The Calling (36 page)

Luther takes the note, scans it, passes it to Howie.

He stands, pockets his notebook.

Jan Madsen begins to cry.

‘DS Howie,’ Luther says, ‘why don’t you take Mrs Madsen into the garden for some fresh air? Mrs Madsen, I’m sorry this has been so difficult.’

Then he walks into the hallway.

He looks up the stairs.

He says, ‘So did you hear all that, Henry?’

Multiple police units vector in on the address in Finchley. Among them are three Armed Response Vehicles. A Jankel armoured Guardian Tactical Intervention Vehicle, which is a large 4x4 with bullet-proof windscreen and blast-proof flooring. It contains eight CO19 Specialist Firearms Officers in dark blue Nomex fire-resistant overalls and Kevlar body armour, assault vests with stun grenades, tear-gas canisters, SF-10 respirator and C100 ceramic helmets.

The Air Support Unit dispatches India 97 and India 98 from Lippits Hill.

Reed sits in the back seat of a marked BMW area car, one of a convoy of four racing under blues and twos.

He flexes his jaw. Clenches and unclenches his fist. London goes past.

Nine million people.

Search Team One searches the basement of a condemned block of flats in Walthamstow.

They find signs of a blood-stained pit, the smell of shit and sweat and alcohol.

The electric lights crackle overhead.

There is no sign of Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen.

Luther stands on the stairs.

‘I know you told your mum to get rid of us,’ he says. ‘And she did a good job. She tried really hard. She answered our questions very honestly. But she’s not wearing her wedding ring, is she? It doesn’t look to me like she’s taken it off for forty years. And there’s a jar of Vaseline in the kitchen, next to the tap, as if she’d just taken the ring off. It’s a nice ring. I saw it in the photos. Probably worth a bob or two, eh?’

He waits out a long silence.

‘So listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve called it in. We’ve got a load of coppers on their way. So it’s all done. Either we get a very, very messy siege and you end up dead. Or you come with me.’

Howie takes Jan by the elbow. She leads her to the adjoining door and through the long, narrow kitchen.

Jan is shaking so badly she’s finding it difficult to walk.

Luther pauses on the second stair. ‘All right, Henry. I’m coming up.’

He produces his ASP extendable baton, keeps it collapsed in his fist.

He takes the stairs slowly, one by one.

There are fifteen steps.

Howie helps Jan past the cupboard units, the fridge, an old-fashioned larder, a chest freezer in the corner.

‘That poor little girl,’ Jan says. ‘That poor little darling. What’s going to happen?’

‘We’ll find her,’ Howie says.

She reaches the kitchen door.

It’s an old-fashioned door with a heavy mortice lock; the kind that requires a large metal key.

The door is locked.

Luther reaches the top of the stairs and edges along the landing.

He opens the first bedroom door. It’s a sewing room.

He stands framed in darkness. Street lamps filter through pale curtains, give the room an orange glow.

There’s no one here.

He turns to the master-bedroom door.

It’s slightly ajar.

He steps inside.

Jeremy Madsen lies on the bed.

Howie tries the handle. Turns in frustration to Jan Madsen. ‘Where’s the key?’

She sees the look in Jan’s eyes.

Panic.

Howie follows the line of Jan’s gaze.

Jan is looking at the two old, black deadbolts fitted to the door – one at head-height, the other near the ground.

She wonders for a moment about their significance.

Then she notices that each deadbolt is in the open position, as if someone had been trying to leave by the back door.

But has failed because the door is locked and needs a key to open it.

And then Howie knows.

She turns, pushing Jan behind her, reaching for her pepper spray as Henry Madsen steps out of the broom cupboard.

She sees his face for the first time, the twisted thing in his eyes and then she looks at the long screwdriver in his fist, yellow handle, ten-inch, flat-head—

Howie yells, ‘Down on the ground! Down on the ground, now!’

As Madsen jams the screwdriver between her ribs, just under her breast, and twists it.

Luther hears Howie bellowing and Jan Madsen screaming and sees the animal terror in the eyes of Jeremy Madsen.

He turns and runs.

He’s at the top of the stairs when Henry Madsen reaches the front door.

Madsen glances over his shoulder, sees Luther.

He mishandles the lock. His hands are wet with blood.

Luther vaults the stairs as Henry Madsen opens the door.

Luther throws out a hand, slams it shut.

Then he punches his shoulder into Henry Madsen.

Madsen slams into the solid wood door.

Luther takes Madsen by the lapels. Smashes him into the door, into the wall. Into the door again.

He looks up, holding a collapsed Madsen in his hands.

Jeremy Madsen stands at the top of the stairs, cadaverous with shock.

‘Move,’ Luther says. ‘Back to your room.’

‘My wife—’

‘Move!’ Luther screams, and Jeremy retreats like a spectre to his sickbed.

Henry Madsen grins, and with a movement of the tongue, produces a razor blade. He grips it in his front teeth and slashes at Luther.

Luther steps back.

Madsen runs for the kitchen.

Luther a moment behind him.

Madsen slips in blood that has pooled on the tiles. His legs go out from under him.

He scrambles to his feet.

Luther tackles him to the floor again.

Madsen slashes at him with the blade between his teeth.

Luther grabs Madsen’s wrist, twists it, jams it up between his shoulders.

Madsen cries out. Drops the razor blade.

He lies face down.

Luther places his knee into Madsen’s back. Then he stands, keeping Madsen’s arm in a wristlock, and kicks him three times in the ribs.

He drags Madsen across the blood-smeared floor and cuffs him to the oven-door handle. It’s an old oven. The handle is heavy, a little greasy underneath.

Madsen lies with legs askew.

Luther hurries to Jan Madsen. She’s curled by the back door. A yellow-handled screwdriver protrudes from her eye socket.

Howie is alive. The screwdriver has opened a hole in her chest wall. Blood froths at the lips of the wound; it means her lung has collapsed. Soon she’ll enter irreversible shock. She’s dying.

Luther fumbles in his pocket, digs out his wallet. Removes a credit card. He rips open Howie’s shirt. The bubbling wound on her pale flesh, dotted with moles, strikes him as obscene. He presses the card to the hole, the frothing blood.

He says, ‘Isobel. Isobel, can you press here?’

He guides her hand. It’s light in his grip. He waits until she’s pressing down on the credit card.

Her face is the wrong colour.

He says, ‘Keep it pressed down.’ He runs to the kitchen drawers. Opens and shuts them.

Henry looks at him from the floor, an artful little grin on his face.

Luther wants to kick it.

In the lowest kitchen drawer, Luther comes across a roll of cling film.

He grabs it, runs to Howie. Kneels. He says, ‘Come on. Sit. Just for a moment.’

He tries to help her into a sitting position. But she can’t do it. She panics. She can’t breathe. Her breath comes in ugly, sucking gasps.

Okay.

Luther lays her on the floor. Rips off a square of cling film. Presses that to the wound. Howie’s next breath sucks it in a little, sealing the hole.

Luther wraps cling film round and round Howie’s body. The cellophane is blood-smeared and slippy.

He kneels there, concentrating, telling her she’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay.

When Luther has done what he can for Howie, he returns to Madsen.

‘Henry, where’s Mia?’

Madsen gives him a defeated and bitter grin.

The life goes out of Luther.

He looks around, at the blood and the chaos. The agony of Howie’s breathing. Jan Madsen, killed by her own child.

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.

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.