‘Antarctica.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to Antarctica. You can fly there from South America or New Zealand. I don’t even think it costs that much. Not really. Not in the scheme of things.’
‘Can you actually do that?’
‘Apparently.’
He sat up, scratched his head, suddenly taken with the idea. ‘I’ve always fancied New Zealand,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why.’
‘Turkey’s on my list,’ she said. ‘Turkey’s good. Let’s do Turkey.’
‘I’m not big on beaches.’
He didn’t like to sit in the sun, having people nose at what he was reading.
‘You can read in the hotel,’ she said. ‘We could meet for lunch. Have a siesta. Make love. Theatre in the evening.’
‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’
‘Yep. We’d need to update your passport.’
‘Do we?’
‘It ran out.’
‘Seriously? When?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’
He rubbed his head. ‘All right. Fuck it. Let’s do it.’
She laughed and hugged him and they made love like they were already on holiday.
That was nearly a year ago.
Now he’s standing exhausted in the kitchen at just gone six in the morning, dazed by lack of sleep, placing two bowls of muesli on the breakfast bar; a late night snack for him, breakfast for her. He says, ‘I was going to ask her today.’
He means his boss, Detective Superintendent Teller.
Zoe makes a mouth with her fingers and thumb: yada yada yada. Heard it before.
Luther picks up a bowl of muesli, turns his back to her, shovels cereal into his mouth. ‘The thing is, Ian got hurt.’
He allows her a moment. Ashamed of himself.
‘Oh, God,’ she says. ‘How bad?’
‘Not too bad. I picked him up from A and E, took him home.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was cornered somewhere. We’re not sure by who. But they gave him a pretty good kicking. So we’re a detective down.’
‘Okay,’ she says, relieved that Ian’s all right. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can’t tell her, does it? Whatever happens, she’ll need a few weeks to arrange cover for you. You know that. Ian being in hospital is not an excuse.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s not. You’re right.’
‘So tell her?’
‘I will.’
‘Seriously,’ she says. ‘Tell her.’
She’s imploring him. But it’s not about the holiday. It’s about something else.
Zoe sometimes has flashes of what she believes to be psychic insights. Many involve him. Two nights ago, she cried out in her sleep. ‘Marked!’ she said.
He’d meant to ask what that meant. What was marked? What had she been seeing in that secret time behind her eyes?
He says, ‘I will. I’ll ask her. I promise.’
‘Or else, John,’ she says. ‘Seriously.’
‘Or else what?’
‘You can’t go on like this,’ she says. ‘You just can’t.’
He knows she’s right.
He’s trudging upstairs to the shower when his phone rings. He checks out the caller display: Teller, Rose.
He answers, listens.
Tells her he’ll be there as soon as he can. Then he washes his face, brushes his teeth, puts on a clean shirt. He kisses his wife.
‘I’ll ask her today,’ he says, meaning it. ‘I’ll ask her this morning.’
Then he heads out to the crime scene.
CHAPTER 3
He’s forced to park some way off and walk to the scene.
The morning is damp and chilly; he feels it in his knees. He thinks it’s all the bending over, all the ducking through doors and under tape; half a lifetime spent cramming himself into spaces that aren’t quite big enough for him.
It’s sunrise, but already plain clothes and uniform are conducting a house to house. Curious neighbours stand blinking in doorways, huddled in sweats and nightgowns. Some will ask the police inside; none will have heard or seen anything. But all will sense their deliverance from something sombre and profound, something that passed them by like a hunting shark.
The house is behind tape. Two and a half storeys, double-fronted Victorian semi. Probably a million and a half.
Luther shoves through the rubberneckers, the citizen journalists hoisting iPhones, not drowning but filming; he shoulders aside the real, old-fashioned journalists. He badges the Log Officer, who signs him in, then he ducks under the tape.
Detective Superintendent Rose Teller steps up to greet him. Five foot four, fine-boned, hard-faced. Teller’s grown into the pinched expression she first adopted as a younger woman who sought to accommodate superior officers, men who saw frivolity in grace. She’s wearing a forensic suit, bootees.
He says, ‘Morning, Boss. What’ve we got?’
‘Nasty piece of business.’
Luther claps his hands, vigorously rubs them. ‘Can you give me a minute, first? I need to ask a favour.’
She gives him the look. They don’t call her the Duchess for nothing.
She says, ‘You really choose your moments, don’t you?’
‘Later,’ he says, taking the hint. ‘Whenever you’ve got a minute. Won’t take long.’
‘Okay. Good.’
She clicks her fingers and DS Isobel Howie hurries over, trim in her white forensic bunny suit; strawberry-blonde hair worn short and spiky. Howie’s a second-generation copper, doesn’t like to talk about it. Some issue with her dad.
She nods good morning to Luther, hands him a manila file.
‘Victims are Tom and Sarah Lambert. He’s thirty-eight, she’s thirty-three.’ She shows him photographs: Mr Lambert dark, handsome, fit-looking. Mrs Lambert blonde, athletic, freckled. Stunning.
‘Mr Lambert’s a youth counsellor. Works with troubled kids.’
‘Which means a lot of people with emotional and mental problems,’ Luther says. ‘Mrs Lambert?’
‘She’s an events manager; organizes weddings and parties, that sort of thing.’
‘First marriage?’
‘First marriage for both of them. No jealous exes that we know of, no restraining orders. Nothing like that.’
‘Point of entry?’
‘Front door.’
‘What? He just let himself in?’
Howie nods.
Luther says, ‘What time is this?’
‘The 999 call came in around 4 a.m.’
‘Who made the call?’
‘Male, walking his dog, didn’t leave his name. Claimed to hear screams.’
‘I need to hear the recording.’
‘We can do that.’
‘Neighbours? They didn’t report any screams?’
‘Didn’t hear a thing, apparently.’
‘No cars? No slamming doors?’
‘Nothing.’
He turns back to the open door.
‘So who’s got spare keys? Neighbours, babysitters, mothers, fathers, cousins? Dog walker, house-sitter, cleaner?’
‘We’re looking into all that.’
‘Okay.’
Luther nods to the interior of the house. Howie follows the line of his gaze, sees a plastic keypad set into the wall. A small red light is flashing. Yapping like a silent dog. A burglar alarm.
Howie beckons Luther with a nod, leads him along the stepping plates that SOCO have placed along the side of the house.
Near the drainpipe, Luther shoves his hands deep into his overcoat pockets; it reduces the temptation to touch things. He squats heel to haunch, nods at the point where the phone line has been snipped. Then he takes one hand from his pocket and mimes a pair of scissors. The cut is close to the ground, half hidden by the spindly city grass that grows round the bottom of the drainpipe.
‘So he’s got a key. He also knows they’ve got an alarm. And he knows how to disable it.’ He stands, rotating his head to loosen a stiff neck. ‘Let’s find out who installed the alarm. Start with the contractor, the actual bloke who fitted it. I’ve seen that before. If you don’t get any joy with him, go to the security company that employs him. Check out everyone. Invoicing department, IT department, the boss, the boss’s PA. The sales force. All of them. If you don’t get anywhere, go wider. Look at employee spouses. And hope that comes up trumps. Because if it doesn’t…’