Maggie looks severe and focused, a solemn presence; not at all like she spent a sleepless night waiting for a madman to call and make her famous again.
‘Whatever the facts of the matter may be,’ she says, ‘the man who calls himself Pete Black, the alleged killer of Tom Lambert, Sarah Lambert and now baby Emma Lambert, very clearly blames the police for the tragedy that took place overnight.’
The interviewer leans forward. She has a thin sheaf of papers in one hand. ‘But surely no one can blame the police for doing their job?’
‘No one’s blaming the police,’ Maggie says. ‘They were doing a difficult job in what were clearly very difficult circumstances. It’s just that, in this once instance, perhaps blindly following procedure wasn’t the optimum strategy.’
‘Are you suggesting the police should have met “Pete Black’s” demands and guaranteed not to stake out the hospitals?’
‘Of course, it depends on the police service’s operational priorities: catching a killer or saving the child. All I’m saying is, perhaps it’s an option they could have explored.’
‘But as you know, police are refusing to comment on operational details. They simply won’t say whether they had officers posted at hospitals and churches.’
Maggie Reilly laughs. ‘I’ve been a journalist too long to trust a “no comment” from the police, no matter how prettily it’s dolled up.’
‘Maggie Reilly, we’ll leave it there. Thank you.’
Luther rubs the flat of his hand in slow circles around the crown of his head.
He says, ‘This is all such bullshit. The baby was long dead. She’s been dead since yesterday. He’s mortified by that. The baby dying wasn’t part of his plan, whatever his plan was. He can’t accept the blame, so it must be someone else’s fault. He’s passing the burden of guilt on to us.’
‘I know that. You know that. Whether people out there,’ she gestures, meaning the wider world, ‘actually want to believe it. That’s a different matter.’
Luther tugs at his ear, considering. He says, ‘I don’t think I can do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘This.’
She gives him the Duchess look.
‘Things aren’t good,’ he says. ‘At home. Between me and Zoe.’
‘I see. She’s being a madam, is she?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘It’s always that. You’re not the first copper to marry a spoiled cow. You won’t be the last.’
‘Boss, that’s not fair. She just-’
Teller gestures with open palms: Just what?
Luther rubs his face, exhausted. He needs to shave and change his shirt. ‘I’m not right,’ he says. ‘In myself.’
‘So what are you suggesting we do?’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask about leave of absence. Stress leave. Whatever you want to call it.’
‘And whose idea was this? Yours, or Princess Tippietoes?’
‘Both of ours.’
Teller removes her spectacles, blinks at him like an owl. ‘If we take you off this now, it looks like an admission of guilt. It’s like declaring we did something wrong.’ She puts the glasses back on, shoves them up the bridge of her nose. ‘They’ll crucify the fucking lot of us.’
Luther practically folds in on himself. Crossed arms, hunched shoulders. ‘We shouldn’t react to this bullshit anyway,’ he says. ‘You can’t run a case via the media.’
‘You can’t run a case like this any other way,’ she says. ‘That’s the truth of it. If Pete Black controls the story, he controls everything. We look like the Keystone fucking Cops. That’s why we’ve called a press conference, and that’s why you’re going to front it.’
He can’t speak.
‘Welcome to the world of modern policing.’ She points to the TV, the endlessly cycled image of Luther in the graveyard, weeping. ‘Like it or not,’ she says, ‘this little Kodak moment makes you the caring, sharing face of the Metropolitan Police Service. People might be quick to stand in judgement where the Met’s concerned. But everyone loves a big, tough man who can cry over a baby. Which makes you the public face of the investigation. Congratulations.’
‘I’m not competing with this psychopath to make people see who cares the most.’
Teller pinches the bridge of her nose as if she’s got the worst migraine in history. ‘You need to get out there,’ she says, ‘and do whatever needs to be done.’
‘What else?’ he says. ‘You want me to cuddle a puppy?’
‘This isn’t my idea.’ She looks pointedly at the ceiling. ‘And it’s not for negotiation. And don’t suggest the puppy thing to Cornish, because he might go for it.’
She means her boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Russell Cornish.
Teller hands him a printed statement. He folds it and slips it into his pocket.
‘Doing this,’ he says, ‘all it’s going to do is feed his ego. To see us running around like headless chickens.’
‘His ego’s not our concern right now.’
Luther thanks her automatically, and shoves the press conference to the back of his mind. It’s another thing to deal with later. He crosses the bullpen, finds Howie at her desk.
‘Anything in the York or Kintry file?’
Howie swivels on her chair, massaging her neck. She passes him the Adrian York file. It’s pitifully thin. ‘Not really.’
She tells him that Adrian was out riding his new BMX while his mother, Chrissie, watched from the bedroom window. Chrissie had a clear and uninterrupted view of the park.
The phone rang, a landline. Mobile phones weren’t that common in 1996. The caller was Adrian’s grandmother, asking when she could bring round his birthday cake. When Chrissie got back to the window, no more than three minutes later, Adrian had gone. She saw his bike lying in the grass and went out to look for him. Ten minutes later, she called Avon and Somerset Police. Attending officers immediately began to search for Adrian’s father, David York. The senior investigating officer was Detective Chief Inspector Tim Wilson.
As far as Howie can see, no serious attempt was ever made to rule out a stranger abduction.
Luther glances over the file. ‘Where’s David York now?’
‘In Sydney, Australia.’
‘And the Kintry abduction?’
‘If this is the same man, you’re right. It looks like a first attempt, and a bit of a botch job. There were many more witnesses. Mr Pradesh Jeganathan, a local shopkeeper, apparently witnessed a white male leading a black child towards a small white van. He challenged the driver. There was an altercation during which the alleged abductor actually bit Mr Jeganathan on the ear and cheek.’
‘Bit him? They get DNA?’
‘Mr Jeganathan suffered a heart attack at the scene. They rushed him to the Bristol Royal Infirmary before he could be forensicated.’
‘Bite imprints?’
‘Poor quality, but on file.’
‘That’s something. But teeth can change a lot in fifteen years. Other eyewitnesses?’
‘One more. Kenneth Drummond, freelance illustrator. Claimed to have seen a small white van cruising past the Kintry boy a few minutes before the attempted abduction.’
‘He give a description of the driver?’
‘Nothing that contradicts what we’ve already got.’
‘But nothing to add to it either?’
‘Sorry, Boss. It’s pretty slim pickings.’
‘Fifteen-year-old cold case,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be a long shot.’
‘It’s more than a cold case. Maggie Reilly was right, actually. It’s a scandal.’
‘What about the senior on the Kintry case? Pat something. Did we contact her?’
‘Inspector Pat Maxwell. Retired. I made a few calls. She died a couple of years back.’
Luther takes that in. Old cases close up like wounds, knit together.
He thanks Howie and heads towards the door.
He hesitates, thinks again, turns back to her. ‘Pete Black,’ he says. ‘Obviously that’s not his real name. So why’d he choose it? Of all the names available to him, why that one?’
Howie shrugs. ‘It’s a pretty blah name,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t give much away. There must be a million Pete Blacks in London. They’re being eliminated as we speak.’