by Neil Cross
‘And were you tempted? To buy her?’
‘What do you want me to say? Yes? Do I look totally mad to you?’
‘What did he say to you? Exactly. Exact words. What did he say?’
‘That she’s very pretty. And loving.’
‘Loving. Jesus.’
‘And she could be all mine.’
‘Did you see her? Did you actually set eyes on her?’
‘No!’
‘But she was alive?’
‘She’d have to be.’
‘How well do you know him, Steve?’
‘Not that well. I’d just see him at the fights. He was always there.’
‘Dog fights?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that’s where he first approached you – at a dog fight.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He told you he wanted to buy a child.’
‘Not straight away. Months later. But eventually, yeah.’
‘So you were friends?’
‘No. I just saw him at the fights.’
‘And after a few months, you put him in contact with Vasile Sava. Then with Sweet Jane Carr.’
Bixby nods.
‘What about since then?’
‘Nothing really. I see him now and again at the fights. We say hello.’
‘What’s he doing at all these fights? Is he a punter, an owner, what?’
‘He’s a breeder. And he’s a vet. He works mostly for a bloke called Gary Braddon.’
‘So let me get this right. You’re not friends.’
‘No. He’s always been pretty clear that he hates people like me. People with my problem.’
‘So if he came to you, he must’ve been desperate, right?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’
‘Don’t suppose. Tell me where else he can go to sell the girl?’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. But even if there was someone, which I doubt, they’d be mad to get involved with him right now, wouldn’t they? With him all over the telly. Nobody’s that stupid.’
Luther calls Ian Reed.
‘Ian,’ he says. ‘You need to pull in a bloke call Gary Braddon. Organizes dog fights. Put the strong arm on him. He’s a dog lover, right? These are sentimental people. If you tell him a little girl’s been kidnapped, he’ll sing in a second. Use photographs of Mia.’ He glances at Bixby. ‘Pretty ones.’
He hangs up, waits for backup to arrive.
Howie passes through the crowd at the tail end of a riot squad. She’s wearing a luminous police vest, baton in hand.
She watches from a distance as the riot squad pulls Bixby and Luther from the flat, which is being mobbed by irate residents.
A few bottles are thrown at a few shields. Half a dozen arrests are made. They’ll be charged with affray and given community service sentences.
Luther and Bixby are marched out under protection. Bixby is bundled into the back of a van along with his dog.
Luther and Howie make their way to the Volvo. Get in. A bottle smashes against the rear windshield.
Howie says, ‘And how often does this happen?’
Luther says, ‘I’ve never actually started a riot before.’
As Howie reverses out, eggs explode against the bodywork, the windows. She ducks instinctively with each impact. And then they’re on the road. Luther doesn’t say anything to her. Just calls Benny Deadhead.
‘Benny, mate. How’re we doing on Madsen’s adoptive parents?’
‘Jan and Jeremy Madsen,’ Benny says. ‘She was a pharmacist. He was a vet.’
‘Address?’
‘Finchley,’ Benny says. ‘Same house they’ve lived in for forty years.’
CHAPTER 28
Reed sits himself down in Luther’s chair and calls the Status Dogs Unit. The call is taken by Sergeant Graham Cooke. Reed introduces himself, briefly outlines the situation.
Cooke says, ‘Does this have anything to do with that little girl?’
‘It may do, yeah.’
‘Then let me sit down a minute. Close the door, get a pen.’
Reed waits. Then Cooke comes back to the phone and says, ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Let’s start with, who is he?’
‘Gary Braddon. Born Caerphilly, 1963. History of association with the far right.’
‘And he likes dogs, does he?’
‘Well, it depends what you mean by “like”. He’s got previous: keeping a dog for fighting, causing unnecessary suffering to a dog by failing to seek veterinary care for its wounds. Also convicted of possessing equipment associated with training dogs to fight. Five counts of illegally owning pit bull terrier-type dogs for the purposes of fighting.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning, he’s not allowed to keep dogs. So he keeps them off site. We never established where.’
‘Well, I think I might be able to help you out there. The name “Henry Madsen” mean anything?’
‘Not off the top of my head, no.’
‘He’s Braddon’s vet. And corner man.’
‘Braddon’s vet goes by the name of Henry Mercer.’
‘That’ll be our boy.’
‘Allegedly runs the best training yard in London, although we never tracked it down. He’s a very secretive boy, Mr Mercer.’
‘He is that,’ Reed says. ‘So is there money in this game? Because money’s an issue right now.’
‘There’s plenty. Your dog wins three fights, it’s a champion. Five, it’s a grand champion – that’s what they aim for. So they put the dogs through a training regime, get them down to an agreed fighting weight, just like a boxer. That means treadmill work, diet, stamina, running around. And steroids, so you can get them completely lean, no fat.’
‘Do you think Henry could go to Braddon for money?’
‘You think he’s the man who kidnapped Baby Emma and that other little girl?’
‘We’re pretty sure, yeah.’
‘Then not in a million years. Braddon’s a right-wing nutcase. And he’s a dog lover. Two inches to the right of Mussolini. That’s a dangerous combination for a man who kidnaps children. Mercer, Madsen, whatever his name is, Braddon would cut his balls off and feed him to the dogs if he ever showed his face.’
