The Calling (29 page)

‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’

‘With the whiplash?’

‘Honestly, I’m good. Codeine. Swear by it.’

‘Then at least let me walk you to your car.’

He walks him all the way and stands at the kerb as Reed pulls into the traffic.

Christine James is woken by strident hammering at the front door. At first, she thinks it’s next door having another barney. She turns over, bundles the duvet round her head, ignores it.

But there it is again. Like someone’s hitting the door with a sledge-hammer. Then a voice.

‘Christine? Christine James?’

Blinking, Christine pulls the duvet to her throat and bellows: ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector John Luther, from the Serious Crime Unit in London. I need to speak to you urgently.’

‘What about?’

‘Please open the door.’

Christine gets out of bed. She considers going downstairs. Instead, she opens the curtains.

She sees a pretty red-headed young woman leaning with her arms crossed against the bonnet of an old Volvo.

Christine has spent enough time with the police – family liaison officers, detectives, press officers, all the rest of it.

She knows them at once.

She opens the window, pokes her head out and cranes down to look. A big, black police officer is standing at the door, looking up at her.

The street is quiet. It’s a nice street. She’s got some nice neighbours. She’s got an okay life, a decent job at WHSmith’s head office. She’s come a long way.

She’s got that feeling, deep in her gut.

It’s like every other big event in your life: your first day at school, your first kiss, losing your cherry, your first day at your first job, getting married. All those days you anticipate, rehearsing in your imagination, going over them again and again and again. But when the day comes, it’s never like you expected it to be.

For years, Christine was counselled by a woman from the Elise Fox Foundation.
Closure may never come
, the woman told her,
you have to prepare yourself for that
.
And if it does come, it may not be what you were hoping for. You have to prepare yourself for that, too.

Christine had cried at that point, because the woman was kind, and had been through something.

But the woman knew Christine would fantasize about this day anyway. It was just one of the things you did, one of the ways you get through the not knowing.

Christine knows this is the day.

It’s six o’clock in the morning and she’s leaning out the bedroom window and a tall policeman’s craning his head to look up at her, saying in a low, deep voice, a nice voice, ‘Ms James. It’s very important.’

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ says Christine. ‘Just let me put some clothes on.’

Ten minutes later, she’s in the back of a police car, hammering under lights and sirens towards London.

The red-headed young woman drives faster than Christine has ever been driven before. For a while it gives her motion sickness.

Then she realizes it’s not motion sickness. It’s just the old familiar nausea, an enemy so old it’s almost a friend.

Reed drives for half a mile through growing traffic before he feels safe enough to call Luther.

‘Wotcher,’ Luther shouts down the line.

Reed can hear the siren’s lament. He says, ‘Where are you?’

‘Just inside the M25.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Witness transport.’

‘Can you talk now?’

‘About what?’

‘Someone torched Julian Crouch’s car last night,’ Reed says. ‘Big black geezer. Tweed coat.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Luther shouts. ‘I’m not much of a car person, but that thing was nice. That was a nice car.’

‘So,’ says Reed. ‘I’ve had Complaints round.’

‘Already?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s on the case?’

‘Martin Schenk. You know him?’

‘I know his work.’

‘So do I. He’s not the kind of dog you want sniffing your arse.’

‘He’s not, is he? Shit.’

Reed imagines Luther scratching his head and thinking this through as outer London flashes past, the car hammering it under blues and twos.

‘So,’ says Reed. ‘The minute Schenk sets eyes on any copper who matches the description Crouch gave, that copper’s in deep shit.’

‘Even if he’s busy?’

‘If they think he’s going round torching vintage Jags, it doesn’t matter how busy he is.’

‘But if they pull in the wrong copper,’ Luther says, ‘that wouldn’t be good for Mia Dalton.’

‘How are you looking on that?’

‘I’m close. I can do it.’

‘Okay,’ says Reed. ‘So Crouch needs to change his mind about what he saw.’

‘He does,’ says Luther. ‘Can you take care of that?’

‘I can give it a try.’

‘Excellent. So where’s Schenk right now?’

‘That’s the thing. He’s on his way to speak to Zoe.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah,’ says Reed. Then he says, ‘I’ll tell you what, whoever torched Crouch’s car, I don’t think he was thinking straight.’

‘I don’t think he was,’ Luther says. ‘I think he was probably having a bad day.’

‘I think he probably was.’

‘Can you text me Schenk’s number?’

‘On its way.’

Reed hangs up, begins to thumb out a text as he drives.

Luther hangs up. He turns to Howie. ‘I need you to pull over.’

She gives him a look:
You’re joking.

‘It’s important,’ he says. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’

Howie pulls over to the hard shoulder.

Christine James sits in the back, looking wide-eyed and lost.

Howie shoots her a reassuring glance.

Then Luther turns in his seat to face her. He says, ‘Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I won’t be long.’

Christine blinks at him. As if this morning could get any stranger. Then she rifles in her handbag and passes Luther a battered pink clamshell Motorola.

Luther paces the hard shoulder in the morning rain. He uses his own phone to call Schenk’s number.

Schenk is quick to answer, barking his name by way of salutation: ‘Schenk.’

Luther can hear he’s at the wheel, on the hands-free.

‘Hi,’ Luther says. ‘DCI Luther here. I was asked to give you a call?’

‘DCI Luther! Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’

‘Not a problem. How can I help?’

‘Well, it’s silly really.’

Luther makes himself ride that out without answering. He waits for two or three seconds, watching the motorway traffic, then says, ‘So what can I do to help?’

