‘Sorry,’ says Reed. ‘Absolutely right. Two shootings.’
Julian gapes at them.
‘You can’t do this,’ he says. ‘You can’t.’
Silence.
‘Shit,’ says Julian. ‘So what am I going to do?’
‘Go to prison.’
‘I can’t go to prison. I’ve got a phobia.’
‘That’s a new one,’ says Reed.
‘It’s true. It’s got a name. It’s a syndrome.’
‘I bet it is.’
‘Well anyway,’ says Luther. ‘That’s really why we’re here. To give you some advice.’
‘I don’t get you. What’s happening? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re talking in riddles.’
‘Just calm down and listen,’ Luther says. ‘And speak a bit more quietly.’
Julian calms down and listens. He speaks a bit more quietly.
Luther says, ‘You’re finished here, Julian. You know that. You’ve been finished for a long time. You must be tired of it all. All this shit you’re pulling, just to keep afloat. Creditors, ex-wives, mortgages, bank loans, sitting tenants. It must be a nightmare for you. If I were you,’ Luther says, ‘do you know what I’d do?’
‘No.’
‘I’d call my accountant. Then I’d go to Heathrow and buy a ticket. And I’d do it really, really soon.’
Julian blinks at him. He says, ‘You’re asking me to leave my home.’
‘That’s right,’ Luther says.
‘And all this is for the old man in that house?’
Luther doesn’t answer. He unscrews the maroon lid from the malt vinegar. Then he screws it back on again.
Julian says, ‘Or is it because without me, there won’t be any charges against you?’
Luther grins. Then his phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks it out.
It’s a text from Howie: Patrick’s conscious.
Luther reads the text, pockets the phone.
He says, ‘We’ve got Tonga in hiding for thirty-six hours. That’s enough time for you to pack your bags and get away. After that, we bring him in, he makes his statement — and you’re in big trouble.’
Luther squeezes out of the booth, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, dumps the napkin on the table and leaves.
Reed lingers a few moments, to finish his pie. Then he claps Julian on the shoulder, says, ‘Happy travels, dickhead,’ and follows.
Henry hurries to the garage.
Passing the dogs, he can feel their flat amber gaze. They’re waiting for him to chuck in a rabbit or a cat.
But Henry ignores them for the moment and jogs instead to the tall metal locker at the far end of the garage. He opens it with a small key and runs a quick inventory: Dexamethazone, Talivin, codeine, procain penicillin, testosterone, ketamine.
There are catheters, needles, syringes, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, Betadine, suture needles, staple gun and staple remover, surgical scissors, forceps.
In the far, cobwebby corner stands a rusty oxygen cylinder. Still good.
In the attic, he knows, is a large, empty weapons case. In the cupboard under the sink is a multipack of duct tape.
You can’t have enough duct tape.
The inventory relaxes him. He counts again, and again. When he’s tallied three times, he knows what to do.
As he prepares the first syringe of amphetamines, he apologizes to the dogs.
CHAPTER 25
Reed hails a cab. He’s at the factory in about twenty minutes.
He walks in to find Benny Deadhead has colonized his desk.
‘Sorry,’ says Benny.
‘That’s all right,’ says Reed. He hangs his wet coat over the back of Luther’s chair and logs in.
Benny says, ‘How’s the neck?’
Reed waggles his head around to show how much better it is.
Luther nods to the uniforms guarding the door and, ducking his head, steps quietly into Patrick’s hospital room. He’s carrying a slim buff folder.
The room is an artificial, greenish twilight. The kid’s hooked up to a ventilator, a heart monitor.
Howie’s in here, dozing on a moulded plastic chair, head nodding to her chest.
She jumps, looks up, sees Luther. Collects herself.
Luther says, ‘He spoken yet?’
‘No.’
Luther shakes his head, like it wasn’t a question worth asking. He steps closer to the bed, to the bandaged kid, the morphine drip.
The kid opens his eyes. Knows Luther is there.
Luther pulls up a chair and puts his face close to the kid’s.
‘You probably expect me to feel compassion for you,’ he says. ‘And I do. I think it’s grim, what your dad did to you. But anyone who ever killed anyone was a baby once, so in the end the things you did, that’s down to you. But you can help us. You can help us put that right.’
The kid turns his head on the pillow. Away from Luther.
‘I know you love him,’ Luther says. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt him. You can’t help it; it’s what happens to us. Love can be a kind of survival mechanism. Sometimes we love the people we need because we need them. Like dogs. But at the same time, it doesn’t mean you liked doing what you did together, these terrible things. Because you didn’t. Do you know how I know that?’
The kid stares him down. One of his eyes is swollen shut.
‘I know you dialled 999,’ Luther says. ‘The night he killed the Lamberts and took their baby. I know you tried to get him caught.’
The kid looks away, blinks at the ceiling.
‘And it wasn’t just the 999 calls, was it? Because last night, someone rang round all the families in London by the name of Dalton. Warning them. Or trying to. Why would someone do that, d’you think?’
Luther reaches into the folder, brings out a photograph of Mia Dalton. She’s smiling, on a beach somewhere. ‘Now he’s taken Mia. But you know that, right? You know exactly what he’s planning to do — because you tried to help Mia get away from him.’
He sits back, crosses his arms, the picture of Mia held like a playing card he’s about to throw in.
‘A lot of people,’ he says, ‘I mean a lot of people, think you were trying to take her for yourself; that you wanted to do things with her. In private. If you know what I mean. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you were trying to protect her. You didn’t want her fucked up like you were fucked up.’
The kid makes weak fists. Muscles move in his skinny forearms. He glares at the ceiling with one eye.
Luther leans in closer. Sees the green light refracted through the meniscus of tears on the surface of the kid’s eye.
‘I could tell you all about her,’ he says. ‘I could tell you she likes ponies and Justin Bieber. But the thing is, I’d be wasting my time, wouldn’t I? Because you and your dad know that already. You know everything about her.’
Nothing.
‘Except he’s not your dad,’ says Luther. ‘We have to remember that, don’t we? That’s the important thing. He’s not really your dad.’
The kid closes his eyes.
‘It’s not admissible in court,’ Luther says. ‘But I’ve been following your heart on that monitor. The machine that goes ping.’ He grins. ‘Did you ever see that sketch? Probably not. Before your time. This is way back in the seventies, back when I was a little kid. But anyway, the machine that goes ping tells me when you’re lying and when you’re not — even when you’re not talking. Because when I said he wasn’t your dad, it spiked.’
The kid mumbles something, perhaps a denial. It’s too low to hear.
Luther takes a long, calming breath. Then he leans in even closer, close enough to brush the kid’s ear with his lips.
‘The man who calls himself your dad,’ he says. ‘The man who calls himself Henry Grady. He kidnapped you on eighth of September 1995. You’d just turned six.’
The kid’s lip quivers.
Luther slips another photograph from the folder. He holds it up. ‘Do you recognize yourself?’
The kid screws his eyes shut. Refuses to look.
Luther stands. He holds the photograph close to the kid’s eyes.
‘This is you,’ he says. ‘Or it used to be.’
The kid makes fists so tight the flesh goes white. Livid purple in patches.