by Neil Cross
Mia sits on the bed, looking down at the rabbit. Its nose is twitching, super-alert to its surroundings.
Gently, Mia tips the bucket onto its side. Then she inches back on the bed and puts her back to the cold wall and tries not to move or breathe and just concentrates on the rabbit.
After a long, long time the bucket moves slightly on the cold floor. She can see the rabbit’s nose, twitching away at the edge.
Then the rabbit pokes out its head and looks around. Its eyes are liquid brown.
The rabbit bolts from the bucket so quickly Mia gives out a little scream and jumps.
The rabbit bolts under the bed into the corner. It huddles there, terror-stricken.
Mia knows not to disturb it. She knows to give it time. She begins, patiently, to pick the scab on her knee. She sings herself a song. It’s a happy song that makes her think of happy times. But thinking of happy times is like being kicked in the tummy. She doesn’t know what to do.
Mia shuts down. She curls into a ball on the bed. She puts her thumb in her mouth.
Sucking it, she falls asleep.
CHAPTER 22
Zoe’s propped up in bed, feeling jetlagged and half real. She’s been awake all night, trying not to think of it.
She gives up, reaches for her laptop. Navigates to a news website.
Suspected kidnapper of Mia Dalton, she hears. Murder of Dalton family. Second home invasion in two days. No comment on suspected link to the killer of Sarah and Tom Lambert and the kidnapping of baby Emma Lambert. London stunned. DCI John Luther.
And there’s John. Tiny on the laptop screen. Stomping away from a drizzly crime scene, a big man with a big walk, buttoning his coat.
Zoe’s phone is charging at the wall. She grabs it and calls John.
‘DCI Luther,’ he says.
‘John,’ she says. ‘It’s me.’
There’s a pause. He ends it by saying, ‘Not now.’ He hangs up.
John has been many things before: distracted, evasive, depressed, wild. But he’s never been dismissive.
He always says how remarkable he finds it, that people are more polite to strangers than to the people they love. He strives to be courteous to her, takes pride in it, and she loves that about him.
Loved that about him.
That’s when Zoe knows they really are done. When John slips into the past tense.
Luther steps out of the station and hurries across the street. Howie’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting in the rain.
She passes him a buff envelope.
He opens it. Rain splats on the paper.
He scans the document, then looks up. ‘I’ve never even been to Swindon. How far is it?’
‘Sixty-odd miles. I’ll drive.’
Before getting in, he hesitates.
He says, ‘Isobel, are you sure you’re okay about this?’
She can’t meet his eyes. ‘I am if you’re sure you’re right.’
‘I’m right.’
‘Then I’m sure. Hop in.’
He holds up a finger.
‘One call,’ he says.
Howie gets in the car and starts the engine.
She feels sick.
Luther calls Ian Reed.
Reed says, ‘What’s up?’
He’s bleary. He’s been asleep. For a moment, Luther is disoriented by this thought. He realizes that, separated for just a few days, he and Reed have somehow slipped into different worlds.
Reed says, ‘So how’s it going?’
‘Complicated. How’s the neck?’
‘Better.’
‘Better enough to get you into work?’
‘Do I need to?’
‘Mate,’ says Luther. ‘I really need you. I’m doing some bobbing and weaving here.’
‘Let me get dressed. I’ll see you at the factory.’
Luther thanks him, then hangs up and gets in the car.
He and DS Howie head to Swindon.
Reed removes the soft neck brace and calls Teller to let her know he’s coming in.
She’s too busy to thank him; she just briskly and efficiently briefs him. He drinks a mug of instant coffee and knots his tie.
He tells her he’ll be at work within the hour, then goes to get his jacket.
He’s necking painkillers with water when the intercom buzzes, sudden and fretful.
Reed opens the door on a dishevelled, spectacled middle-aged man. He’s affecting the bewildered air of a curate out hunting for fossils. Reed’s never met him, but he recognizes Detective Superintendent Martin Schenk at once.
Schenk removes his slightly absurd beanie. A few strands of hair stand electrified. He gives Reed a shy grin. ‘DCI Reed?’
‘You got me, Guv.’
‘You’re looking very well, considering.’
‘I’m doing okay. Keen to get back on the job.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Schenk twists the beanie in his hands, as if anxious. Schenk is not anxious. ‘A very busy night,’ he says. ‘For your colleagues.’
‘So I hear,’ Reed says. ‘That’s why I’m up. All hands on deck.’
‘One of the perpetrators of this enormity,’ Schenk says, ‘is in the ICU, as I understand it.’
‘Apparently. The son.’
‘Under armed guard.’ Schenk shakes his head, as if to lament the state of the world. ‘So you’re pitching in?’
‘I can walk,’ Reed says. ‘I can still pick up a phone. I’ll leave the actual running round to someone else.’
Schenk nods in admiration. The admiration is real. He says, ‘Would you mind if we had a chat first?’
‘Not in principle,’ says Reed. ‘In practice, Guv, it’s not the best time.’
