by Neil Cross
‘I’m not allowed on the internet.’
‘Whatever. But you know what he says he’s going to do. And you can help me. If you like, I’ll get on my knees and beg you to tell me what you know. But I’m in a hurry here. The clock’s ticking.’
‘Then I can’t help. I’m sorry.’
‘Steve,’ says Howie. ‘We don’t need to tell anyone where this information comes from.’
Bixby looks up at her, his eyes widening in transitory hope. ‘Would that work?’
‘Absolutely it would work. We do it all the time. We’d log you as an “anonymous source”. If it helps us catch a triple murderer before he kills again, trust me – no questions will be asked.’
‘But you can’t guarantee that, can you? I mean, not absolutely.’
Luther tugs at his thumb, hears the joint pop. He sits back in the armchair as if it’s a throne or an electric chair. He says, ‘Do you know when I last slept?’
‘No,’ says Bixby.
‘Neither do I. And I don’t mind telling you, Steve, I’m having a bad day. A really, really bad day. I pulled a dead baby out of the earth this morning. And I’ve got this stuff going round in my head. Bad stuff. Right now, it’s telling me that if this man kills someone else tonight, it’ll be my fault – for not trying hard enough, for not pushing hard enough to catch him, for saying those things at the press conference. You get me?’
Bixby nods.
‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘So the way I see it, you’ve got two options. Option one: you take DS Howie’s advice. Which is good advice, by the way.’
‘What’s option two?’
‘You sit there while I order DS Howie to leave the flat.’ He lifts his hip, digs in his pocket, removes his pepper spray and his extensible baton. Sits with them in his hands.
Bixby clenches and unclenches his fists.
‘Boss,’ says Howie.
Luther shoots her a look. ‘Shut your mouth, Sergeant.’
Howie shuts her mouth. Sits there shaking, not knowing what to do.
Luther says, ‘Help me, Steve. Help me catch this man. I promise we’ll do the right thing by you. I promise.’
Bixby hugs the dog like a teddy bear. Kisses its muscular neck.
Then he says, ‘A man came to me. A while ago. Two years? Three, maybe. He wanted a baby.’
‘What was this man’s name?’
‘Henry.’
‘Henry?’
‘Grady, I think. I don’t think it was his real name.’
Howie writes it down.
Luther says, ‘Can you describe him? What did he look like? Black? White? Fat, thin?’
‘White. Not big, not small. Very fit.’
‘Fit how? Muscular, like a bodybuilder?’
‘Like a runner. Like a marathon-runner-type build.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘Dark.’
‘Long hair? Short hair?’
‘Short and very neat. In a parting. He used Brylcreem.’
‘How’d you know?’
‘The smell. It reminded me of my granddad.’
‘Accent?’
‘Local. London.’
‘Do you know where he lived?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of car did he drive?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Phone number?’
‘He used different numbers. He seemed quite savvy.’
‘Like you.’
‘Like me.’
‘How’d he dress?’
‘Smart dress. Always suit and tie. Overcoat. One of those ones where the collar’s made of a different cloth, like velvet.’
‘And what’s he like? His demeanour. Was he outgoing? Withdrawn? Friendly? Aggressive? What?’
‘I don’t know. He was just a bloke. You’d pass him in the street.’
‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘He wanted a baby. What did he want with it?’
‘He didn’t say. But he definitely wasn’t a paedophile.’
‘That’s twice you’ve said that. What makes you so sure?’
‘You ever walk into a strange pub, in a strange town, know someone you’ve never seen before is a policeman?’
‘Point taken. But if he’s not a paedophile, if he’s not part of your network, how does he know where to find you?’
‘Via a friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘A man called Finian Ward.’
‘And where does Finian Ward live?’
‘He doesn’t. Liver cancer. Last Christmas.’
Luther checks his frustration. ‘Did Finian Ward tell you how he and Henry knew each other?’
‘No. But I trusted Finian. He was a good man.’
‘And a paedophile.’
‘By inclination. Not action. He was a very gentle man.’
‘So Henry Grady comes to you, via Finian Ward. Says he wants a baby. But he’s not a paedophile. So the baby’s for his wife, maybe?’
‘I thought it must be. Until . . .’
‘Until what?’
Bixby can’t meet his eye.
‘Steve, until what?’
‘Well,’ Bixby says. ‘I told him that babies aren’t easy to get. They’re always with somebody. Once they’re two or three years old, there’ll always be a moment when they’re unprotected. But not babies. It’s just not happening. But he knew all this.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I was actually trying to put him off the idea, for his own sake – and for the baby’s. I said the only possible way to get what he wanted, if he really couldn’t adopt, was to buy a baby. There’s always women willing to sell.’
Luther’s leg jiggles. ‘Is that what you did?’
‘Yes. I told him about a man called Sava. Do you know him?’
‘We’ve met, yeah. So then what?’
‘He came back to me. Said he didn’t want a junkie’s baby or a hooker’s baby or a foreign baby.’
‘Why not?’
‘He said you wouldn’t buy a dog without knowing its pedigree. He wanted a pedigree baby.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Good parents,’ Bixby says. ‘Good looking. Clever. Rich. Happy.’
