by Neil Cross
‘What gun? There isn’t a gun. What gun?’
‘The gun you gave him,’ Reed says. ‘The gun that ballistics will discover has been used in any number of other crimes. Including a shooting.’
‘Two shootings,’ Luther says.
‘Sorry,’ says Reed. ‘Absolutely right. Two shootings.’
Julian gapes at them.
‘You can’t do this,’ he says. ‘You can’t.’
Silence.
‘Shit,’ says Julian. ‘So what am I going to do?’
‘Go to prison.’
‘I can’t go to prison. I’ve got a phobia.’
‘That’s a new one,’ says Reed.
‘It’s true. It’s got a name. It’s a syndrome.’
‘I bet it is.’
‘Well anyway,’ says Luther. ‘That’s really why we’re here. To give you some advice.’
‘I don’t get you. What’s happening? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re talking in riddles.’
‘Just calm down and listen,’ Luther says. ‘And speak a bit more quietly.’
Julian calms down and listens. He speaks a bit more quietly.
Luther says, ‘You’re finished here, Julian. You know that. You’ve been finished for a long time. You must be tired of it all. All this shit you’re pulling, just to keep afloat. Creditors, ex-wives, mortgages, bank loans, sitting tenants. It must be a nightmare for you. If I were you,’ Luther says, ‘do you know what I’d do?’
‘No.’
‘I’d call my accountant. Then I’d go to Heathrow and buy a ticket. And I’d do it really, really soon.’
Julian blinks at him. He says, ‘You’re asking me to leave my home.’
‘That’s right,’ Luther says.
‘And all this is for the old man in that house?’
Luther doesn’t answer. He unscrews the maroon lid from the malt vinegar. Then he screws it back on again.
Julian says, ‘Or is it because without me, there won’t be any charges against you?’
Luther grins. Then his phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks it out.
It’s a text from Howie: Patrick’s conscious.
Luther reads the text, pockets the phone.
He says, ‘We’ve got Tonga in hiding for thirty-six hours. That’s enough time for you to pack your bags and get away. After that, we bring him in, he makes his statement — and you’re in big trouble.’
Luther squeezes out of the booth, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, dumps the napkin on the table and leaves.
Reed lingers a few moments, to finish his pie. Then he claps Julian on the shoulder, says, ‘Happy travels, dickhead,’ and follows.
Henry hurries to the garage.
Passing the dogs, he can feel their flat amber gaze. They’re waiting for him to chuck in a rabbit or a cat.
But Henry ignores them for the moment and jogs instead to the tall metal locker at the far end of the garage. He opens it with a small key and runs a quick inventory: Dexamethazone, Talivin, codeine, procain penicillin, testosterone, ketamine.
There are catheters, needles, syringes, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, Betadine, suture needles, staple gun and staple remover, surgical scissors, forceps.
In the far, cobwebby corner stands a rusty oxygen cylinder. Still good.
In the attic, he knows, is a large, empty weapons case. In the cupboard under the sink is a multipack of duct tape.
You can’t have enough duct tape.
The inventory relaxes him. He counts again, and again. When he’s tallied three times, he knows what to do.
As he prepares the first syringe of amphetamines, he apologizes to the dogs.
CHAPTER 25
Reed hails a cab. He’s at the factory in about twenty minutes.
He walks in to find Benny Deadhead has colonized his desk.
‘Sorry,’ says Benny.
‘That’s all right,’ says Reed. He hangs his wet coat over the back of Luther’s chair and logs in.
Benny says, ‘How’s the neck?’
Reed waggles his head around to show how much better it is.
Luther nods to the uniforms guarding the door and, ducking his head, steps quietly into Patrick’s hospital room. He’s carrying a slim buff folder.
The room is an artificial, greenish twilight. The kid’s hooked up to a ventilator, a heart monitor.
Howie’s in here, dozing on a moulded plastic chair, head nodding to her chest.
She jumps, looks up, sees Luther. Collects herself.
Luther says, ‘He spoken yet?’
