‘Work Obey Consume,’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ says Malcolm, belligerent and confused.
‘Search this place,’ says the big copper. ‘Nick everyone in here. Interview them all.’
The big copper squats with a look of distaste. With finger and thumb he tweezes a pair of greasy tracksuit bottoms from a pile of clothes near the foot of the bed. He throws them and a pair of rubber flip-flops to Malcolm, completely ignoring Malcolm’s Para boots. ‘Put these on,’ he says.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To my house,’ says the copper. ‘It’s not much. But it’s better than this shithole.’
Luther orders a search of the squats and immediate surroundings.
A second team make a number of arrests based on drugs offences, parole violations, receiving stolen goods, outstanding warrants, suspicion of this, suspicion of that.
And they rush Malcolm to Hobb Lane under blues and twos.
Howie stops off for Luther to pick up a burger. He eats it upside-down in waxed paper.
He’s wiping his mouth on one hand as they walk into the station at the corner of Hobb Lane and Abbadon Street.
The building is a brutish old monstrosity: a utilitarian 1950s construction crudely grafted onto a Victorian frame. It’s a chimera, and thus born to be a police station.
And it smells, like every police station Luther’s ever been in, of linoleum, floor polish, armpits, printer toner, dust on radiators.
Balling his paper napkin as he mounts the stairs three at a time, he passes through the doors into the Serious Crime Unit.
Furniture filched from other departments; ratty office chairs and fire-sale desks crammed into a space that demands to be three times as large.
He strides to his office, a narrow, undersized workspace he shares with Ian Reed.
Benny Deadhead’s waiting for him at the door, holding out a skinny white hand. He and Luther shake.
Luther says, ‘You all right there, Ben? Thanks for coming.’
‘Where do I sit?’
They step into the cramped, disorderly office. Luther gestures to Reed’s desk.
Benny perches his skinny arse on the very edge of it. He is gangly and bearded, wearing a washed-out Chrome T-shirt.
Luther says, ‘You’re all over the paedo forums, right, Ben?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Luther leans in to catch his Belfast mumble. ‘Those little corners of the internet where the kiddie-fiddlers share their vibrant fantasy lives. That’s where I spend my working day.’
‘You been briefed about this case?’
‘I’ve been told as much as there is to tell.’
Luther closes the door. ‘How are you? Really?’
Benny’s had some mental health issues, work-related. It’s not uncommon in people who do his job. It’s the things they have to see.
‘I’m all right. I’m actually pretty good. Fighting the good fight.’
‘Because I’m going to ask you to hang around until this one’s sorted. You know about this stuff.’
‘I wish I didn’t.’
‘But you do.’
‘Have you squared it with the Duchess, me being here?’
‘No, but I will.’
‘Because I’m not sure she approves of me.’
Benny tends to leather jackets and patchouli oil.
‘It’s not you,’ Luther says. ‘She hates everyone.’
‘Fair enough, then. Do we think the bairn’s alive?’
‘We’re scared it might be, Ben.’
Benny plonks his ballistic nylon briefcase on the desk, unzips it, hauls out his laptop. ‘Where do I plug myself in?’
Malcolm Perry waits in the interview room. His breath tastes rank. He can feel the cold floor, linoleum over concrete, through the thin rubber of his flip-flops.
Eventually the big copper and his pretty, green-eyed DS walk in and take a seat. They introduce themselves, go through all the rigmarole with the tapes.
The DCI sits back, spreads his legs. Just sits there, watching Malcolm, vaguely amused, as the woman begins the interview.
‘Malcolm Perry,’ she says. ‘In 2001, aged fourteen, you happened across the obituary of Charlotte James, who’d died a week previously in a motorcycle accident. You set off for St Charles’s Cemetery equipped with,’ she frowns a little, refers to her report, ‘digging tools and a tarpaulin, which you apparently stole from a neighbour.’
Malcolm meets her gaze through long, centre-parted hair.
‘You were arrested trying to dig up Miss James in order, apparently, to have sex with her corpse.’
Malcolm shrugs one shoulder. Tucks a lock of hair behind his ear.
‘Since you were a juvenile, and since sexual interference with a human corpse was only made illegal under the Sexual Offences Act 2003, you were let off with a caution for minor offences. And an order to undergo counselling.
‘But in 2005, while working in a funeral home, you were caught in the act of sexually molesting the body of a twenty-eight-year-old female victim of a road traffic accident. You sucked blood and urine from her, bit her buttocks, then sodomized her. For which you served four months of a six-month sentence. Released with an order that you attend a bi-weekly counselling session.’
Howie closes the file, lays the flat of her hand on it and turns her green eyes on Malcolm.
‘So,’ she says. ‘How’s the counselling going? You making progress?’
‘Well,’ says Malcolm. ‘That depends what “progress” means.’
‘It means, do you still want to have sex with dead women?’
There’s a long silence.
‘All right,’ says Howie. ‘When did it start? These special feelings of love?’
‘When I was little,’ he says. ‘I used to hold funeral services for my pets. I had a little pet cemetery. It’s all in the file, I expect.’
‘How do you choose them? Your victims.’
‘Lovers.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You want a job in a funeral home, a hospital, a graveyard. Obviously, a morgue’s your best bet.’
‘So you like them fresh?’
‘As the moment that the pod went pop.’
She gives him a neutral look. ‘But of course that’s difficult for you, isn’t it. Seeing as you’re banned from working with or anywhere near the dead.’
‘I’m not practising,’ he says. ‘I’m not a morgue rat any more.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘I’ve got no interest in being a political prisoner.’
‘It’s a political stance, is it, raping corpses?’
‘A corpse is an object. You can’t rape an object.’
‘And what about the families?’
‘The dead don’t belong to them.’
‘It’s all the same to you, isn’t it, Malcolm? You take what you want from the dead. Forget about the families and how they might feel. You live rent-free. All this peace and love bollocks you print on your T-shirts-’
‘It’s not bollocks.’
‘Peace and love is about mutual respect. And you’ve got no respect for anybody.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘So you’re not a morgue rat any more. What are you? I mean, I don’t think the counselling’s helped you one little bit, has it? I think you know enough to say the things they want you to say. But all the time, you were still fantasizing. Masturbating to the thought of dead girls.’
‘Of course I fantasize, Mein Herr. I’m allowed to think about what I want when I wank. This isn’t a police state. Not yet.’
‘That’s true,’ says Howie. ‘As long as no one gets hurt.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘What are your feelings about Dr Tom Lambert?’
‘What, my counsellor?’
‘Yes,’ says Howie. ‘Your counsellor.’
‘He’s a sanctimonious prick. Why?’
‘Sanctimonious in what way?’
‘A hundred years ago, fascists like him were lobbying to castrate homosexuals.’
‘Is that why you threatened to kill him?’
‘Is that what this is about?’
‘I don’t know. Is it?’
‘Because I didn’t say that. He’s lying.’
‘See,’ Howie says, ‘I’m not sure that’s actually true.’
‘Did he tell you this? Because if he did, he’s a fucking liar.’
‘What about his wife?’