the bin. He wasnt worth the expense of her intellectual energy. Nor the familiar claw of pain that grabbed at her chest at the thought of him.
Eager to shunt aside thoughts of Jake, Jane turned to the stack of CDs beside the desk in the poky room that the council classified as a bedroom but which she called, with knowing pretentiousness, her study. She scanned the titles, deliberately starting at the bottom, looking for something that held no resonance of herwhat was he? Her ex? Her erstwhile lover? Her lover-in-abeyance? Who knew? She certainly didnt. And she doubted very much whether he gave her a second thought from one week to the next. Muttering at herself under her breath, she pulled out Nick Caves Murder Ballads and slotted it into the CD drive of her computer. The dark growl of his voice matched her mood so perfectly, it became a paradoxical antidote. In spite of herself, Jane found she was almost smiling.
She picked up the book she had been attempting to study before Jake Hartnell had intruded on her thoughts. But it took her only a few minutes to realise how far her focus had drifted. Irritated with herself again, she slammed it shut. Wordsworths letters of 1807 would have to wait.