The Calling l-1

by Neil Cross

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.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Schenk says. ‘I’m jumbled up. When I get a call that early in the morning, I’m all at sixes and sevens until I’ve had a decent breakfast. And all the proper cafes are closing. Have you noticed that? You want a full English, but these days it’s all low GI this and good cholesterol that. It hardly counts as breakfast at all. A copper needs a decent fry-up. Although don’t mention that to my wife.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Tel
l 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.’

  ‘Quite. Well, if you could make yourself available at Hobb
Lane, I’d certainly appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll try, I’ll definitely try.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you as soon as I can.’

  Luther hangs up. He swears, rubs his head, paces. Then he calls home. ‘Zoe? It’s me.’

  Zoe sounds weary. The mild sense of dislocation that follows a sleepless night.

  ‘John, listen. I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he says. ‘Forget about last night.’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I just mean, this isn’t about last night. Listen, I haven’t got time to talk. Not properly. So I’m going to be quick, okay?’

  ‘Go on.’ Less weary now. A warning edge of chipped flint.

  ‘I need to ask you a favour,’ he says. ‘Not a nice favour.’

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘First, I’ve got to tell you, I’m not asking lightly. I’m asking it for the little girl, Mia Dalton. You’ve seen her on the news. You must have. This is about her. About getting her back.’

  ‘What are you asking me to do?’

  ‘Lie for me.’

  ‘Lie to who?’

  ‘To a policeman.’

  He tells her what he needs. And at the end of it, she sighs. He can picture her, barefoot in pyjamas, tugging at her hair.

  ‘Fuck you, John,’ she says. ‘I mean seriously. Fuck you, for asking me to do this.’

  ‘I know. But will you do it?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  He thanks her and hangs up. Then he makes one last call, using Ms James’s pink phone. ‘Boss?’

  ‘What?’ says Teller.

  ‘How’s the patient?’

  ‘In the ICU.’

  ‘Conscious?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, listen. I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘In about two minutes, I need you to call me.’

  ‘Why am I doing that?’

  ‘So there’s a record.’

  ‘And what are we saying during this imaginary conversation?’

  ‘You’re ordering me from the station to the hospital as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘And — real world now — why would you ask me to do that?’

  ‘Because I’ve got Complaints sniffing round my ass.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she says. ‘Today?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘I’ve had Martin Schenk badgering me,’ she says. ‘Leaving messages. So now I know why. What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. But if you don’t help me out here, Schenk will make sure I’m pulled off this thing. I can’t let him do that. I need to find Mia Dalton. Now. Today.’