‘All right,’ says Reed. ‘So this is the problem we’ve got: our man’s gone to ground somewhere in London. And you’re right, he’s very secretive. He’s got no friends to speak of, and he’s got no money. He needs somewhere to hole up.’
Cooke hesitates a moment then says, ‘Braddon’s dog fights tend to be held in any one of a number of vacant properties. Mercer, or Madsen, he’d have keys to them all.’
‘You know the locations?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Can you send us a complete list, soon as? And any other material you might have to hand that’s going to help expedite a warrant to search.’
‘Plenty of that,’ says Cooke.
Reed says, ‘What do you drink?’
‘I don’t mind a whisky.’
‘There’s a bottle on the way,’ Reed says. ‘We owe you one.’
Cooke asks Reed to give him a little time.
Fifteen minutes later he comes back with a list of five properties used by Gary Braddon as venues for holding dog fights.
Within the hour, Search Team One, with DS Justin Ripley acting as Police Search Adviser, arrives at the first address on the list.
It’s an abandoned kitchen interiors shop in Lewisham.
They find cupboards have been removed and converted to make a dog-fighting pit, much like a boxing ring.
A comprehensive search proves the property to be unoccupied. Search Team One finds no indication that Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen have been present.
Search Team Two, headed by DS ‘Scary’ Mary Lally, stumbles upon an extemporized dog fight in progress behind a tyre-replacement garage in Deptford.
Watched by a dozen men, two pit bull terriers quietly maul each other in a pit fo
urteen feet square and three feet high.
Diagonal ‘scratch lines’ are drawn on opposite corners of the pits. These are the lines behind which the dogs must remain until the referee commands them to be released.
Four arrests are made. Two of the dogs will later be destroyed.
They find no evidence that Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen have been present.
CHAPTER 29
Luther and Howie drive to Finchley.
On Royal Drive, they pass the site of the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, now converted into high-end apartments. The Asylum used to be home to Aaron Kosminski. Luther’s pretty much convinced that Kosminski was Jack the Ripper.
Jeremy and Jan Madsen live in a gabled, semi-detached Edwardian house in a Finchley cul-de-sac.
Jan Madsen comes to the door. She’s an imposing presence: chiselled jaw, strong cheekbones. Greying pre-Raphaelite hair. She’s seventy-two, a retired pharmacist. She gives Luther a regal once-over and says, ‘Is it about my son?’
Luther nods. Tucks his badge into his pocket.
She invites them in. Brisk with anxiety.
The house is clean. In the living room are knick-knacks and family photographs, a TV that was top of the line when it was acquired, twenty-five years ago. Fruit in a blue and white ceramic bowl; the coral skeleton of recently eaten grapes. An old HP computer is plugged into the wall, screen black. Two credit cards on the table. A cup of milky tea on a coaster next to it. Evidence of cats, although no cats are to be seen.
Jan faces Luther and Howie, her son a spectre between them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Howie smiles agreeably. ‘No, thank you.’
‘There’s plenty in the pot.’
‘Honestly. But thank you.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you, we’re good.’
‘Water? Something to eat?’
Howie smiles. ‘Really. We’re fine.’
Jan invites them to sit.
Luther and Howie perch on the edge of a Laura Ashley sofa.
Jan sits in a matching armchair. Wrings her gardener’s hands, knotty with arthritis.
Anxious people are compelled to fill silence. So Luther and Howie sit and wait.
‘It’s vile,’ she says. ‘The things he’s done. It’s vile. He wasn’t brought up like that.’
‘I can see that,’ Luther says. ‘You have a very lovely house. Have you lived here long?’
‘Since 1965.’ Said with pride and a touch of something like embarrassment.
‘And is your husband—’
‘Upstairs,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. Fibromyalgia. And all this . . .’
Luther nods and, with a small gesture, directs Howie to go upstairs and check on the husband.
Howie half stands, addresses Jan Madsen. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Second door on your right, top of the stairs.’
Howie thanks her, then leaves the room and heads upstairs, into the smell of Mr Sheen furniture polish.
She raps gently on the bedroom door. Hears a whispered, ‘Come in?’
Howie opens the door. Jeremy Madsen lies in bed. A tall, raw-boned man, balding and heavily liver-spotted. His wife’s senior by perhaps a decade.
She takes in the room, the cluttered dressing table and the solemn wardrobes. Leather slippers arranged next to the bed.
Howie introduces herself, shows her badge, and whispers, ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
Jeremy sits up. He has a slight palsy. He squints through one eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers in return. ‘Migraine. Very bad.’
‘You’ve had a shock,’ says Howie.
‘I can answer your questions,’ he whispers.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m sure your wife can give us everything we need. Please.’
Jeremy nods. The movement causes his face to twist in pain.
Howie says, ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ His liver-spotted hand shakes like a diabetic’s. ‘I just need to – if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, of course not’
Howie takes Jeremy’s shoulder, bony through the soft pyjamas. She helps him lie back down.
