The Calling (6 page)

Her foot finds a loose floorboard. And then another. Lally scowls, then kneels and pulls aside the loose boards, exposing a small cavity.

In the cavity is a black bin liner.

She removes the bin liner.

In the bin liner is a grey woollen blanket.

Wrapped in the grey woollen blanket is a woman’s head.

Henry is surprised by how well the baby slept on the way home.

She is in the back seat of the car, wrapped in the soft blanket with satinette lining. The street lights pulse above her as Henry’s son, Patrick, drives fastidiously under the limit.

Every now and again Henry glances at her over his shoulder and feels a warm surge of fulfilment. A tired, happy grin spreads across his chops.

Patrick pulls over near the park; he wants to pick up some rabbits. So Henry slides over and gets behind the wheel.

Soon, he is chasing the headlamps through the electric gates at the end of the long gravel drive.

The house is very large. It overlooks the park. It’s worth somewhere in the region of two and a half million pounds, but Henry has far too many secrets buried in the garden to consider selling it.

He’s lived here for twelve years. Elaine, his elderly landlady, has been five feet down in the garden for eleven and a half of them. He catches himself talking to her sometimes. Doesn’t really know why.

The neighbour to his left is a banker with a young family; they moved in two years after Elaine died. As far as they’re concerned, Henry is Elaine’s son. That’s fine by Henry.

Elaine’s real son is another of the secrets buried in the garden.

The neighbours to the right are foreign, Arabs probably; he sees them rarely and has never spoken to them.

Henry parks, gets out of the car, looks around at the morning, then opens the back door and reaches inside. The baby turns her black eyes upon him.

She’s surprisingly warm. She’s scrawny and has that weird, dark purple colour, almost beetroot in places.

Henry’s hand is dirty, still carrying traces of blood, but he didn’t think to bring a pacifier. So he offers his thumb to the baby. She accepts it into her hot, gummy little mouth. Under a soft rubbery layer, the gums are surprisingly hard. The sensation is not displeasing.

He’s decided to call her Emma.

He bundles her into his arms, lifts her gently from the car seat and tucks the blanket around her, nice and tight. This is called swaddling.

‘Welcome home,’ he says. ‘Welcome home. Would you like to see your bedroom? Yes, I bet you would. I bet you would, baby girl.’

Henry is interested and strangely moved to note that although he’s speaking quietly, and although there is no danger of being overheard, he speaks to the baby in the babbling, glissando intonation known as
motherese
.

‘Youwannaseeyourroom?’ he says, delighting in it. ‘Do you do you do you? Yes you do! Yes you do want to see your room! You do!’

He carries her through the front door into the wood-panelled hallway. It’s old fashioned, of course; Elaine was in her eighties when Henry suffocated her. She hadn’t remodelled for at least a generation. But Henry quite likes it. He thinks of it as timeless.

The baby is in his arms, still bite-sucking his thumb. ‘Are you hungry?’ he says. ‘Are you hungry, baby girl? Yes you is! You is a hungry liddle girl.’

He takes her up to her room, the nicest room in the house. Inside is a brand new cot from John Lewis, a brand new changing table and mat from Mothercare. Her new clothes, many still displaying price tags, hang from a chrome rail. (There is a second rail, which contains boy’s clothes, but Henry pretends not to see it. When Emma’s asleep, he’ll take the boy’s clothes away and quietly burn them. There’s a wood-burning furnace in the basement. It comes in handy.)

On the wall are prints of Pooh Bear and Piglet. Henry has waxed and polished the oak floor and laid down pretty rugs. The only item that isn’t new is a manky, one-eyed teddy bear, bald in patches. She’s called Mummy Bear. She’s Henry’s.

He lays the baby on her back. Her loose purple skin is streaked with blood and other ochres. But Henry’s read that babies don’t like to be clean: the smell of sweat and shit and sebum comforts them. So he tucks Emma tight under the blanket and gazes down upon her with tear-pricked eyes.

She opens and closes her mouth like an animatronic alien. And she has a curiously extra-terrestrial look of absolute wisdom in those ebony eyes. She has a perfect nub of a nose with finely etched little nostrils so pink they seem faintly illuminated. There’s the trembling, downturned rage and sorrow in her mouth, the balled fists on spindly arms. And her bowed legs! It’s funny, that her mother should have such good legs, while the baby’s should be like a wishbone! He expects they’ll straighten.