‘Happy. He said “happy”. He actually used that word?’
Bixby nods. ‘I told him it was a no-go. That kind of person, they never take their eyes off a baby. I told him, no way. It’s just not going to happen.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He said, there’s always a way to make things happen.’
‘And what was that way? What was the way to make it happen?’
‘He told me he needed a woman,’ Bixby says.
‘To what?’
‘Make him look harmless. Because people trust women.’
Luther thinks about the IVF group. About the strange couple who paid too much attention to the Lamberts. He knows this is the right man, the man calling himself Henry Grady. He can taste copper in his mouth, the taste of blood and anxiety. His heart is thin and fast.
‘And that’s what you did? You put Henry Grady in contact with a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘What woman?’
‘Sweet Jane Carr.’
‘And where do I find Sweet Jane Carr?’
‘In Holloway prison.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since about six weeks. She’s on remand.’
‘For what?’
‘Sexual abuse of a minor,’ Bixby says. ‘She abused local kids on webcam. Pay per view.’
Luther leaves the flat on shaky legs, Howie at his heel.
He says, ‘You okay?’
‘I’m good,’ she says, ‘I’m fine.’
‘But?’
‘Boss, you just assaulted a witness. And intimidated another.’
‘Extenuating circumstances.’
‘I’m not sure the law recognizes that.’
‘It does when you’re dealing with paedophiles.’
He disappear
s into the dank stairwell, into the shadows.
Howie lingers.
She’s there long enough to see Luther emerge from the building and walk towards the car.
She digs out her phone and asks in a shaky voice to speak to DSU Rose Teller.
‘It’s urgent,’ she says.
Luther steps into the evening.
He knows Howie’s troubled by what just happened. But he’ll explain on the way to Holloway prison. He’ll apologize, if that’s what it takes.
He reaches the car. No keys in his pocket.
He turns to see DS Howie on the concrete walkway, just a shadow in the misty gloom. She’s on the phone. She probably doesn’t know it, but she’s pacing.
The pacing is the tell.
Luther knows he’s in trouble.
He ducks into the deeper shadows of the estate and hurries away.
In five minutes he’s on Lavender Hill Road.
Three minutes after that he’s in a taxi, en route to Holloway prison.
Caitlin doesn’t know the bar, Café Piccolo. She’s never been here before. It’s got an untrendy, Italian vibe; less retro than cheesy. It’s full of the early evening, after-office crowd.
She sits at a corner booth and works her way through a bottle of wine. By the third glass, she’s thinking about calling Carol, dragging her out and having a laugh. But she knows that if she actually sets eyes on Carol, she’ll break down. And she won’t be able to tell Carol why. And that won’t be good.
She puts her phone away.
She considers popping upstairs, buying a packet of Silk Cut, sitting on a bench and smoking them all. She decides against it. It’s cold outside and warm in here, even a little humid.
The waiter is giving her inquisitive looks when the first tosspot hits on her, asks if she’s waiting for someone, or just had a bad day.
It sounds like there’s going to be a punchline but there isn’t. He’s just testing the water, trying to establish if she’s been stood up, if she’s some kind of psycho bitch.
She gives him a hard look and he fucks off back to his mates.
Caitlin seethes as she drinks, then makes an effort to feel a Samaritan’s compassion. She glances over and gives him a rueful half-wave. It’s supposed to say ‘sorry’, but it doesn’t come across like that; it comes across as a victory wave.
Caitlin burns with embarrassment and takes a sip of wine. She can feel it heavy in her stomach now, sloshing around.
She thinks about the Daltons, who have a daughter who is eleven years old.
She shoves that to the back of her mind.
She scrolls through her contacts, knowing she’s about to make a cardinal error. But she has to do something. She has to talk to somebody. So she calls Gavin.
He says, ‘Hey, Cate. What’s up?’
She hates the way he says it. Already, she regrets making the call. But what else is she supposed to do?
She says, ‘Hey, Gav.’
‘So,’ says Gav.
‘So,’ she says. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Pretty mental. Work and whatever. You?’
‘Pretty mental.’
‘Right,’ says Gavin. ‘So . . .’
‘So I’m in this bar,’ she says, ‘a Trattoria.’
She enunciates fastidiously, as if the word ‘Trattoria’ was some kind of private joke between them. It’s not.
‘Right,’ he says.
‘And I’m a bit tipsy,’ she says, ‘a little bit woo-hoo, and I thought I’d ring and say hello. So hello!’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . .’
She doesn’t want to hear what comes next because it involves Gav feeling bad for her; he’s got his mates round, or some girl, or both. Gav’s having a laugh, because Gav loves having a laugh.
She wants to say something bitchy and cutting, but she honestly can’t think of anything. So she just sits there with her Greek-goddess hair piled on her head and the iPhone in her hand and she wants to share with him the enormity of the secret to which she is privy. The things that might be going on right now, right this second, to a family called the Daltons, who have an eleven-year-old girl.
