by Neil Cross
‘If you’re asking me for an alibi,’ she says, ‘it won’t hold water. As soon as Complaints look into it, it’ll fall to pieces. There’s a factory full of coppers who’ll testify you weren’t there at the time the call was made. Then we’ll both be in it.’
‘I know that. It just needs to stand for a few hours.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the allegation’s going to be withdrawn.’
‘Okay, stop there,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Don’t hint. Don’t imply. Shut up.’
‘Okay. But call me, yeah? In two minutes?’
She agrees with a grunt. Then says, ‘Whose phone are you calling from?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘John, am I going to get sacked over this?’
‘Nope.’
He hangs up and hurries back to the car, hunched and jogging in the rain. He gives the Motorola back to Ms James, thanks her.
Howie pulls away. Tyres hiss wet, aquaplane. Sirens wail.
Howie doesn’t look at Luther. Doesn’t ask.
A minute later, Luther’s phone rings.
He checks the number: DSU Teller.
He says, ‘Morning, Boss. We’re on our way. How’s the patient?’
CHAPTER 23
Zoe answers the door to a middle-aged, dishevelled man in an overcoat. Thinning hair plastered to his scalp, a look of slightly nonplussed benevolence. ‘Mrs Luther?’
‘Mr Schenk?’
‘Martin, please. May I?’
‘Of course,’ she says, standing aside. ‘John told me you’d call.’
Schenk pauses only for half a second. ‘He did?’
Zoe feels a surge of embarrassment. ‘He just called,’ she says. ‘You told him you were in the area. I suppose he-’
‘Put two and two together.’
She smiles and nods.
‘Well,’ Schenk says. ‘That’s his job. Talking of which, how are they on the missing girl? Little Mia Dalton. Do you know?’
‘Apparently they’re on the edge of some breakthrough. I don’t know what.’
‘Well, please God you’re right.’ He glances sheepishly over her shoulder, into the house. ‘I wonder if I might? Just for a moment.’
She says, ‘Oh, gosh. Please. I’m sorry.’
Schenk follows her through to the kitchen on sopping wet feet. Zoe wants to help him.
‘You’re very kind,’ he says, at her shoulder. ‘I’ve been up half the night. And your house is very warm.’
‘I feel the cold,’ she says. ‘Always did. I think I was built for warmer climes.’
‘As was I. Warm climes and red wines.’
She smiles at that because he doesn’t look like a red-wine drinker. He looks like a Guinness and whisky man.
She takes his coat — faint dog smell in the tweed — she bets he keeps terriers. He sits on a stool at the breakfast bar while she pours them each a coffee.
John had told her to have a hot drink prepared. It’ll get Schenk out the house more quickly.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ Schenk says. ‘This poor child.’
‘Horrible. Are you involved with it at all?’
‘Goodness me, no. Thanks be to God.’ He takes the coffee from her hand, thanks her. ‘A lot of coppers are taking it very badly.’
‘You know how it is with coppers and kids.’
‘Oh, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Did John tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Well, it was… a very upsetting crime scene. Police officers see a great deal. But sometimes, well… Many people who saw what John saw last night will be very upset. He really didn’t tell you?’
‘He doesn’t tell me anything. He thinks it’s disrespectful to the dead.’
‘That’s very admirable.’
‘Well, he’s a very admirable man.’
‘So I hear. Many fine officers speak highly of him.’
‘He’s dedicated. He works hard.’
She clasps her hands in her lap, fights the urge to tear a kitchen towel to shreds, to pick imaginary lint from her lapel.
‘The man, or men, who slaughtered this family,’ Schenk says. ‘And who then took that poor little girl. They left a message in the victims’ blood. On the wall. The word Pigs. Seeing something like that, it can be difficult to walk away from. It’s likely John will need to take a break after this.’
She laughs out loud before she can stop herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Schenk says. ‘Did I go touching a raw nerve?’