‘Absolutely. Which is presumably why I’m having such trouble getting through to Detective Superintendent Teller. If I was a more paranoid man, I’d think she was avoiding me.’
‘Well, she’s pretty hectic.’
‘Absolutely. It’s just – we do have one or two things to clear up.’
‘I told you,’ Reed says. ‘I don’t know who assaulted me. It was—’
‘All over very quickly. Absolutely. You’ve already been over that. Absolutely.’
‘Then what?’
‘Are you familiar with a chap called Julian Crouch?’
‘I know of him, yeah. Heard of him. He’s a dirty fucker. Pardon my French.’
‘Oh, I’ve been a copper since dinosaurs roamed the earth,’ Schenk says. ‘There’s not much language I haven’t heard. I was nicking people like Julian Crouch when it was all “blags”, “far-out” and “nostrils”.’
Nostrils is seventies slang for a sawn-off shotgun. Reed appreciates the reference, and likes Schenk for it.
Reed is scared of liking Schenk.
‘So what about him?’ Reed says. ‘Julian Crouch. What’s he got to say for himself?’
‘That you’ve been harassing him.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘As alibis go I’ve got a pretty good one.’
‘Well, he did suggest it may not have been you personally.’
‘Then who did I send? My dad?’
Schenk smiles, sadly. ‘Somebody torched Mr Crouch’s car this morning.’
‘Somebody what?’
‘Torched his car. A Jaguar. Vintage.’
Reed laughs. Knows he shouldn’t, but can’t help it. ‘When?’
‘Four or five hours ago?’
The mood must be contagious, because Schenk gives him a smile so broad and open it’s almost beautiful.
‘Look,’ says Reed, sobering. ‘The man’s a dirtbox. He’s made more enemies than you and me put together. It could be anyone. Besides which, I’m a copper. I don’t go round torching people’s cars.’
‘The, um, chap who actually torched the car—’
‘Did Crouch get a look at him?’
‘Oh yes. Didn’t I mention?’
‘No. You left out that bit.’
‘So anyway,’ says Reed.
‘Yes,’ says Schenk. ‘Sorry.’ He digs out his notebook, licks the end of a pencil stub. ‘Well, I won’t use the racial terms employed by Mr Crouch, but he describes a very tall black man – six foot fucking seven is, I believe, the term he used. Wearing a long coat. Possibly tweed.’
‘And . . .’ says Reed.
‘Well,’ says Schenk, putting the notebook away, maintaining the charade that it wasn’t a prop. ‘I know you and a DCI John Luther are very close. And this description, forgive me if I’m wrong, but does it evoke DCI Luther to you the way it does to me?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Reed says.
‘But it doesn’t exactly rule him out, does it?’
‘This wasn’t John.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because after a week like John’s had, the last thing he’s got time to do is go round setting fire to people’s cars.’
‘Not even to avenge a grave insult to an old friend?’
Reed is quiet now. Knowing better than to speak.
‘Coppers talk,’ says Schenk. ‘It’s common currency you were beaten up by Crouch’s thugs.’
‘Gossip isn’t the same thing as evidence. I don’t know who beat me up. And John wouldn’t go off piste based on chitchat.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘He loves his job,’ Reed says, ‘he wouldn’t jeopardize it over something like this. It’s not in him.’
‘But as you say, he’s had a traumatic time. On a day like that, who’d blame a man for going a little over the edge?’
‘All you’ve got to do,’ Reed says, ‘is speak to his wife. I’m sure she’ll tell you where he was.’
‘I intend to. Zoe is it?’
‘Yeah,’ says Reed. ‘Zoe.’
‘And how are Zoe and John?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. Marriage to a copper – it can be difficult. We all know that.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Reed says.
Schenk gives him a meek, humorous look that suggests he’d like to if only he wasn’t here, doing this.
‘Well anyway,’ Schenk says. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
He means exactly the opposite.
Reed looks at him. Bright blue eyes in pale skin. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he says, indicating the door.
‘Goodness gracious,’ Schenk says. ‘What am I thinking? Can I give you a lift? Do my bit?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’
‘With the whiplash?’
‘Honestly, I’m good. Codeine. Swear by it.’
‘Then at least let me walk you to your car.’
He walks him all the way and stands at the kerb as Reed pulls into the traffic.
Christine James is woken by strident hammering at the front door. At first, she thinks it’s next door having another barney. She turns over, bundles the duvet round her head, ignores it.
But there it is again. Like someone’s hitting the door with a sledge-hammer. Then a voice.
‘Christine? Christine James?’
Blinking, Christine pulls the duvet to her throat and bellows: ‘Who is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector John Luther, from the Serious Crime Unit in London. I need to speak to you urgently.’
‘What about?’
‘Please open the door.’
Christine gets out of bed. She considers going downstairs. Instead, she opens the curtains.
She sees a pretty red-headed young woman leaning with her arms crossed against the bonnet of an old Volvo.
Christine has spent enough time with the police – family liaison officers, detectives, press officers, all the rest of it.
