‘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 disappears 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.