The Calling (22 page)

‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not enjoying it.’

The petulant pout turns into a flirtatious grin, tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He says, ‘Listen. I don’t have time for all this. I’m on a clock. I wouldn’t have come to see you if I wasn’t desperate. So what do you want?’

‘Internet privileges.’

‘That’s not going to happen. Not for the kind of offence you’re in here for.’

‘It can be supervised. I just want to get to my message boards. I like cats. And pottery.’

‘Nope.’

Her smile widens, shows ivory-yellow teeth. He knows that if he ever sleeps again, his dreams will be infested by spectres of this woman.

He wonders how many children see her in their dreams, then tucks the thought back inside himself, like a prolapse.

Then he glances meaningfully at his hand, flat on the table before him.

He waits until she’s followed the line of his gaze, then raises his thumb. He reveals a baggie of cocaine.

‘You’ll never let me have that,’ says Sweet Jane Carr.

Warders watch from the far corner.

‘You never will,’ she says.

‘Well,’ says Luther. ‘I’m a desperate man.’

He slips the bag to her. She takes it with a swift, practised movement.

‘There’s more to come,’ he says.

‘What do you want?’

‘Henry Grady,’ he says. ‘Where did he live?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘He always came to my place.’

‘How did he contact you?’

‘By text.’

‘Never by email?’

‘He didn’t do emails.’

‘What about his car? What kind of car did he drive?’

‘A normal car. Like a Ford Focus or something.’

‘What colour?’

‘Dark.’

‘Blue? Black?’

She shrugs.

‘Old? New?’

‘Oldish.’

‘Inside, was it tidy or messy?’

‘It was like new. It smelled nice.’

‘Can you remember the registration?’

‘Of course I can’t, silly. What do I look like?’

He smiles. Tempted to answer.

‘Tell me about what you did together.’

‘Well, first of all, I had to pretend to be a social worker,’ she says, widening her eyes. ‘We’d knock on a door, go in like Mulder and Scully.’

‘Go in where?’

‘Houses with new babies.’

‘How did he choose the houses?’

‘I don’t know. But he said he’d done it before, loads of times in the nineties. But never in such posh houses.’

‘Can you remember the areas?’

‘Off-hand, no.’

‘And what did you do, once you were in these houses?’

‘Ask to see the baby. Say there’s been a complaint. Scare the shit out of them.’

‘And what was the intent?’

‘To get a baby out of the house.’

‘And it never worked?’

‘No. Nobody ever let us in. The paperwork wasn’t good enough. They’d want to see ID, all the rest of it.’

‘How many times did you try this?’

‘Six or seven times.’

‘Over how long?’

‘Not long. Two weeks. He got more and more annoyed.’

‘Annoyed?’

‘He’s a very angry man.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because he was. He hated everyone. Dykes. Queers. Darkies. Pakis. Americans. Homeless. Paedos. He hated paedos the most.’

Luther’s heart stops for a moment. ‘What does that mean, he hated paedos?’

‘He said anyone who hurt a kiddie should be strung up for it. But first they should have their balls cut off in public.’

‘What did you say to that?’

‘That I sucked my first cock when I was three and it was yum yum in my tum tum.’

Luther looks down at his hands. He knows this woman’s madness has seeped into him like the stink of cadaverine. It’s impossible to wash off. You can wash and wash and wash. You have to wait until it fades away.

‘You told him this?’ he says.

‘Oh, yeah. I hate it when people get on their high horse about paedos. It’s all hype. Kids love it.’

He grips the edge of the table. Counts down from five. ‘How did Henry react, when you told him this?’

‘He got angry.’

‘How angry?’

‘He went absolutely tonto on me. Ranting and raving, his hair all sticking up. He reminded me of Hitler. He says no kid can enjoy it, it’s not physically possible, they’re too young to understand. And I said:
If they’re too young to understand, what’s the big deal?
’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘That paedos come from defective genes. That they should be banned from breeding.’

‘He say that about anyone else?’

‘Everyone else. Murderers. Rapists. Jews. Arabs. Blacks.’

‘They should all be—’

‘Bred out.’

‘That’s what he said, is it? Those are his words. “
Bred out
”.’