She hovers at the edge of the bed as he turns into a foetal position.
Embarrassed, Howie slips from the room and heads downstairs.
In the living room, Luther leans forward, still perched on the edge of the floral sofa. ‘Has Henry been in contact?’
Jan Madsen nods. ‘He did call, yes.’
‘When?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. There was just noise on the line.’
‘Then how did you know it was him?’
‘I’d been waiting.’ She almost spits it. ‘He always did come to us when he was in trouble.’
She plucks at her knee, can’t meet Luther’s eye.
‘What did he want?’
‘Money. What else?’
Howie enters the room and quietly sits.
‘Henry called,’ Luther says. ‘An hour ago. Didn’t speak.’
Howie immediately stands. ‘I’ll get a trace on the call.’
Luther reaches up, takes her arm. Shakes his head. ‘He’ll be long gone. I’ll text through a request to trace.’
Howie hesitates, unsure, then rejoins him on the sofa. Their thighs are touching.
Luther raises his hip, digs out his phone. Begins awkwardly to thumb out a message. Frowning as he concentrates, he says, ‘You’re aware that Henry is a suspect in a very serious crime?’
Jan nods. Looks away. Toys with her bare wedding-ring finger. Luther looks at the pale band where the wedding ring had been, then at those swollen, arthritic knuckles.
‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you call the police when he rang?’
‘To say what? My estranged son called, didn’t say anything and then hung up? I’d have been wasting your time.’
For a moment, Luther discontinues his meticulous, hunt-and-peck texting. ‘Mrs Madsen. Nobody’s blaming you for this.’
She nods, pretending to believe him. Tugs at her wedding-ring finger.
‘Are you and Henry in contact?’ Howie says. ‘Generally speaking?’
‘We haven’t heard a peep in twenty years.’
Luther lowers his voice. ‘We understand that Henry was adopted?’
Jan snorts at her lap; an expression of ancient, incalculable bitterness. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No,’ Luther says.
‘Well, we tried,’ says Jan. ‘Jeremy and I. We tried and tried. No IVF in those days. This is the early seventies.’
‘And how old was Henry when you adopted him?’
‘Two. Just turned two. He was a helpless little thing. You wouldn’t treat a dog the way his mother treated him. The poor little thing, he’d been beaten, starved and God knows what. Locked him in a cupboard when her gentleman callers paid a visit. She hit him. Called him all sorts of things. Effing this, effing that.’ That bitter laugh. ‘God, we were so nervous. But people had told us, You’ll fall in love at first sight, or Once you see him it’ll all just slot into place. But walking into that room, seeing that little boy with his dirty knees and his hair all sticking up. I looked at him and my first thought was: I don’t like the look of you.
‘And I detested myself for it. Absolutely detested myself. I was riddled with guilt from the minute we got him home. After that, I think I was in denial.’
In the slightly hesitant use of the term, Luther hears years of anguish and self-recrimination.
‘If you don’t feel the kind of love you think you should be feeling,’ she says, ‘they pick up on it. They do. Children are so perceptive.’
‘There’s something called Adoptive Child Syndrome,’ Luther tells her. ‘About ten per cent of adopted children show some kind of behavioural disorder. It’s nobody’s fault.’
‘We didn’t have syndromes back the
n,’ she says. ‘In our day it was all about nurture. And the truth is, I didn’t feel maternal towards him.’ She’s watching her hands. She begins to tug on them, knuckle by knuckle. ‘I did feel protective,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him. And I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not for a long time. And by then, by the time I’d come to love him as my own child, as a mother’s supposed to, well. It was too late.’
‘How old was he when the trouble started?’
‘Seven, I suppose. Jeremy and I went for an anniversary dinner. Just this little Bistro they used to have on the High Road. We left him with a babysitter for the first time. He set fire to his bed.’
Luther winces.
‘And it just got worse from there. We tried everything. Psychiatrists. Psychologists. Whatever we thought might possibly work, we tried it.’
She coughs into her fist and sits back. Drained, to be reliving it all.
Luther says, ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.’
Luther heads to the kitchen. On the way, he nods to Howie. Points to his phone.
Howie frowns: What?
Luther steps into the kitchen, texting. He finds the glasses in a high cupboard and draws off a glass of water.
On the window behind the sink is a small jar of petroleum jelly. The lid is loose.
Luther looks at it as he finishes the text. He addresses it to Rose Teller, Ian Reed, Benny Deadhead and Isobel Howie.
Then he carries the glass of water through to Jan Madsen.
She takes it, gratefully. Takes a sip. Sits holding it in her lap.
‘Adopted kids,’ Luther says, sitting. ‘They sometimes get to wondering about their biological parents. Especially the birth mother.’
‘Don’t they just. God knows, Henry made an absolute Madonna of his. Concocted all these mad fantasies about her.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as, he came from bad blood.’
‘That’s how he put it? Bad blood?’
‘Bad blood. He was obsessed with the idea.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Jeremy’s a vet. Retired now, obviously. But the only thing Henry ever showed any positive interest in was the animals. So we tried to get him involved. We bought him a little mongrel pup. Digby. We thought that might help.’