She knows them at once.
She opens the window, pokes her head out and cranes down to look. A big, black police officer is standing at the door, looking up at her.
The street is quiet. It’s a nice street. She’s got some nice neighbours. She’s got an okay life, a decent job at WHSmith’s head office. She’s come a long way.
She’s got that feeling, deep in her gut.
It’s like every other big event in your life: your first day at school, your first kiss, losing your cherry, your first day at your first job, getting married. All those days you anticipate, rehearsing in your imagination, going over them again and again and again. But when the day comes, it’s never like you expected it to be.
For years, Christine was counselled by a woman from the Elise Fox Foundation. Closure may never come, the woman told her, you have to prepare yourself for that. And if it does come, it may not be what you were hoping for. You have to prepare yourself for that, too.
Christine had cried at that point, because the woman was kind, and had been through something.
But the woman knew Christine would fantasize about this day anyway. It was just one of the things you did, one of the ways you get through the not knowing.
Christine knows this is the day.
It’s six o’clock in the morning and she’s leaning out the bedroom window and a tall policeman’s craning his head to look up at her, saying in a low, deep voice, a nice voice, ‘Ms James. It’s very important.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ says Christine. ‘Just let me put some clothes on.’
Ten minutes later, she’s in the back of a police car, hammering under lights and sirens towards London.
The red-headed young woman drives faster than Christine has ever been driven before. For a while it gives her motion sickness.
Then she realizes it’s not motion sickness. It’s just the old familiar nausea, an enemy so old it’s almost a friend.
Reed drives for half a mile through growing traffic before he feels safe enough to call Luther.
‘Wotcher,’ Luther shouts down the line.
Reed can hear the siren’s lament. He says, ‘Where are you?’
‘Just inside the M25.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Witness transport.’
‘Can you talk now?’
‘About what?’
‘Someone torched Julian Crouch’s car last night,’ Reed says. ‘Big black geezer. Tweed coat.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Luther shouts. ‘I’m not much of a car person, but that thing was nice. That was a nice car.’
‘So,’ says Reed. ‘I’ve had Complaints round.’
‘Already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s on the case?’
‘Martin Schenk. You know him?’
‘I know his work.’
‘So do I. He’s not the kind of dog you want sniffing your arse.’
‘He’s not, is he? Shit.’
Reed imagines Luther scratching his head and thinking this through as outer London flashes past, the car hammering it under blues and twos.
‘So,’ says Reed. ‘The minute Schenk sets eyes on any copper who matches the description Crouch gave, that copper’s in deep shit.’
‘Even if he’s busy?’
‘If they think he’s going round torching vintage Jags, it doesn’t matter how busy he is.’
‘But if they pull in the wrong copper,’ Luther says, ‘that wouldn’t be good for Mia Dalton.’
‘How are you looking on that?’
‘I’m close. I can do it.’
‘Okay,’ says Reed. ‘So Crouch needs to change his mind about what he saw.’
‘He does,’ says Luther. ‘Can you take care of that?’
‘I can give it a try.’
‘Excellent. So where’s Schenk right now?’
> ‘That’s the thing. He’s on his way to speak to Zoe.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,’ says Reed. Then he says, ‘I’ll tell you what, whoever torched Crouch’s car, I don’t think he was thinking straight.’
‘I don’t think he was,’ Luther says. ‘I think he was probably having a bad day.’
‘I think he probably was.’
‘Can you text me Schenk’s number?’
‘On its way.’
Reed hangs up, begins to thumb out a text as he drives.
Luther hangs up. He turns to Howie. ‘I need you to pull over.’
She gives him a look: You’re joking.
‘It’s important,’ he says. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
Howie pulls over to the hard shoulder.
Christine James sits in the back, looking wide-eyed and lost.
Howie shoots her a reassuring glance.
Then Luther turns in his seat to face her. He says, ‘Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I won’t be long.’
Christine blinks at him. As if this morning could get any stranger. Then she rifles in her handbag and passes Luther a battered pink clamshell Motorola.
Luther paces the hard shoulder in the morning rain. He uses his own phone to call Schenk’s number.
Schenk is quick to answer, barking his name by way of salutation: ‘Schenk.’
Luther can hear he’s at the wheel, on the hands-free.
‘Hi,’ Luther says. ‘DCI Luther here. I was asked to give you a call?’
‘DCI Luther! Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’
‘Not a problem. How can I help?’
‘Well, it’s silly really.’
Luther makes himself ride that out without answering. He waits for two or three seconds, watching the motorway traffic, then says, ‘So what can I do to help?’
‘Silly as it is, this is obviously a matter I’d prefer to discuss face-to-face.’
‘So let’s do that. Where are you now?’
‘En route to Peckham.’
‘Then you could take a detour? I’m near the station. Can you make it over here?’
‘Well,’ says Schenk. ‘I could, yes. But I do have this one call to make.’
‘I can’t promise to be around later,’ Luther says. ‘We’re having a funny old day.’