She nods, enjoying herself. ‘For the good of the human race.’

‘Backtrack a bit,’ he says. ‘This argument. Where did it take place?’

‘In the front seat of his car.’

‘Exactly how angry did he get? Angry enough to hit you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you feel in any danger?’

She gives him a faint, patronizing smile. ‘A man attacks you,’ she says, ‘you go for his eyes and his bollocks. I don’t care how strong he is. Eyes and balls. They’re a man’s weakness. In every way.’ She squeezes her breasts, does the Marilyn pout.

‘Why were you in the car?’

‘Because we were on the way to this self-help group. The infertile couples thing.’

‘Okay,’ says Luther. ‘When did he take you there?’

‘This is like a year after the social workers idea. He said that wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t get the kind of baby he wanted that way. He was really pissed off.’

‘What did he mean, “the kind of baby”?’

‘He wanted a good one.’

‘A good one?’

She smiles and nods, as delighted as Luther is horrified.

‘So he took you to an infertility support group?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that didn’t seem weird to you?’

‘Not really. He had his eye on this one couple—’

‘The Lamberts?’

‘That’s them. He said they were going to the support group even though she was pregnant. He was really excited. He said it was the best way to get to know them.’

‘Backtrack again. “He had his eye on this one couple”. What does that mean?’

‘It means, he had like a shortlist of people he wanted to take a baby from. A newborn baby.’

‘What shortlist?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How many people were on it?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t interested. I didn’t ask. But I do know the Lamberts were his favourites. He like, loved them.’

‘He loved them? He was in love with Sarah Lambert? With Tom Lambert?’

‘With them. Together. He said they were perfect. He showed me a tape of them fucking. I think it was them. It was difficult to see in the dark. But he said it was them.’

Luther has a feeling in his gut. ‘He had a tape of the Lamberts . . . being intimate.’

She nods, delighted.

‘Taken without their knowledge?’

‘Lots of them. Yes. Tapes of her on the loo, tapes of him shaving. Tapes of them watching TV. Tapes of them screwing.’

Luther’s hand is shaking. He sets down the pen.

‘He had lots of tapes,’ Sweet Jane says. ‘Lots of families.’

‘What families?’

‘Fucked if I know. He just wanted to show them rutting each other. He thought if I saw normal people having normal sex the way normal people do, he’d make me normal.’

‘Is that the word he used? “Normal”?’

‘It was his favourite word. Everyone’s got their thing, right? Everyone’s got something that turns them on. His was being normal. He just wanted to be normal.’

‘How many couples did he show you?’

‘I don’t know. Ten? Twelve? It did nothing for me. Except this one couple . . . the wife was a tiny little thing. Shaved snatch. No tits to speak of. Nipples like threepenny coins. She was a bit of yum.’

‘And these weren’t films downloaded from the internet?’

‘No. He’d taken them himself.’

‘Without the couples’ knowledge.’

‘Apparently.’

‘How did he get these films?’

‘His son helped him.’

‘His what?’

‘Son.’

‘What son? You didn’t mention a son.’

‘I think I just did.’

‘How old is the son now?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty?’

‘Did you meet the son?’

‘Once or twice. Henry would drop him off while we were on the way to the hospital.’

‘Drop him off where?’

‘Nowhere in particular. Just places.’

‘What’s the son’s name?’

‘Patrick.’

‘What does Patrick look like?’

‘I don’t know. Normal.’

The amused, pewter light in her eyes is dimming. She’s getting bored. He knows he’s coming to the end of it now.

‘And after these meetings of the IVF group,’ he says, ‘he’d just sit and – what? Just watch Tom and Sarah Lambert. What happened then?’

‘He tried to make friends with them.’

‘Did he succeed?’

‘Did he fuck. They thought he was creepy.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he was. He was all creepy and hand-wringy like a little toad. He made her flesh crawl. I think the man wanted to fuck me, though. He had that look. He couldn’t stop looking at me.’

Luther can’t stop looking at her either.

Ten minutes later, Sweet Jane Carr is removed to her cell.

Luther signs out and is led through the echoing maze, bleak with night. He steps outside, into the glow of prison lights. Drizzle dances in their gaunt radiance.

