Baby Emma wasn’t a pervert.
Zoe goes downstairs and turns on the TV, sees the affable morning newsreader pulling her grave face.
‘… an update on this still-developing story,’ she says. ‘Acting on a tip-off from the man who claimed to have kidnapped baby Emma Lambert, visibly devastated police officers reportedly found the body of a baby at St Pancras Old Church in central London early this morning. Simon Maxwell- Davis is at the scene.’
Zoe watches live footage of a London churchyard. A dizzying zoom — and there’s John, stomping away from an evidence tent. Rose Teller is a beat behind him, like a terrier at his heels.
It’s followed by helicopter footage of John leaning against a wall and apparently weeping.
Zoe’s hand goes to her throat.
Cut back to the young man with the microphone. Blond and ruddily handsome, a little chubby.
‘Well, Lorna,’ he says, to the anchor, to the viewers, to Zoe, ‘this must be the moment all police officers dread. Although I should stress that we’ve yet to have official confirmation, our sources do tell us that, following the dramatic call made to a London radio station early this morning, police have indeed found the body of a baby here at St Pancras Old Church in central London. Details are very sketchy at this time-’
Zoe snaps off the TV and calls John.
She gets voicemail.
He never answers his fucking phone. It’s one of those things about him. It drives her insane. He says if you go around answering your phone, all it does is ring.
‘John,’ she says, ‘it’s me. I don’t know what time it is. It’s early. I’ve just seen the news. Give me a call as soon as you can. I just want to know you’re okay. Please. Just — y’know.’
She hangs up. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She puts her face in her hands. She says her own name like a mantra: Zoe, Zoe, Zoe.
Then she cranes her neck and looks at the ceiling.
Her phone rings. She snatches it up. It’s Mark. He says, ‘Have you been watching the news?’
‘I’m watching it now.’
‘Jesus Christ, Zoe. Are you okay?’
She doesn’t know.
Mark says, ‘Have you heard from him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think he’s okay?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, testily. ‘I really don’t know who’s okay and who’s not.’
‘Listen,’ he says, not rising to the bait. She loves him for it. ‘Whatever you need me to do, I’m here. If you want me to come over, I’ll be right over. If you want me to stay away, I’ll stay away. Just let me know.’
She says, ‘Look. Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do. But we had a row last night. A pretty bad one. And then, here he is on TV, crying. That’s not like him. And… I just don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To work.’
After a moment he says, ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘What else am I supposed to do?’ she says. ‘Hang around the house all day, watching the news? If I did that every time John was up to his neck in something horrible, I wouldn’t have a job to go to.’
Howie gets in about two minutes before the police courier arrives from Bristol. She hasn’t even taken off her coat when he hands over the Kintry and York files, taped up in a second-hand Jiffy bag.
Howie thanks him, lays the Jiffy bag on her messy desk.
The courier is a young PC with a heavy West Country accent. She offers him a cup of tea. He prefers one of the Cup a Soups he sees next to the water-spotted kettle. He’s been up all night and he’s hungry.
He drinks the soup. They chat about the case in very general terms. Then he rinses the cup, wishes her good luck and leaves.
Howie takes a coffee to her desk, slips on a pair of noise-reducing headphones, opens the Jiffy bag and digs out the files.
Luther’s barely through the heavy doors of the buzzing unit when Benny grabs his elbow and drags him into the office, Ian Reed’s dry cleaning still hanging there behind the door.
Benny’s twitchy, wide-eyed, washed-out.
Luther says, ‘Christ, Benny. How much sleep did you get?’
‘Not that much. It was niggling at me. It’s difficult to sleep when you know you could be doing something useful — in case things didn’t work out.’
‘Well, things didn’t work out.’
‘I heard that. You okay?’
‘Tickety-boo. What’ve you got?’
‘Facebook.’
‘I thought we’d done that.’
‘Well, yes and no,’ Benny’s rushing now, eager to tell him something. He reins himself in, takes a breath and says, ‘What’s the golden rule of social networking?’
Luther hangs up his coat. ‘Don’t do it?’
‘No. The golden rule is — only put up information or images you’re happy for everyone to see and are happy to put your name to. And the Lamberts seem to have done that, by and large.’
‘But?’
‘But the problem is, when I say happy for anyone to see, it really does mean anyone. The problem with social networking, the internet in general, is it’s easy for someone to pretend to be someone they’re not. For instance,’ he stands, ‘do you mind?’
Luther gets out of Benny’s way, lets him access the old beige computer with 15-inch monitor he’s got tottering on his desk — brought here when Traffic had a refit, got themselves some nice flatscreens.
Benny logs on to Facebook, taps a few keys.
Then Luther’s looking at his own Facebook page. Except Luther doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Benny says, ‘I set this up in your name last night.’
Luther looks at it. ‘How?’
‘Easy. I know your birthday, right? I know where you went to school, uni, blah blah blah. You can easily get these details online. What I didn’t have to hand was a photograph of you. But I happen to know you like David Bowie, right? And I know your favourite album.’
‘ Low.’
‘Right. So I dig up the cover image for Low. Use that as your profile picture. Anybody who knows you, sees it and thinks: Typical John Luther! Bowie fanatic! So nobody’s got any reason to think this isn’t you. Now all I have to do is look up a few old friends of yours. Again, that’s easily done because I know where you went to school. I send out a bunch of friend requests.’
‘Tell me you haven’t done that,’ says Luther.
‘No way. I value my ability to walk. But listen, the point is, I knocked up this page in ten minutes — for educational purposes only. Just to show you how easy it is, to be someone else online.’
‘Okay. Point made. Internet bad. So?’
‘So I combed through all the Lamberts’ online “friends”. Sarah Lambert’s got 250-odd, Tom Lambert’s got 70. He’s a very occasional user. So let’s put him to one side for the moment, come back to him if we need to. Let’s concentrate on Sarah. She’s got 253 friends: of those 253 friends, 185 post once a week or more. Of the remaining 68, most are occasional users. What happens a lot is, people start up a new account and go posting happy: what they had for breakfast, funny things the kids have said. But that loses its appeal pretty quickly, and their postings get fewer and fewer as the weeks go by. Some people sign up, make one or two postings, decide it’s not for them and are basically never seen again.’
‘How many of those we got?’
‘About half a dozen: Tony Barron, Malcolm Grundy, Charlotte Wilkie, Ruby Douglas, Lucy Gadd, Sophie Unsworth.’
Luther nods, feeling something now — something coming down the line at him.