The baby begins to mewl as Henry steps back from the cot. Her cry is low and warbling, wet in the throat and not as loud as he’d feared it might be. But it’s piercing, a depleted sound that seems to cut through walls like a wire through cheese.

‘Don’t worry, iddle baby,’ he says. ‘Don’t oo worry.’

He leaves the room. His heart is thin and anxious in his chest. He hurries down to the kitchen. It has recently been scrubbed down so thoroughly the stink of bleach stings his eyes and he’s forced to open a window.

He reaches into the fridge. Inside are lined up twelve or thirteen sterilized bottles containing formula milk.

Henry takes a bottle and warms it slightly in the microwave. He tests its temperature against his forearm, then hurries upstairs through the faltering but gathering squall of his new daughter’s crying.

Luther goes to find Benny, who’s set himself up at Ian Reed’s desk.

Reed’s spare suit jacket, tie and shirt hang from the back of the door, still in dry-cleaner’s cellophane. In Reed’s desk drawer is a wash and shave kit: soap, disposable razors, deodorant, moisturizer for sensitive skin.

Benny’s already surrounded by empty cans of energy drink, takeaway coffees, bottles of multivitamins, half-eaten protein bars.

Luther says, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Slowly,’ Benny says. ‘I’ve been checking the Lamberts’ phone accounts, work email accounts. No extra-curricular flirting that I can see. Nothing of real interest.’

Luther pulls up a chair. ‘No old loves popped up on Facebook?’

‘We’re checking out all the friends,’ Benny says. ‘Right now.’

‘Yeah, but that’s what . . .’

‘Nearly three hundred people.’

‘Nearly three hundred people. We need to find this baby today.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘If we’re looking at a sex crime, normally we’d look for precursor offences in the area, right? An uplift in peeping Toms, knicker-sniffers, underwear thieves, flashers. But there’s been no uplift.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘So somebody this sexually confused,’ Luther says, ‘somebody who did what this man did to the Lamberts, you’d expect him to be known to us already, most likely a local schizophrenic. But that doesn’t feel right, does it?’ He fiddles with the beige keyboard of his computer. Types QWERTY. ‘People put so much of their lives out there. On Facebook and wherever. There’s so much information on who we are, how we’re feeling, what we’re doing. I don’t know. I just want to be sure.’

Benny nods, turns to his screen.

Two seconds later, Howie knocks and enters, a folder in her hand.

‘Womb raiders,’ she says, closing the door. ‘Women who snatch other women’s children from the womb.’

‘Yeah, but this was a man.’

‘Just bear with me, Boss.’

Luther makes a gesture:
Sorry.

‘Usually, womb raiders are female. Average out at thirty years old. Generally no criminal record. Emotionally immature, compulsive, low self-esteem. Looking to replace a lost infant or one she couldn’t conceive.’

‘Right,’ says Luther. ‘But they also go for low-hanging fruit. Vulnerable and marginalized women. Not middle-class event organizers.’

‘Totally. But I’ve been going through Mr Lambert’s work diary. Every Thursday night, 7.30 p.m., they had an appointment at, quote, ISG.’

‘What’s ISG?’

‘Well, we know Mrs Lambert was taking fertility treatment for a long time. Mr Lambert’s a counsellor, so we also know they’re into therapy and whatnot. So I’m thinking – ISG:
Infertility Support Group
? So I go back to the first instance, call the number he listed—’

‘And?’

‘And I get through to the Clocktower Infertility and IVF Support Group. I’ve googled it. It’s less than a mile from the Lamberts’ home.’

‘So we’re saying what?’

‘You look at the catchment area, it’s well above national-average income. That’s probably true of the support group, too. But an infertile woman can undergo a psychotic episode if she’s middle-class or not.’

‘I still don’t think it was a woman.’

‘Totally,’ says Howie. ‘But it’s a group for couples. Plenty of men.’

Luther reads her smile and knows there’s more.

She passes him a photocopied printout, taken from Tom Lambert’s diary.

He scans it. ‘What am I looking for?’

She takes the printout from his hand, points to a blocked-off appointment. ‘They last attended the group three months ago.’

Luther grins, seeing it.