‘No.’
Luther shakes his head, like it wasn’t a question worth asking. He steps closer to the bed, to the bandaged kid, the morphine drip.
The kid opens his eyes. Knows Luther is there.
Luther pulls up a chair and puts his face close to the kid’s.
‘You probably expect me to feel compassion for you,’ he says. ‘And I do. I think it’s grim, what your dad did to you. But anyone who ever killed anyone was a baby once, so in the end the things you did, that’s down to you. But you can help us. You can help us put that right.’
The kid turns his head on the pillow. Away from Luther.
‘I know you love him,’ Luther says. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt him. You can’t help it; it’s what happens to us. Love can be a kind of survival mechanism. Sometimes we love the people we need because we need them. Like dogs. But at the same time, it doesn’t mean you liked doing what you did together, these terrible things. Because you didn’t. Do you know how I know that?’
The kid stares him down. One of his eyes is swollen shut.
‘I know you dialled 999,’ Luther says. ‘The night he killed the Lamberts and took their baby. I know you tried to get him caught.’
The kid looks away, blinks at the ceiling.
‘And it wasn’t just the 999 calls, was it? Because last night, someone rang round all the families in London by the name of Dalton. Warning them. Or trying to. Why would someone do that, d’you think?’
Luther reaches into the folder, brings out a photograph of Mia Dalton. She’s smiling, on a beach somewhere. ‘Now he’s taken Mia. But you know that, right? You know exactly what he’s planning to do — because you tried to help Mia get away from him.’
He sits back, crosses his arms, the picture of Mia held like a playing card he’s about to throw in.
‘A lot of people,’ he says, ‘I mean a lot of people, think you were trying to take her for yourself; that you wanted to do things with her. In private. If you know what I mean. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you were trying to protect her. You didn’t want her fucked up like you were fucked up.’
The kid makes weak fists. Muscles move in his skinny forearms. He glares at the ceiling with one eye.
Luther leans in closer. Sees the green light refracted through the meniscus of tears on the surface of the kid’s eye.
‘I could tell you all about her,’ he says. ‘I could tell you she likes ponies and Justin Bieber. But the thing is, I’d be wasting my time, wouldn’t I? Because you and your dad know that already. You know everything about her.’
Nothing.
‘Except he’s not your dad,’ says Luther. ‘We have to remember that, don’t we? That’s the important thing. He’s not really your dad.’
The kid closes his eyes.
‘It’s not admissible in court,’ Luther says. ‘But I’ve been following your heart on that monitor. The machine that goes ping.’ He grins. ‘Did you ever see that sketch? Probably not. Before your time. This is way back in the seventies, back when I was a little kid. But anyway, the machine that goes ping tells me when you’re lying and when you’re not — even when you’re not talking. Because when I said he wasn’t your dad, it spiked.’
The kid mumbles something, perhaps a denial. It’s too low to hear.
Luther takes a long, calming breath. Then he leans in even closer, close enough to brush the kid’s ear with his l
ips.
‘The man who calls himself your dad,’ he says. ‘The man who calls himself Henry Grady. He kidnapped you on eighth of September 1995. You’d just turned six.’
The kid’s lip quivers.
Luther slips another photograph from the folder. He holds it up. ‘Do you recognize yourself?’
The kid screws his eyes shut. Refuses to look.
Luther stands. He holds the photograph close to the kid’s eyes.
‘This is you,’ he says. ‘Or it used to be.’
The kid makes fists so tight the flesh goes white. Livid purple in patches.
‘The DNA will prove it,’ Luther says, low and insistent. ‘We know what he did to you, your dad. And we know you tried to stop him. Twice. And this is what you get for it. So why don’t you help us? Why don’t you help Mia?’
Still no answer.
Nothing except spikes and barbs on the heart monitor.
Luther meets Howie’s eye.
Luther pads to the door. He opens it, puts his head round the corner. Whispers, ‘Okay. You can come in now.’
They wait a long time.
