‘No. He’d taken them himself.’
‘Without the couples’ knowledge.’
‘Apparently.’
‘How did he get these films?’
‘His son helped him.’
‘His what?’
‘Son.’
‘What son? You didn’t mention a son.’
‘I think I just did.’
‘How old is the son now?’
‘I don’t know. Twenty?’
‘Did you meet the son?’
‘Once or twice. Henry would drop him off while we were on the way to the hospital.’
‘Drop him off where?’
‘Nowhere in particular. Just places.’
‘What’s the son’s name?’
‘Patrick.’
‘What does Patrick look like?’
‘I don’t know. Normal.’
The amused, pewter light in her eyes is dimming. She’s getting bored. He knows he’s coming to the end of it now.
‘And after these meetings of the IVF group,’ he says, ‘he’d just sit and — what? Just watch Tom and Sarah Lambert. What happened then?’
‘He tried to make friends with them.’
‘Did he succeed?’
‘Did he fuck. They thought he was creepy.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he was. He was all creepy and hand-wringy like a little toad. He made her flesh crawl. I think the man wanted to fuck me, though. He had that look. He couldn’t stop looking at me.’
Luther can’t stop looking at her either.
Ten minutes later, Sweet Jane Carr is removed to her cell.
Luther signs out and is led through the echoing maze, bleak with night. He steps outside, into the glow of prison lights. Drizzle dances in their gaunt radiance.
Outside the gates, two police cars are waiting.
Rose Teller is there. Arms crossed, head bowed.
He strides up to her.
‘He called himself Henry Grady,’ he says, too quickly for her to get a word in. ‘I’ve got a good description. He’s got a son, Patrick. And he’s got some kind of database, a list of people he’s watching — the way he watched the Lamberts. For whatever reason the Lamberts were his favourites. But there are more. And he’s not a paedophile. He’s a family man-’
She crosses her arms and shifts her weight. She’s wearing an impatient, scowling expression.
‘He wants to be normal,’ Luther says. ‘He thinks of himself as an outsider; he’s always been an outsider. He didn’t grow up in a conventional household. That could mean anything — a cult. Hippies. But most likely it means he was adopted. Adoption can have a negative effect on some kids; even a really good adoption. Henry never felt like he belonged. And now he’s trying to make a family around him. That’s why he gets so angry. Any dad would, if someone accused him of being a paedophile. He’s-’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Stop now.’
The words are jammed behind his mouth, crammed up behind his eyes.
‘We need to look for a man called Finian Ward,’ he says. ‘And any bogus social-worker activity in Bristol during the mid-nineties. I think that’s how he knew to target Adrian York. He’d pose as a social worker and-’
‘Stop,’ says Teller.
He stops. His hands drop to his sides.
She says, ‘Go home.’
‘What do you mean? He’s out there. Tonight. Right now. And I’m getting close to him.’
‘Hundreds of good coppers are after him. We’ll feed everything you’ve given us into the pool.’
‘Boss, you can’t do this to me. I asked to come off the case. You made me stay on. And now here we are. I can smell him. I’ve got his stink.’
‘And to get here, you assaulted one witness and threatened another.’
He grits his teeth, thinks of Howie and the phone call from the dank concrete balcony. ‘Exigent circumstances,’ he says.
‘That’s not a defence. Not in law. Not to me.’
‘Boss,’ he says. ‘There’s a family out there tonight. He’s probably got keys to their house. He’s going to let himself in and do what he wants to them.’ He shows her his watch, the ticking second hand. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘Tonight. You know what that means. You saw what he left of the Lamberts.’
‘And you haven’t slept for three days. It’s showing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t keep still. You’re pacing. ‘
‘I’m frustrated.’
‘You’re wired.’
She takes his elbow, leads him away.
‘I’m pretty sure Sava won’t file a report,’ she says. ‘A bloke like that sees a bit of harassment as cost of business. And nobody will believe a word Bixby said.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, you did it.’
He exhales, helpless and trapped. He holds out his hands as if petitioning the moon. ‘Boss, I’m fine.’
‘You got a pretty decent result from Jane Carr,’ Teller says. ‘How’d you pull that off? Don’t say you flirted with her. Because I tell you, mate, you’re not her type.’ She skewers him on her bright raptorial gaze. ‘What if we ask the screws to toss her cell? They going to find anything?’
He shoves his hands in his pockets, wanders in a baffled circle.
‘I can’t go home with all this happening,’ he says. ‘I can’t.’
‘That’s not your decision.’
‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘Make up your mind. I’m on or I’m off.’
‘Go home, John.’
He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right, I’ll go home and I’ll get my head down. But do me a favour?’
‘Depends.’
‘Anything happens, you get a good sniff, give me a call.’
‘Done.’
He scuffs his feet. Scowls. ‘I’m honestly fine,’ he says.
But he accepts it, and heads home.
There is no single register of prank calls made in London during any twenty-four-hour period.
But tonight there are many more such calls than usual.
London-wide, mischievous teenage boys, hate-filled ex-lovers, racists, stoned students and the mentally ill call many hundreds of different families, warning them that Pete Black is coming for them.
Hundreds of people are terrorized. Several dozen of them call 999. They include a number of families who share the surname Dalton.
All calls are logged, but are subject to triage.
Nobody thinks the man who calls himself ‘Pete Black’ will call ahead to warn his targets he’s on his way.
CHAPTER 19
Luther’s home shortly after 8.40 p.m. Zoe’s not back yet.
He checks his mobile for messages before letting himself through the red door and into the dark hallway. Eleven missed calls. Three voicemails from Zoe, increasingly worried and exasperated. She gave up calling several hours ago.
He wonders where she is.
He turns off the phone, pockets it and steps further into the house, hangs his coat on the banister.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He trudges through to the kitchen and plugs the phone in to charge.
He goes upstairs to the bathroom. He cleans his teeth and washes his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, beaded with water, then goes downstairs and turns on the TV. He cycles through the channels three times, then turns it off.
He walks around the house turning lights on. Then he goes back to the kitchen, checks his phone, clears away Zoe’s breakfast things, puts the dishwasher on.
He opens the fridge and looks at their food, their bottled sauces, their fruit and milk and yogurt, displayed under surgically bright light. He stands in the cool breath long enough for the fridge to start beeping at him.
There’s a carton of milk in there, bought on Monday when the Lambert baby was still in her mother’s womb. And now the child lies with her parents on a slab. Their eyes are low and sly, the artfulness of the dead, as if they know something you don’t, something you’ll find out soon enough.
But the milk is still good enough to drink; he could make a cup of tea with it. He looks at the milk while the fridge beeps and he doesn’t hear the keys in the latch or the door open or Zoe set her bags down in the hallway. He doesn’t hear her walk down the hall and linger in the kitchen doorway.