‘She kept attending the support group,’ Howie says. ‘Even when she was visibly pregnant. Imagine it. All these desperate couples—’

‘And here are Tom and Sarah Lambert,’ Luther says. ‘Gorgeous. Well off. In love. Blooming with it. Good work. Get your coat.’

Beaming, Howie leaves the office.

Luther grabs his overcoat. Pauses halfway through putting it on.

Benny looks at him.

‘Lust for power,’ Luther says. ‘Lust for money. Jealousy. All the things we do to each other. It all comes down to sex in the end. But sex comes down to babies. You look at a baby, it’s the purest thing in the world. The best thing. Totally innocent. So how do you square that? All this wickedness, in the name of creating innocence. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?’

Benny looks at him for a long time. Then he says, ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to make myself forget what you just said.’

‘Good,’ says Luther. ‘Good.’

Buttoning his coat, he walks out to meet Howie.

The Clocktower Infertility and IVF Support Group is run from a small private hospital in North London.

The group is led by a GP called Sandy Pope. It seems to Luther she’s a little forbidding and severe to be running a group like this. But what does he know?

Luther and Howie sit in her surgery; it has a faint camphor smell.

‘The group’s run on a drop-in basis,’ she tells them. ‘So there’s no database, no list of phone numbers. Some people come for years. Some come once and find it’s not for them. Most are somewhere in between.’

‘But on average?’

She’s reluctant to answer. Luther knows her type: well-educated, middle-class, left-leaning liberal. A good-hearted roundhead. Doesn’t care for the police, not least because she’s never had cause to need them.

‘There’s no such thing as average,’ she says. ‘But often they’ll stay for a year or two. Which doesn’t mean they come every week. It’ll be every week for three or four months. Then twice a month, then once a month. Then they just stop.’

‘And there’s no list of attendees?’

‘People don’t even have to give their real names.’

Howie takes the baton. ‘How did Sarah Lambert’s pregnancy go down with the group?’

‘I’m not sure I understand where you’re heading with this.’

‘We’re trying to establish why the Lamberts kept attending the group, even after Sarah was pregnant. It seems unusual.’

‘Not really. It can be difficult; a couple comes to identify themselves as infertile, then suddenly they face this whole new challenge. They turn to a support group.’

‘So how did Sarah deal with her pregnancy?’

‘During the first trimester, her anxiety levels were very high. She had bad dreams.’

‘What kind of dreams?’

‘Of something happening to the baby.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘She never specified. It’s actually not uncommon.’

‘So she wasn’t happy?’

‘She was non-ecstatic. That’s not the same as unhappy. She was damming up her happiness. Scared she was going to lose the child.’

‘And Mr Lambert?’

‘He was supportive. Possibly more supportive than most male partners.’

‘So how are most male partners?’

She gives Howie a meaningful look and says, ‘Men who’ve come to define themselves as infertile can feel detached from a pregnancy. It’s a kind of safety mechanism. Plus, they feel the need to be strong for their wife. Just in case something goes wrong.’

‘So,’ Howie refers to her notes, cycles back a step or two, ‘the rest of the group. How did they take it when they learned about the pregnancy?’

‘I’d say the reaction was mixed. On one hand, pregnancy provides hope . . .’

‘And on the other?’

‘Well, obviously it can lead to envy.’

‘Did it make anyone in the group feel like that?’

‘It would be surprising if it didn’t. Women often find this aspect of it all, the apparent randomness of it, to be very difficult. They see it in terms of fairness – or unfairness, however you choose to look at it.’

‘And the men?’

‘Their response is often—’ She breaks off, looks at Luther. ‘The male reaction can be very primal. Potency and fertility can be central to a man’s sense of gender identity.’

Luther thinks of the timid people in the support group: the shocked women, grieving for children who would never be conceived, would never be born, would never die. Sad people in Gap jeans and Marks and Spencer’s blouses sitting in a circle on plastic chairs. The shabbiness of the room. The hairs on their forearms, the freckles. The intimacy of their sex organs. Hair sprouting from unbuttoned collars. Men seeking to lose weight, lose their guts to increase their fertility, looking one to the other, pondering who was potent and who was not, cuckolding each other in the imagination.

And Sarah Lambert, terrified to tell of her good fortune in case the baby didn’t latch on to existence but instead let go, allowing itself to be carried downstream by time: a bundle of cells, a tumbling ball of life.