‘You know how it is with coppers and kids.’
‘Oh, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Did John tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Well, it was… a very upsetting crime scene. Police officers see a great deal. But sometimes, well… Many people who saw what John saw last night will be very upset. He really didn’t tell you?’
‘He doesn’t tell me anything. He thinks it’s disrespectful to the dead.’
‘That’s very admirable.’
‘Well, he’s a very admirable man.’
‘So I hear. Many fine officers speak highly of him.’
‘He’s dedicated. He works hard.’
She clasps her hands in her lap, fights the urge to tear a kitchen towel to shreds, to pick imaginary lint from her lapel.
‘The man, or men, who slaughtered this family,’ Schenk says. ‘And who then took that poor little girl. They left a message in the victims’ blood. On the wall. The word Pigs. Seeing something like that, it can be difficult to walk away from. It’s likely John will need to take a break after this.’
She laughs out loud before she can stop herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Schenk says. ‘Did I go touching a raw nerve?’
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘It’s just — well, I’ve been trying to make John take a break since God was a boy.’
‘And he won’t?’
‘He says he can’t relax.’
‘Ah,’ says Schenk. ‘I was a murder detective, for my sins. So I know what it’s like. My Avril, I put her through some dark years. All the worrying, it’s very difficult. Although mind you, I sympathize with John, too — wanting to tell you everything, just so you understand. But then again, wanting to shield you from it.’
‘How long were you a murder detective?’
‘Most of my career. Until I got stabbed.’ He brushes her reaction away with a dismissive wave. ‘Oh, it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. A little pneumothorax. A day or two in hospital. Then home to a very frosty Mrs Schenk.’ He chuckles fondly at the memory. ‘I told her, okay I’ll make the move. But you should know they call Complaints the Rat Squad. I won’t be liked.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘I like you enough to make up for the rest of them.’
‘That’s very sweet.’
‘She’s a very sweet woman. You’d like her.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Since before God was a boy.’ He blushes, then shows her his wedding ring. Plain gold band. ‘Childhood sweethearts.’
‘Oh,’ Zoe laughs, ‘that’s something I know all about. Well, practically.’
‘So I hear! You and DCI Luther-’
‘Met at university, yes. How do you know that?’
‘Because, sadly — and I do mean sadly — I’ve been asking some questions about your husband. I’m very worried about him.’
You and me both, she thinks.
She says, ‘In what way?’
‘Well, as I say. The psychological pressures. It causes a lot of problems. Mental health issues. Marital issues.’
‘His mental health is fine.’
‘Well, that’s good to know. And, if I may, your marriage…’
She looks him in the eye and knows how dangerous it would be to lie. ‘The marriage is pretty bad,’ she says.
‘I see. I’m very sorry.’
‘We’ll get through it.’
‘Well, I certainly hope you do. So I wonder, during what’s obviously been a period of increased stress, has DCI Luther been, say, drinking more than usual?’
‘He doesn’t drink. Never really had a taste for it. He’ll have a beer at the weekend sometimes.’
‘Well, that’s something. That’s certainly something. Now, Mrs Luther-’
‘Zoe, please.’
‘Thank you. You’ve already been more than generous, inviting me into your home, knowing the kind of thing I came to ask. So it pains me to embarrass myself by asking this question…’
‘Not at all,’ she says. Her foot is tapping. She makes it stop. ‘Ask away. It’s your job.’
‘Could you tell me about John’s movements last night?’
‘Well, Rose sent him home.’
‘And he got home when?’
‘About eleven, eleven thirty?’
‘And what did he do, when he got home?’
‘He lay on the bed and fell asleep. Didn’t even take his shoes off. Then, what seems about five minutes later, the phone goes. It’s Rose. Detective Chief Superintendent Teller. She wants him at some crime scene, the one you’re talking about I suppose. So up he gets, and drags himself out. He hasn’t told me the details, but I do understand things were… emotional last night.’
‘And in between arriving home at eleven thirty, and going out again about…’
‘I was pretty much asleep. Two forty-five, was it? Something like that.’
‘Otherwise, he was with you?’
‘He was. Yes.’
He looks at her for a long time with those glinting eyes in that soft face, beautifully shaved. Gives her a sad smile, a brave smile that the world should be this way for them both. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’
She nods. Can’t speak.
After a moment, Schenk checks his watch and says, ‘Well, goodness me. I must get going. I have an appointment with your husband.’
He grabs his damp coat, slips it on.
Zoe says, ‘What did he do?’
‘Who?’
‘The person,’ she says. ‘Whatever John’s being blamed for.’
‘There’s a man named Crouch,’ Schenk says. ‘A very nasty piece of work. There’s a rumour, although I should stress it’s only a rumour, that associates of Crouch had DCI Ian Reed assaulted. Do you know DCI Reed?’
‘He’s a family friend. I know him well.’
‘Of course. Well, very late last night someone torched Mr Crouch’s car. A vintage Jaguar. Mr Crouch gave a description of the offender. His description closely matches DCI Luther.’
‘I see.’
‘But of course,’ says Schenk, ‘it wasn’t him. Because he was tucked up in bed at the time, with you.’
She smiles.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ says Schenk. ‘You stay in this nice kitchen. Out of the wet. It’s dreadful out there, really.’
She watches the space where Schenk had been standing until she hears the front door open, linger, close. And Schenk is gone.
She stays in the kitchen. After a minute, her hands start to shake. Then her legs. She sits. Tugging at her hair.
Reed’s known Bill Winingham since he was a woodentop. Winingham’s Glaswegian, in his sixties now — still tough and wiry. Severe white crew cut, haggard face. A fisherman’s sweater frayed at the sleeves.
He’s a decent man, old school. He’s a fence and Reed’s long-term confidential informant. They’ve got the kind of relation ship good police work is based on. Over fifteen years, it’s developed into a kind of friendship.
They meet at a coffee bar in Shoreditch. Exposed brick walls, stainless-steel espresso machines, vintage Formica tables and chairs.
They take a corner table and small-talk for a while. Winingham subtly makes it plain that he knows nothing about Pete Black. Reed brushes off the intimation with a flick of the wrist, batting away a mosquito. Then he says, ‘So anyway. I need a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘You know the kind of favour I usually ask you? Legal and above board and all that?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, this isn’t that kind of favour.’
Neither man alters his bearing, his tone of voice. They’ve been at this game far too long.
Winingham says, ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘A friend of mine tried to help me, and ended up getting in trouble for it. Now I’m trying to help him out of some deep shit.’
Winingham adds sugar to his coffee. Stirs. ‘What are you asking me?’
‘I need some weight. And a rental. A really dirty one.’
He means a rental firearm. There are people who hire out illegal firearms. Many of the weapons have been used in a number of crimes by a number of different people.
Winingham exhales, long and slow. Not playing it for drama, just letting Reed know the scale of the ask.
He picks at the half-stale Danish on a plate before him. ‘That’s a bit heavy for me.’