The kid’s eyes are fixed on the door when Christine James, whose married name was York, shuffles into the room.
Her face is gaunt, full of lines and fine ridges. She’s twisting the strap of her handbag between two hands. She’s shaking so hard the family liaison officer is supporting her weight.
Luther looks away from Howie’s accusing gaze.
Patrick begins to vibrate. He emits a low whine and looks away.
He’s saying, ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry, Mum.’
Adrian York got the bike for his birthday. It was a Saturday morning. Nearly lunchtime. He and Jamie Smart had been riding in the skateboard park; it was visible from the house. His mum was watching from the bedroom window.
Adrian wanted to go out alone, because he was a big boy.
Now Jamie Smart has gone home and Adrian sits on the kerb at the edge of the field, the bike propped against a lamp post. He can see the back garden. He’s drinking a can of Fanta. He’s feeling pretty good. He’s six years old.
A van pulls up. The worried-looking driver gets out and jogs across the quiet road. He said, ‘Mate — what’s your name?’
‘Adran.’
‘Adran what?’
‘Adrian York.’
‘Right. I thought it must be you.’
‘Why?’ said Adrian York.
‘I’m sorry, mate. There’s been an accident. You’d better come with me.’
The man is breathing strangely. When Adrian hesitates, the man licks his lips and says, ‘I’ve been sent to take you to your mum. You’d better get in.’
‘I’d better not,’ says Adrian York.
‘Your mum might be dying,’ says the man. ‘You’d better hurry up.’
Adrian York looks at the window. He sees that his mum isn’t there, where she’s supposed to be, watching him. He wonders if the man is right.
He begins to cry.
‘You’ll get me in trouble if I go back without you,’ says the man. ‘The police sent me to get you. You’ll get us both in really bad trouble.’
‘What about my bike?’ says Adrian York.
But the man doesn’t answer. He just scoops Adrian York into his arms and carries him to the van.
One of its brake lights is shattered.
The family liaison officer, Luther and Howie linger in the corners like undertakers.
They give Christine James a few minutes with her child. It’s a few minutes more than she can take.
She clutches Adrian’s hand, squeezes it, presses it to her face. She weeps, wretched and unhinged. She calls on God. Oh God, she says. Oh God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my boy, my boy, my boy.
Adrian lies there. All he can say is ‘Sorry, Mum. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
At length, the family liaison officer leads a shuffling, dazed Christine James from the room, back into the hospital light.
Luther feels Howie’s eyes on him.
He burns with shame.
Then he returns softly to Adrian’s side.
‘What’s his name?’ he says. ‘What’s his real name?’
After a long time, the kid whispers, ‘Henry.’
‘Henry what?’
‘Clarke. Nicholl. Brennan.’
‘But always Henry?’
The kid makes a gesture. It’s almost a nod.
‘But you must know,’ Luther says. ‘After all these years, you must know his real name.’
‘Madsen.’
Henry Madsen.
Luther’s hands itch to do something. He wants to grab a pencil, take out his notebook, write it down, circle it, underline it.
He bites the inside of his mouth. Makes himself wait.
‘Adrian,’ he says. ‘Patrick. Where do you and Henry live?’
CHAPTER 26
Henry Madsen lives in a large, rambling old property that stands on a quarter-acre of grounds, isolated from its neighbours by high hedges and a screen of trees. It overlooks Richmond Park.
The house is already on fire when the first responders arrive.
The blaze has picked up by the time the fire crew shows up, a few minutes later. They are closely followed by an Armed Response Unit and the EMTs.
A number of pit bull terriers run loose in the grounds. They attack the first responders, then the fire crew. This slows the operation.
The order is given to shoot the dogs.
By then, the fire has taken a firmer hold.
En route to Richmond Park, Luther calls Benny.
‘Going back twenty-five years,’ Benny tells him. ‘We’ve got six Henry Madsens. Four we can dismiss outright: white-collar criminals. Traffic offences, that sort of thing.’
‘No one on the sex offenders register?’