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘It’s just — well, I’ve been trying to make John take a break since God was a boy.’
‘And he won’t?’
‘He says he can’t relax.’
‘Ah,’ says Schenk. ‘I was a murder detective, for my sins. So I know what it’s like. My Avril, I put her through some dark years. All the worrying, it’s very difficult. Although mind you, I sympathize with John, too — wanting to tell you everything, just so you understand. But then again, wanting to shield you from it.’
‘How long were you a murder detective?’
‘Most of my career. Until I got stabbed.’ He brushes her reaction away with a dismissive wave. ‘Oh, it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. A little pneumothorax. A day or two in hospital. Then home to a very frosty Mrs Schenk.’ He chuckles fondly at the memory. ‘I told her, okay I’ll make the move. But you should know they call Complaints the Rat Squad. I won’t be liked.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘I like you enough to make up for the rest of them.’
‘That’s very sweet.’
‘She’s a very sweet woman. You’d like her.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Since before God was a boy.’ He blushes, then shows her his wedding ring. Plain gold band. ‘Childhood sweethearts.’
‘Oh,’ Zoe laughs, ‘that’s something I know all about. Well, practically.’
‘So I hear! You and DCI Luther-’
‘Met at university, yes. How do you know that?’
‘Because, sadly — and I do mean sadly — I’ve been asking some questions about your husband. I’m very worried about him.’
You and me both, she thinks.
She says, ‘In what way?’
‘Well, as I say. The psychological pressures. It causes a lot of problems. Mental health issues. Marital issues.’
‘His mental health is fine.’
‘Well, that’s good to know. And, if I may, your marriage…’
She looks him in the eye and knows how dangerous it would be to lie. ‘The marriage is pretty bad,’ she says.
‘I see. I’m very sorry.’
‘We’ll get through it.’
‘Well, I certainly hope you do. So I wonder, during what’s obviously been a period of increased stress, has DCI Luther been, say, drinking more than usual?’
‘He doesn’t drink. Never really had a taste for it. He’ll have a beer at the weekend sometimes.’
‘Well, that’s something. That’s certainly something. Now, Mrs Luther-’
‘Zoe, please.’
‘Thank you. You’ve already been more than generous, inviting me into your home, knowing the kind of thing I came to ask. So it pains me to embarrass myself by asking this question…’
‘Not at all,’ she says. Her foot is tapping. She makes it stop. ‘Ask away. It’s your job.’
‘Could you tell me about John’s movements last night?’
‘Well, Rose sent him home.’
‘And he got home when?’
‘About eleven, eleven thirty?’
‘And what did he do, when he got home?’
‘He lay on the bed and fell asleep. Didn’t even take his shoes off. Then, what seems about five minutes later, the phone goes. It’s Rose. Detective Chief Superintendent Teller. She wants him at some crime scene, the one you’re talking about I suppose. So up he gets, and drags himself out. He hasn’t told
me the details, but I do understand things were… emotional last night.’
‘And in between arriving home at eleven thirty, and going out again about…’
‘I was pretty much asleep. Two forty-five, was it? Something like that.’
‘Otherwise, he was with you?’
‘He was. Yes.’
He looks at her for a long time with those glinting eyes in that soft face, beautifully shaved. Gives her a sad smile, a brave smile that the world should be this way for them both. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’
She nods. Can’t speak.
After a moment, Schenk checks his watch and says, ‘Well, goodness me. I must get going. I have an appointment with your husband.’
He grabs his damp coat, slips it on.
Zoe says, ‘What did he do?’
‘Who?’
‘The person,’ she says. ‘Whatever John’s being blamed for.’
‘There’s a man named Crouch,’ Schenk says. ‘A very nasty piece of work. There’s a rumour, although I should stress it’s only a rumour, that associates of Crouch had DCI Ian Reed assaulted. Do you know DCI Reed?’
‘He’s a family friend. I know him well.’
