Four arrests are made. Two of the dogs will later be destroyed.
They find no evidence that Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen have been present.
CHAPTER 29
Luther and Howie drive to Finchley.
On Royal Drive, they pass the site of the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, now converted into high-end apartments. The Asylum used to be home to Aaron Kosminski. Luther’s pretty much convinced that Kosminski was Jack the Ripper.
Jeremy and Jan Madsen live in a gabled, semi-detached Edwardian house in a Finchley cul-de-sac.
Jan Madsen comes to the door. She’s an imposing presence: chiselled jaw, strong cheekbones. Greying pre-Raphaelite hair. She’s seventy-two, a retired pharmacist. She gives Luther a regal once-over and says, ‘Is it about my son?’
Luther nods. Tucks his badge into his pocket.
She invites them in. Brisk with anxiety.
The house is clean. In the living room are knick-knacks and family photographs, a TV that was top of the line when it was acquired, twenty-five years ago. Fruit in a blue and white ceramic bowl; the coral skeleton of recently eaten grapes. An old HP computer is plugged into the wall, screen black. Two credit cards on the table. A cup of milky tea on a coaster next to it. Evidence of cats, although no cats are to be seen.
Jan faces Luther and Howie, her son a spectre between them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Howie smiles agreeably. ‘No, thank you.’
‘There’s plenty in the pot.’
‘Honestly. But thank you.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you, we’re good.’
‘Water? Something to eat?’
Howie smiles. ‘Really. We’re fine.’
Jan invites them to sit.
Luther and Howie perch on the edge of a Laura Ashley sofa.
Jan sits in a matching armchair. Wrings her gardener’s hands, knotty with arthritis.
Anxious people are compelled to fill silence. So Luther and Howie sit and wait.
‘It’s vile,’ she says. ‘The things he’s done. It’s vile. He wasn’t brought up like that.’
‘I can see that,’ Luther says. ‘You have a very lovely house. Have you lived here long?’
‘Since 1965.’ Said with pride and a touch of something like embarrassment.
‘And is your husband-’
‘Upstairs,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. Fibromyalgia. And all this…’
Luther nods and, with a small gesture, directs Howie to go upstairs and check on the husband.
Howie half stands, addresses Jan Madsen. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Second door on your right, top of the stairs.’
Howie thanks her, then leaves the room and heads upstairs, into the smell of Mr Sheen furniture polish.
She raps gently on the bedroom door. Hears a whispered, ‘ Come in?’
Howie opens the door. Jeremy Madsen lies in bed. A tall, raw-boned man, balding and heavily liver-spotted. His wife’s senior by perhaps a decade.
She takes in the room, the cluttered dressing table and the solemn wardrobes. Leather slippers arranged next to the bed.
Howie introduces herself, shows her badge, and whispers, ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
Jeremy sits up. He has a slight palsy. He squints through one eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers in return. ‘Migraine. Very bad.’
‘You’ve had a shock,’ says Howie.
‘I can answer your questions,’ he whispers.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m sure your wife can give us everything we need. Please.’
Jeremy nods. The movement causes his face to twist in pain.
Howie says, ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ His liver-spotted hand shakes like a diabetic’s. ‘I just need to — if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, of course not’
Howie takes Jeremy’s shoulder, bony through the soft pyjamas. She helps him lie back down.
She hovers at the edge of the bed as he turns into a foetal position.
Embarrassed, Howie slips from the room and heads downstairs.
In the living room, Luther leans forward, still perched on the edge of the floral sofa. ‘Has Henry been in contact?’
Jan Madsen nods. ‘He did call, yes.’
‘When?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. There was just noise on the line.’
‘Then how did you know it was him?’
‘I’d been waiting.’ She almost spits it. ‘He always did come to us when he was in trouble.’
She plucks at her knee, can’t meet Luther’s eye.
‘What did he want?’
‘Money. What else?’
Howie enters the room and quietly sits.
‘Henry called,’ Luther says. ‘An hour ago. Didn’t speak.’
Howie immediately stands. ‘I’ll get a trace on the call.’
Luther reaches up, takes her arm. Shakes his head. ‘He’ll be long gone. I’ll text through a request to trace.’
Howie hesitates, unsure, then rejoins him on the sofa. Their thighs are touching.
Luther raises his hip, digs out his phone. Begins awkwardly to thumb out a message. Frowning as he concentrates, he says, ‘You’re aware that Henry is a suspect in a very serious crime?’
Jan nods. Looks away. Toys with her bare wedding-ring finger. Luther looks at the pale band where the wedding ring had been, then at those swollen, arthritic knuckles.
‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you call the police when he rang?’
‘To say what? My estranged son called, didn’t say anything and then hung up? I’d have been wasting your time.’
For a moment, Luther discontinues his meticulous, hunt-and-peck texting. ‘Mrs Madsen. Nobody’s blaming you for this.’
She nods, pretending to believe him. Tugs at her wedding-ring finger.
‘Are you and Henry in contact?’ Howie says. ‘Generally speaking?’
‘We haven’t heard a peep in twenty years.’
Luther lowers his voice. ‘We understand that Henry was adopted?’
Jan snorts at her lap; an expression of ancient, incalculable bitterness. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No,’ Luther says.
‘Well, we tried,’ says Jan. ‘Jeremy and I. We tried and tried. No IVF in those days. This is the early seventies.’
‘And how old was Henry when you adopted him?’
‘Two. Just turned two. He was a helpless little thing. You wouldn’t treat a dog the way his mother treated him. The poor little thing, he’d been beaten, starved and God knows what. Locked him in a cupboard when her gentleman callers paid a visit. She hit him. Called him all sorts of things. Effing this, effing that.’ That bitter laugh. ‘God, we were so nervous. But people had told us, You’ll fall in love at first sight, or Once you see him it’ll all just slot into place. But walking into that room, seeing that little boy with his dirty knees and his hair all sticking up. I looked at him and my first thought was: I don’t like the look of you.
‘And I detested myself for it. Absolutely detested myself. I was riddled with guilt from the minute we got him home. After that, I think I was in denial.’
In the slightly hesitant use of the term, Luther hears years of anguish and self-recrimination.
‘If you don’t feel the kind of love you think you should be feeling,’ she says, ‘they pick up on it. They do. Children are so perceptive.’
‘There’s something called Adoptive Child Syndrome,’ Luther tells her. ‘About ten per cent of adopted children show some kind of behavioural disorder. It’s nobody’s fault.’
‘We didn’t have syndromes back then,’ she says. ‘In our day it was all about nurture. And the truth is, I didn’t feel maternal towards him.’ She’s watching her hands. She begins to tug on them, knuckle by knuckle. ‘I did feel protective,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him. And I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not for a long time. And by then, by the time I’d come to love him as my own child, as a mother’s supposed to, well. It was too late.’
‘How old was he when the trouble started?’