Outside the gates, two police cars are waiting.

Rose Teller is there. Arms crossed, head bowed.

He strides up to her.

‘He called himself Henry Grady,’ he says, too quickly for her to get a word in. ‘I’ve got a good description. He’s got a son, Patrick. And he’s got some kind of database, a list of people he’s watching – the way he watched the Lamberts. For whatever reason the Lamberts were his favourites. But there are more. And he’s not a paedophile. He’s a family man—’

She crosses her arms and shifts her weight. She’s wearing an impatient, scowling expression.

‘He wants to be normal,’ Luther says. ‘He thinks of himself as an outsider; he’s always been an outsider. He didn’t grow up in a conventional household. That could mean anything – a cult. Hippies. But most likely it means he was adopted. Adoption can have a negative effect on some kids; even a really good adoption. Henry never felt like he belonged. And now he’s trying to make a family around him. That’s why he gets so angry. Any dad would, if someone accused him of being a paedophile. He’s—’

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Stop now.’

The words are jammed behind his mouth, crammed up behind his eyes.

‘We need to look for a man called Finian Ward,’ he says. ‘And any bogus social-worker activity in Bristol during the mid-nineties. I think that’s how he knew to target Adrian York. He’d pose as a social worker and—’

‘Stop,’ says Teller.

He stops. His hands drop to his sides.

She says, ‘Go home.’

‘What do you mean? He’s out there. Tonight. Right now. And I’m getting close to him.’

‘Hundreds of good coppers are after him. We’ll feed everything you’ve given us into the pool.’

‘Boss, you can’t do this to me. I asked to come off the case. You made me stay on. And now here we are. I can smell him. I’ve got his stink.’

‘And to get here, you assaulted one witness and threatened another.’

He grits his teeth, thinks of Howie and the phone call from the dank concrete balcony. ‘Exigent circumstances,’ he says.

‘That’s not a defence. Not in law. Not to me.’

‘Boss,’ he says. ‘There’s a family out there tonight. He’s probably got keys to their house. He’s going to let himself in and do what he wants to them.’ He shows her his watch, the ticking second hand. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘Tonight. You know what that means. You saw what he left of the Lamberts.’

‘And you haven’t slept for three days. It’s showing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You can’t keep still. You’re pacing. ‘

‘I’m
frustrated
.’

‘You’re wired.’

She takes his elbow, leads him away.

‘I’m pretty sure Sava won’t file a report,’ she says. ‘A bloke like that sees a bit of harassment as cost of business. And nobody will believe a word Bixby said.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is, you did it.’

He exhales, helpless and trapped. He holds out his hands as if petitioning the moon. ‘Boss, I’m
fine
.’

‘You got a pretty decent result from Jane Carr,’ Teller says. ‘How’d you pull that off? Don’t say you flirted with her. Because I tell you, mate, you’re not her type.’ She skewers him on her bright raptorial gaze. ‘What if we ask the screws to toss her cell? They going to find anything?’

He shoves his hands in his pockets, wanders in a baffled circle.

‘I can’t go home with all this happening,’ he says. ‘I can’t.’

‘That’s not your decision.’

‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘Make up your mind. I’m on or I’m off.’

‘Go home, John.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right, I’ll go home and I’ll get my head down. But do me a favour?’

‘Depends.’

‘Anything happens, you get a good sniff, give me a call.’

‘Done.’

He scuffs his feet. Scowls. ‘I’m honestly fine,’ he says.

But he accepts it, and heads home.

There is no single register of prank calls made in London during any twenty-four-hour period.

But tonight there are many more such calls than usual.

London-wide, mischievous teenage boys, hate-filled ex-lovers, racists, stoned students and the mentally ill call many hundreds of different families, warning them that Pete Black is coming for them.

Hundreds of people are terrorized. Several dozen of them call 999. They include a number of families who share the surname Dalton.

All calls are logged, but are subject to triage.

Nobody thinks the man who calls himself ‘Pete Black’ will call ahead to warn his targets he’s on his way.

Luther’s home shortly after 8.40 p.m. Zoe’s not back yet.