‘Of course. Well, very late last night someone torched Mr Crouch’s car. A vintage Jaguar. Mr Crouch gave a description of the offender. His description closely matches DCI Luther.’
‘I see.’
‘But of course,’ says Schenk, ‘it wasn’t him. Because he was tucked up in bed at the time, with you.’
She smiles.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ says Schenk. ‘You stay in this nice kitchen. Out of the wet. It’s dreadful out there, really.’
She watches the space where Schenk had been standing until she hears the front door open, linger, close. And Schenk is gone.
She stays in the kitchen. After a minute, her hands start to shake. Then her legs. She sits. Tugging at her hair.
Reed’s known Bill Winingham since he was a woodentop. Winingham’s Glaswegian, in his sixties now — still tough and wiry. Severe white crew cut, haggard face. A fisherman’s sweater frayed at the sleeves.
He’s a decent man, old school. He’s a fence and Reed’s long-term confidential informant. They’ve got the kind of relation ship good police work is based on. Over fifteen years, it’s developed into a kind of friendship.
They meet at a coffee bar in Shoreditch. Exposed brick walls, stainless-steel espresso machines, vintage Formica tables and chairs.
They take a corner table and small-talk for a while. Winingham subtly makes it plain that he knows nothing about Pete Black. Reed brushes off the intimation with a flick of the wrist, batting away a mosquito. Then he says, ‘So anyway. I need a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘You know the kind of favour I usually ask you? Legal and above board and all that?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, this isn’t that kind of favour.’
Neither man alters his bearing, his tone of voice. They’ve been at this game far too long.
Winingham says, ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘A friend of mine tried to help me, and ended up getting in trouble for it. Now I’m trying to help him out of some deep shit.’
Winingham adds sugar to his coffee. Stirs. ‘What are you asking me?’
‘I need some weight. And a rental. A really dirty one.’
He means a rental firearm. There are people who hire out illegal firearms. Many of the weapons have been used in a number of crimes by a number of different people.
Winingham exhales, long and slow. Not playing it for drama, just letting Reed know the scale of the ask.
He picks at the half-stale Danish on a plate before him. ‘That’s a bit heavy for me.’
Reed leans close, takes Winingham’s elbow. ‘You saw this little girl,’ he says. ‘The girl in the news? Got taken last night?’
‘I heard, aye.’
‘This could help her, mate.’
‘What are you doing? Are you fitting someone up?’
‘You know better than to ask that. Come on.’
Winingham licks a fleck of pastry from his fingertip. ‘I don’t know, Ian. I don’t know. It’s heavy. It’s not my kind of business.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘I know, I know. But still.’
Reed sits back.
Winingham is slow to move, slow to speak. Qualities learned from long experience.
Reed pushes back his chair and leaps to his feet, strides to the counter. He orders two more coffees and a bottle of water. He opens the water as he returns to the table. He sits. He taps his foot and sips the water. It’s so cold it hurts his teeth.
Finally, Winingham says, ‘Okay. I can arrange that. But it won’t be cheap. And we’ll be dealing with some fairly serious people.’
‘I’m good for the money.’
‘No, Ian. No, it doesn’t work like that. I pay them. You pay me.’
Their eyes meet.
Reed screws the top back on his bottle, puts the bottle on the table.
‘What are we saying here?’
‘I’ve come across an opportunity,’ Winingham says.
‘No-’
‘Hear me out, son.’
Reed gestures. Sorry. Go ahead.
‘There’s a fine-art dealer,’ Winingham says. ‘A bloke by the name of Carrodus. Bent as a pin. He came to me, a few days ago. He’s looking to free up some capital. Make it portable.’
‘How?’
‘Uncut diamonds.’
Reed nods. Waits.
‘The reason he wants the stones,’ Winingham explains, ‘is because not all those paintings he sold were kosher. There’s a few Russian oligarchs with nicely done fakes on their walls. And now this bloke Carrodus, he’s in love. He’s got a very beautiful young wife. French. And he wants to clear off, out of it. Start a new life. And who can blame him, eh?’