‘Silly as it is, this is obviously a matter I’d prefer to discuss face-to-face.’

‘So let’s do that. Where are you now?’

‘En route to Peckham.’

‘Then you could take a detour? I’m near the station. Can you make it over here?’

‘Well,’ says Schenk. ‘I could, yes. But I do have this one call to make.’

‘I can’t promise to be around later,’ Luther says. ‘We’re having a funny old day.’

‘Quite. Well, if you could make yourself available at Hobb Lane, I’d certainly appreciate it.’

‘I’ll try, I’ll definitely try.’

‘Then I’ll see you as soon as I can.’

Luther hangs up. He swears, rubs his head, paces. Then he calls home. ‘Zoe? It’s me.’

Zoe sounds weary. The mild sense of dislocation that follows a sleepless night.

‘John, listen. I don’t want to argue.’

‘Nor do I,’ he says. ‘Forget about last night.’

‘How can I?’

‘That’s not what I mean. I just mean, this isn’t about last night. Listen, I haven’t got time to talk. Not properly. So I’m going to be quick, okay?’

‘Go on.’ Less weary now. A warning edge of chipped flint.

‘I need to ask you a favour,’ he says. ‘Not a nice favour.’

‘What favour?’

‘First, I’ve got to tell you, I’m not asking lightly. I’m asking it for the little girl, Mia Dalton. You’ve seen her on the news. You must have. This is about her. About getting her back.’

‘What are you asking me to do?’

‘Lie for me.’

‘Lie to who?’

‘To a policeman.’

He tells her what he needs. And at the end of it, she sighs. He can picture her, barefoot in pyjamas, tugging at her hair.

‘Fuck you, John,’ she says. ‘I mean seriously. Fuck you, for asking me to do this.’

‘I know. But will you do it?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

He thanks her and hangs up. Then he makes one last call, using Ms James’s pink phone. ‘Boss?’

‘What?’ says Teller.

‘How’s the patient?’

‘In the ICU.’

‘Conscious?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, listen. I need you to do me a favour.’

‘What now?’

‘In about two minutes, I need you to call me.’

‘Why am I doing that?’

‘So there’s a record.’

‘And what are we saying during this imaginary conversation?’

‘You’re ordering me from the station to the hospital as a matter of urgency.’

‘And – real world now – why would you ask me to do that?’

‘Because I’ve got Complaints sniffing round my ass.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ she says. ‘Today?’

‘Today.’

‘I’ve had Martin Schenk badgering me,’ she says. ‘Leaving messages. So now I know why. What did you do?’

‘Nothing. But if you don’t help me out here, Schenk will make sure I’m pulled off this thing. I can’t let him do that. I need to find Mia Dalton. Now. Today.’

‘If you’re asking me for an alibi,’ she says, ‘it won’t hold water. As soon as Complaints look into it, it’ll fall to pieces. There’s a factory full of coppers who’ll testify you weren’t there at the time the call was made. Then we’ll both be in it.’

‘I know that. It just needs to stand for a few hours.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the allegation’s going to be withdrawn.’

‘Okay, stop there,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Don’t hint. Don’t imply. Shut up.’

‘Okay. But call me, yeah? In two minutes?’

She agrees with a grunt. Then says, ‘Whose phone are you calling from?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘John, am I going to get sacked over this?’

‘Nope.’

He hangs up and hurries back to the car, hunched and jogging in the rain. He gives the Motorola back to Ms James, thanks her.

Howie pulls away. Tyres hiss wet, aquaplane. Sirens wail.

Howie doesn’t look at Luther. Doesn’t ask.

A minute later, Luther’s phone rings.

He checks the number: DSU Teller.

He says, ‘Morning, Boss. We’re on our way. How’s the patient?’

Zoe answers the door to a middle-aged, dishevelled man in an overcoat. Thinning hair plastered to his scalp, a look of slightly nonplussed benevolence. ‘Mrs Luther?’

‘Mr Schenk?’

‘Martin, please. May I?’

‘Of course,’ she says, standing aside. ‘John told me you’d call.’

Schenk pauses only for half a second. ‘He did?’

Zoe feels a surge of embarrassment. ‘He just called,’ she says. ‘You told him you were in the area. I suppose he—’

‘Put two and two together.’

She smiles and nods.

‘Well,’ Schenk says. ‘That’s his job. Talking of which, how are they on the missing girl? Little Mia Dalton. Do you know?’

‘Apparently they’re on the edge of some breakthrough. I don’t know what.’

‘Well, please God you’re right.’ He glances sheepishly over her shoulder, into the house. ‘I wonder if I might? Just for a moment.’

She says, ‘Oh, gosh. Please. I’m sorry.’

Schenk follows her through to the kitchen on sopping wet feet. Zoe wants to help him.

‘You’re very kind,’ he says, at her shoulder. ‘I’ve been up half the night. And your house is very warm.’

‘I feel the cold,’ she says. ‘Always did. I think I was built for warmer climes.’

‘As was I. Warm climes and red wines.’

She smiles at that because he doesn’t look like a red-wine drinker. He looks like a Guinness and whisky man.

She takes his coat – faint dog smell in the tweed – she bets he keeps terriers. He sits on a stool at the breakfast bar while she pours them each a coffee.

John had told her to have a hot drink prepared. It’ll get Schenk out the house more quickly.

‘It’s a terrible business,’ Schenk says. ‘This poor child.’

‘Horrible. Are you involved with it at all?’

‘Goodness me, no. Thanks be to God.’ He takes the coffee from her hand, thanks her. ‘A lot of coppers are taking it very badly.’

‘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.’