‘Oh yes. Henry John Madsen. String of juvenile offences: burglary, vandalism, theft, assault, arson.’
‘Arson?’
‘Attempted murder of his adoptive parents.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘He broke into their house and set fire to their beds.’
‘That’s our boy,’ Luther says. ‘What happened to him after that?’
‘He does his time. Comes out at eighteen. Has some counsel ling. He re-offends at nineteen — GBH during a pub conversation about abortion. Apparently he’s anti. He’s remanded into psychiatric care. Comes out at twenty-one. After that he drops off the radar.’
‘Which isn’t to say he hasn’t been busy. You got photographs?’
‘Old ones.’
‘How’s he look?’
‘Short hair. Very neat.’
‘Parted?’
‘On the left.’
‘No glasses, no beards, no moustaches?’
‘No.’
‘Excellent. Let’s get this prick’s face all over the news.’
‘Won’t that make him panic?’
‘It’ll drive him to ground,’ Luther says. ‘Make him hole up somewhere. Stay in London.’
‘Yeah, but where?’
‘Well, mate. That’s the question.’
Twenty minutes later, Luther reaches the scene. He’s wearing a high-viz jacket over the parka he keeps in the trunk of the Volvo. He had to ditch the overcoat. It smelled of petrol and smoke.
He approaches Teller. Nods at the burning building. ‘How long to make this place safe?’
It can take days for a building to cool properly and structural damage to be assessed. Normally, it would be tomorrow at least before Luther was granted access to the house.
But Teller makes some phone calls. She shouts and wheedles and pleads. She claims exigent circumstances, the threat to Mia Dalton’s life.
The fire-fighters are still darkening the glowing embers when Luther slips on a Cromwell 600 helmet and breathing apparatus, then walks past the corpses of the dogs, through the high spray of the dampening hoses and into the charred house.
The hallway
is blackened with soot, ash, and smoke. The windows are blown out. Everything’s wet. He hadn’t expected so much water. It’s still raining down on his head. Holes in the wall expose pink insulation material. The swollen ceiling threatens to collapse.
Upstairs, he finds a child’s bedroom. A cot, a changing mat. Clothes on a rail: boys’ and girls’. Many still display price tags. On the wall are hung burned prints of Pooh Bear. In the cot is an ancient, water-sodden teddy.
Luther looks at the teddy bear.
He checks out two adult bedrooms. Water-drenched beds, burned clothing. Everything doused in accelerant and set alight.
Downstairs, a torched library. Nazis. Eugenics. Dog-rearing. Biology. Burned portraits of prominent National Socialists. Speer and Hitler. Noble dogs.
All of it forensically useless.
The kitchen has been touched less by the fire. It’s wet and badly smoke damaged, but one or two of the windows, although streaked black, haven’t blown.
Luther looks in the pantry. Canned goods. He looks in the cupboards. Pots and pans. He looks in the tall cupboard nearest the kitchen door. A bottle sterilization kit.
Several bottles. All of them blackened now.
He opens the fridge. And there, essentially undamaged, are ranks and ranks of children’s milk bottles.
He takes one of the bottles from the fridge. Shakes it. Puts it close to his face. But he’s seeing it through a screen.
His heart is beating.
He searches the fridge. At the back, he finds a bar of chocolate, half eaten. Teeth prints.
A fire-fighter leads him through a reinforced door down to the basement. Luther feels the weight of the house above him. They edge along a dark, earth corridor, heavy with smoke. He concentrates on his breathing, worried he might panic down here.
They arrive at what might have been a vegetable storage room. Another reinforced door.
The fire-fighter opens it.
A bed. A bookcase.
Luther looks at the books. Water damaged. He knows he wouldn’t like to touch them with an ungloved hand. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but it seems to him that objects soaked in human misery retain traces of it.
He leaves that terrible basement, his breath quick and loud in his ears. He goes upstairs and outside. The water from the dampening hoses is a mist over his head. There are slick patches of mud. A helicopter overhead.