‘I don’t get the favour.’
‘I source the diamonds for Carrodus,’ Winingham says. ‘I take my ten per cent.’ He sips coffee. ‘And then my nephew robs him.’
Reed doesn’t answer. He plays with a tube of sugar. ‘This doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Oh, nobody gets hurt,’ Winingham says. ‘My nephew couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s an economist, for fuck’s sake. It’s just a big score. A once in a lifetime thing.’
‘How big a score we talking?’
‘Top end, eight million.’
Reed looks at him.
‘That’s at the top end, mind. It could dip to six.’
‘Six million, low end? And nobody gets hurt?’
‘Nope. And because we’re robbing a thief of stolen goods, nobody need ever know. Least of all your lot. It’s a sweet thing. It’s the kind of score you wait an entire life for.’
‘So who does the job?’
‘No local faces. Nobody known. We’re going to use a friend of my nephew’s. American geezer. He flies in, takes a look at the Houses of Parliament and Tower Bridge, takes some photos, does the job and fucks off back to Arizona or wherever.’
Reed rearranges grains of sugar on the surface of the table. ‘What do I do?’
‘Just keep your ear to the ground,’ Winingham says. ‘Make sure Carrodus hasn’t gone mouthing it about to the wrong people. And keep the police away.’
‘And seriously, nobody gets hurt?’
‘Not a chance. You need to see my nephew.’
Reed’s heart is a bird in his chest. ‘I’d need more than this favour. I’d need a proper cut.’
‘You’ll get a cut. Two hundred thousand. A rental, no questions asked. Some weight.’
Winingham sits there, patiently. Lets him think it through.
In the end, Reed licks his dry lips and offers his hand across the table.
Uniformed coppers clear a path through the mobbed press. Howie parks close to the main hospital entrance.
She gets out, opens the rear doors
and leads a confused, blank-faced Christine James through the automatic doors, across the foyer, to the lifts and upstairs.
Outside the Intensive Care Unit, she introduces Ms James to the family liaison officer, Cathy Hibbs.
Hibbs leads Ms James into a private room, asks if she’d like a hot drink.
Ms James doesn’t seem to know. She’s bewildered. She’s got the innocent, blinking expression of an early onset Alzheimer’s case.
She doesn’t say a word, except to thank Hibbs for the cup of hospital coffee.
In the foyer, Luther and Howie find a quiet corner away from the assembled media.
Luther says, ‘I need you to stay here and keep me updated.’
‘Absolutely. Where will you be?’
‘I’ll be around. I’ve just got a few things to sort out.’
‘Boss…’ she says.
Luther says, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
He means it. Howie can see the anxiety in his eyes; the intense need to do something she doesn’t want to know about, and to do it quickly.
She doesn’t ask. She’s learned that much.
She watches him stride away.
CHAPTER 24
Barry Tonga’s wife, Huihana, runs Frangipani, a small florist in Hackney.
Grey winter light filters through the picture window, deepens the shade of the green foliage; seems to brighten the lilies, roses, tulips, chrysanthemums.
Huihana looks up from behind the counter when Reed and Luther enter. Luther badges her and shushes her.
The flagstones are damp beneath his feet.
Huihana steps away.
Luther and Reed find Barry Tonga out back, listening to an iPod as he prepares a large wedding bouquet. On the table before him are laid out garden string, adhesive floristry tape, ivory roses, eucalyptus stems, beaded wires and wide organza ribbon. He’s got a pair of secateurs in his hand.
He looks at them. He takes out one of his ear buds, lets it dangle. Luther can hear a hissy sibilance that he half recognizes. He thinks it might be Fleetwood Mac, although that doesn’t seem right.
‘Wotcher,’ says Reed.
Tonga nods. ‘How’s it going?’
Reed rotates his head on his neck. ‘Better, Barry. Yeah. How are you?’