She’s got enough control to say, ‘Cheers!’ and hang up, leaving him genially baffled and secretly happy about the nervous breakdown she seems to be enduring in the wake of their breakup.
She drains her glass and gets the bill. Can’t remember her PIN. She has to ask the waiter to hold on a moment, it’ll come to her. In the end it does. She leaves a stupidly big tip, scrawls a signature, drops her purse in her bag, puts on her coat and staggers out.
She walks to the bus stop and waits, stamping her feet and shivering. It’s really, really fucking cold.
She doesn’t mind because it should sober her up. But all it does is make her want to pee.
She digs out her phone again. She thinks about calling Matt, back at the Samaritans office. But she already knows everything he’s going to say.
So she puts the phone back in her pocket and waits for the bus.
She watches cars and taxis and minicabs.
A bus coughs and rumbles past on the other side of the road, a long bright bubble full of people.
A car stops at the lights. An ordinary car. There’s a man at the wheel and his wife is next to him. They’re chatting about whatever. In the back seat are two kids, a girl who must be about five, and a sleeping baby in a car seat.
Caitlin is close enough to take a single step forward, gently rap on the window and say, Don’t go home, it’s not safe.
But these aren’t the Daltons. They can’t be. London is too big and too abundant.
But even in a city this teeming and this ravenous, lives cross and touch one another. Caitlin imagines reaching out her hand, rapping on the safety glass, saving these people.
The woman, the wife, can feel Caitlin staring. She turns her head and looks Caitlin in the eye with an unbroken lioness challenge – the face of a woman whose young children are asleep in the back of the car, and who would kill for them in an instant.
Caitlin wells up. She smiles.
The woman gives her an odd look, softer round the eyes. Then the lights change and the car pulls away and is gone, sucked round the veins of London, and Caitlin knows she will never see those people again.
She thinks about Megan, the friend who committed suicide. And she thinks about her moron of an ex. She thinks about her mum and her dad and her sister and her nieces and her nephews.
She thinks about her grandparents, the good smell of them and their infinite belief in the unqualified wonder of her.
Caitlin walks to a phone box.
She inserts a two pound coin.
She uses her iPhone to access the telephone directory. Then dials the first Dalton in the London directory.
The phone is answered on the ninth ring. A foggy voice, the voice of a family man woken from sleep. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello,’ says Caitlin. ‘This is going to sound really weird, and I’m sorry if I’m wrong. I’m really sorry. I hope I’m wrong. But I think somebody might be planning to hurt you and your family.’
There are one hundred and sixty Daltons in the London phone book.
Caitlin calls them all.
CHAPTER 18
Luther hates prisons. Hates Holloway in particular. It feels like a badly designed hospital.
He waits in the half-lit, after-hours visiting hall, as two wardens lead Sweet Jane Carr into the room.
She’s so pretty it’s almost obscene. She makes him think of Victorian erotica. But her frame is disproportionately gross.
He tries not to stare as she sits and crosses great ham forearms under massive breasts, regards him through lovely eyes.
She says, ‘So what do you want?’
She’s got a creepy, teeny-tiny voice. Like Marilyn Monroe on helium. She makes him think of the ghosts of little girls.
‘I want your help,’ he says. He sets his hands flat on the table, as if anchoring himself.
‘A man you know,’ Luther says. ‘A friend of yours. Henry Grady.’ He pauses, waits to see if that name gets a reaction. It doesn’t. Sweet Jane’s eyes twinkle. She smiles like a porcelain doll.
‘He killed an entire family,’ Luther says. ‘I’m scared he’s going to do it again.’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘I can definitely tell you all about him, if you like.’
‘I need you to do that. Please.’
She tilts her head to one side, juts out her lower lip. ‘I hate it in here.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘It’s full of dykes who want to go down on me. Screws leering through the peepholes at night. They don’t call them screws for nothing. You can hear them wanking off. There’s dried spunk on my door in the morning. You can flake it off with a fingernail. All the bitches in here are fucking jealous. They nick your stuff, they threaten you, they get punches in when nobody’s watching.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not enjoying it.’
The petulant pout turns into a flirtatious grin, tugs at the corners of her mouth.
He says, ‘Listen. I don’t have time for all this. I’m on a clock. I wouldn’t have come to see you if I wasn’t desperate. So what do you want?’
‘Internet privileges.’
‘That’s not going to happen. Not for the kind of offence you’re in here for.’
‘It can be supervised. I just want to get to my message boards. I like cats. And pottery.’
‘Nope.’
Her smile widens, shows ivory-yellow teeth. He knows that if he ever sleeps again, his dreams will be infested by spectres of this woman.
He wonders how many children see her in their dreams, then tucks the thought back inside himself, like a prolapse.
Then he glances meaningfully at his hand, flat on the table before him.
He waits until she’s followed the line of his gaze, then raises his thumb. He reveals a baggie of cocaine.
‘You’ll never let me have that,’ says Sweet Jane Carr.
Warders watch from the far corner.
‘You never will,’ she says.
‘Well,’ says Luther. ‘I’m a desperate man.’
He slips the bag to her. She takes it with a swift, practised movement.