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?’
‘What about her?’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No.’
‘That’s not true either, is it?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘We’d show you the crime-scene photos,’ says Luther, his first words since the interview began, ‘but we don’t want you getting excited.’
Malcolm’s eyes flit from Luther to Howie. ‘What crime-scene photos?’
‘So what was it?’ Luther says. ‘You’ve had enough of him? He doesn’t believe all the crap you give him during your sessions?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What about the baby?’ Luther says. ‘What does a man like you do with a baby?’
‘Honestly,’ says Malcolm, much more quickly, ‘what has he said? Because he’s a lying prick.’
‘Where’s the baby, Malcolm?’
‘What baby?’
‘Do you have any idea what prison will be like for you?’ Luther says. ‘Being a weirdo’s one thing. Hurting kids is another. They’re a sentimental lot in Wandsworth. They’ll do to you what you did to Mr Lambert.’
‘Wait. What did I do? What are we talking about?’
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘What baby?’
‘Where is it?’
‘He’s lying about the baby. It wasn’t a baby.’
There is a moment.
‘What wasn’t a baby?’
‘He’s not supposed to fucking tell you this stuff. He’s not. He’s a fucking hypocrite.’
Luther doesn’t move. Neither does Howie.
At great length, Luther says, ‘Malcolm, what wasn’t a baby?’
‘I’d never touch a baby. If he told you I did, then he’s a fucking liar. I like girls. Women.’
Outside the interview room, Howie makes a disgusted face, shakes her hands as if she’s touched something contaminated.
Luther claps her on the back, tells her well done.
Then he approaches Detective Sergeant Mary Lally: thirty, curly hair kept short and practical.
Lally’s a methodical and insightful detective, creative in interrogations. But she’s also gifted with a particular, scornful look. Sometimes Luther applies her as a secret weapon, just to sit there and employ that peerlessly judgemental stare.
They call her Scary Mary.
She looks up from her computer, sets down her phone. Gives Luther a look, like she knows what’s coming.
Luther says, ‘How d’you feel about getting out into the fresh air?’
