At this kitchen in which ten thousand marital meals were cooked, ten thousand cups of tea were brewed. An entire marriage, zeroing in on this evening. Converging like ship and iceberg.
Luther sits on the bloody floor, next to Henry. He leans his back on the kitchen drawers.
The approaching sirens grow frantic.
Luther says, ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’
Madsen shrugs.
Luther looks at the kitchen clock. It’s above the door. It’s been ticking there since Margaret Thatcher was prime minister, promising to bring hope where there had been despair.
It’s 11.19 p.m.
‘How long has she got?’
‘Until about midnight.’
Luther laughs.
‘So we arrest you. And you sit there in silence, loving every minute of it. The power it gives you, eh? The control. To know this little girl is dying somewhere in the dark. And you’ll be surrounded by all these coppers who can’t do a thing about it. That must be quite a buzz. For a man like you. To know how much better you are than everyone else.’
Madsen just sits there.
Luther’s skull bursts open like an egg sac. Spiders crawl out.
He scuttles to Howie. He kisses her cheek.
He says, ‘Hang on. They’re nearly here. Can you hear them?’
She makes a noise. He’s not sure if it’s an answer or not.
He takes the car keys from her pocket and returns to Madsen. He uncuffs him.
He drags Madsen to his feet. Marches him to the door in an armlock.
Madsen struggles. ‘Where are we going??’
The sirens are closer.
Luther has to hurry.
He marches Madsen down the pavement.
He opens the car door and shoves Madsen into the front passenger footwell.
As he does so, an ambulance arrives at the end of the street.
In a few seconds, they’re going to see him.
As the ambulance pulls up, Luther gets in the Volvo and starts the engine.
In the rear-view mirror, he watches paramedics rush into the Madsen house.
Behind them, the first marked police vehicles pull up. Officers spill out.
Luther starts the engine and pulls away. He pulls out his radio. ‘This is DCI Luther,’ he says. ‘I’m on foot, in pursuit of suspect believed to be Henry Madsen…’
When he’s finished, Madsen blinks at him.
It’s pleasing to see the first signs of real fear in his eyes.
He says, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere private.’
‘What for?’
Luther drives.
He leaves the police lights far behind, flashing blue and silent in the darkness.
CHAPTER 30
Teller and Reed arrive as Howie is being loaded into the back of the ambulance.
The body of Jan Madsen is still in the kitchen. Jeremy Madsen sits in the back seat of an area car, surveying the blue flashing street as if none of this were real.
Teller takes Reed’s elbow and leads him away from the tape. ‘Off the record,’ she says.
Reed nods. His neck spasms. He grabs it, massages it. ‘Off the record,’ he says.
‘Where the fuck did Luther go?’
‘Rose, I don’t know. I swear to God. I don’t know.’
‘Has he lost it?’
‘Do you mean, is he going to do something stupid?’
‘Yes. I mean, is he going to do something stupid?’
‘It depends what you mean by stupid.’
She gets up close, into Reed’s face. ‘Now’s not the time,’ she says through her teeth. ‘I’ve got an officer down, I’m up to my elbows in dead people. I’ve got a missing girl, a missing suspect and a missing officer. So my sense of humour is pretty frayed round the edges.’
Reed breaks the moment by reaching into his pocket. He pops the lid on a plastic container and dry-swallows a fistful of codeine.
‘Fuck me,’ says Teller. She runs hands through her hair.
Reed swallows and scowls. Codeine feels good, but doesn’t taste it. He says, ‘You honestly want my opinion?’
‘Yes, Ian. I honestly do.’
‘This is my opinion, Rose. It’s not based on fact.’
‘Go on.’
‘Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it for a reason.’
‘I know that, for fuck’s sake. But what’s the reason?’
She dismisses him with a cold eye. He stalks off, hands in pockets.
Teller calls Zoe.
The phone rings for a long time before Zoe answers.
‘Rose? What’s wrong?’
‘What I’m going to tell you,’ Teller says, having to speak up above the noise, ‘I shouldn’t be telling you. Because we’re in a shit situation here and if anyone gets wind of it-’
‘Has this got anything to do with Schenk?’
‘What about Schenk?’
‘He came to see me this morning-’
‘I’m going to stop you there, Zoe. Right there. There’s stuff it’s best I don’t hear.’
‘I’m sorry. I assumed that’s why you called.’
Teller looks at Reed. He’s standing, arms crossed, in the middle of the road, craning his neck to watch a helicopter searchlight sweeping streets and gardens.
‘No,’ Teller says. ‘It’s not that. Well, I don’t think so.’ She kneads her brow. She hasn’t showered or changed her clothes in forty-eight hours. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she says. ‘Who knows, where John’s concerned?’
Zoe waits on the line. Teller can picture her expression, and briefly detests her.
‘Have you heard from him,’ Teller says, ‘in the last hour or two?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Is that actually true? I’m not Schenk, and this isn’t some arse-hole’s toy car we’re talking about. This is important.’
‘Rose, I haven’t heard from him. Why?’
‘Because we’ve lost him.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve lost him?’
‘If this goes any further, Zoe, I mean any further at all, then we’re absolutely fucked. Have you got that? He’s fucked us, one and all.’
‘Rose, it won’t go any further. I won’t say a thing.’
Teller recounts the events of the day. The Daltons. Mia Dalton. Patrick, who was Adrian York. York’s mother. Henry Madsen and his dead dogs and his burning house and the terrible cell in the basement.
She tells Zoe about Madsen’s adoptive parents. His mother slaughtered in the family kitchen. And about DS Howie, stabbed under the breast, fighting for her life in the back of an ambulance.
Zoe is at Mark’s.
They’re in the living room, cuddled up naked under a soft blanket. They’ve been watching a DVD, sharing a bottle of wine and smoking a joint.
Now Mark sits with the DVD remote in hand, thumb hovering over the pause button as Zoe listens to Teller.
Her eyes widen and her hand goes slowly to her throat.
She looks fragile and lovely and for a moment Mark pities Luther for loving this woman and losing her.
Zoe says, ‘I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?’
‘As far as I can see,’ says Teller, shouting above the noise of her less cosy surroundings, ‘we’ve got two options. Option one: little Mia’s dead and John’s quietly taken Henry Madsen away to kill him.’
She gives Zoe a moment to process this.
‘What’s option two?’
‘We don’t know what option two might be.’
When Zoe’s able to speak, her voice is very small. She says, ‘Rose, I haven’t heard from him. I absolutely swear.’
‘You’ll have to speak up. It’s noisy here.’
‘ He hasn’t called! ’
‘All right,’ Teller says. ‘But not a word to anyone, okay? Because this could be really bad.’
‘Not a word.’
‘And if he does get in contact…’
‘I’ll call you. Straight away.’
‘Straight away.’
‘Absolutely. The moment. Rose?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Is he okay?’
‘To be honest with you — no, I don’t think he is.’
There’s nothing more to say. Zoe mumbles thanks and hangs up.
She stares at the phone.
Mark doesn’t ask. He just puts a warm arm around her bare shoulders. They huddle there, naked on the sofa, under a blanket that smells faintly of sex, in this good house with its air of weed and sharp green plants and books and leather.