‘I contacted them all this morning,’ Benny says.
‘What do you mean? Officially?’
‘No chance. I rang round, pretending to be from a charity. Phoned their workplaces. That kind of thing.’
‘You’re in the wrong job, mate. So how’d it play?’
‘Tony Barron, Malcolm Grundy, Charlotte Wilkie, Lucy Gadd, Sophie Unsworth — all of them check out — or seem to at a first pass. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to do a bit more due diligence on them, belt and braces.’
‘All right, consider it done. But the last name?’
‘Ruby Douglas.’
‘Who’s Ruby Douglas?’
‘Ruby Douglas went to the same prep school as Sarah Lambert. Moved away when she was thirteen. So you’re talking about a very loose, very old acquaintance — if you can even call her that. Someone Mrs Lambert may remember, but hasn’t actually seen for more than twenty-five years.’
‘Okay.’
‘This “Ruby Douglas” joined Facebook three years ago, befriended the Lamberts and a few others the same day. Then didn’t make one post. Not a single post, until-’
‘Until?’
‘Until Mrs Lambert announced she was pregnant.’
Luther’s heart is loud in his chest now.
He says, ‘Let me see the post.’
Sarah Lambert:
We’ve been on tenterhooks for weeks and weeks, dying to tell you. Tom and I are pregnant! Four months gone!
‘There are fifty-nine comments and thirty-eight “likes”. One of those “likes” was posted by Ruby Douglas. That’s the only posting she ever made. To anyone. Ever.’
At length, Luther says, ‘You tried to contact her? Ruby Douglas?’
‘Oh yeah. No deal.’
‘We don’t think this is actually her, do we?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘So we’re saying Pete Black stalked the Lamberts on Facebook?’
‘It’s so easily done,’ Benny says. ‘Seriously. People have no idea of the kind of person who’s out there, watching them.’
Luther’s sense of triumph fades. He sits. Thinks about it. ‘So the announcement of the pregnancy is what got them killed? He was waiting for it.’
Benny says nothing. Knows there’s nothing to say.
‘Can we trace the user back?’ Luther says. ‘‘‘Ruby Douglas”, find him that way?’
‘Whoever it was used a free webmail address to sign up. Not traceable. Posted from different public ISPs.’
‘The ISPs any use?’
‘One of them’s a public Wi-Fi hotspot. The other’s a cafe in East London.’
‘The chances of getting security camera footage?’
‘After all these months? Pretty small.’
‘Worth a try, though. I’ll get someone on it.’
But there’s more. He can see it in Benny’s eyes.
He forces himself to sit still.
Benny says, ‘The thing about cyber-stalking, it’s not like the real-world equivalent. To someone like this, the internet is like a dessert trolley. He could be watching any number of people. I mean, he could be watching dozens of people. Or hundreds. He’d know when they were sick, when they’re well. When they were on holiday. When they’re at meetings, out of town. He’d know what their kids look like, what their pets are called, what they watch on TV. He might as well be in their house.’
Luther thinks of Pete Black, out there, omniscient, full of jealousy and hatred.
Waiting for the next child. And the child after that.
Then Teller comes to the door.
He says, ‘Boss?’
‘The day’s not getting better,’ she says.
She leads him to her office, where the news is playing on her computer.
On a rolling news channel, Maggie Reilly is being interviewed by a slim young Anglo-Indian woman in Armani and killer heels.
Maggie looks severe and focused, a solemn presence; not at all like she spent a sleepless night waiting for a madman to call and make her famous again.
‘Whatever the facts of the matter may be,’ she says, ‘the man who calls himself Pete Black, the alleged killer of Tom Lambert, Sarah Lambert and now baby Emma Lambert, very clearly blames the police for the tragedy that took place overnight.’
The interviewer leans forward. She has a thin sheaf of papers in one hand. ‘But surely no one can blame the police for doing their job?’
‘No one’s blaming the police,’ Maggie says. ‘They were doing a difficult job in what were clearly very difficult circumstances. It’s just that, in this once instance, perhaps blindly following procedure wasn’t the optimum strategy.’
‘Are you suggesting the police should have met “Pete Black’s” demands and guaranteed not to stake out the hospitals?’
‘Of course, it depends on the police service’s operational priorities: catching a killer or saving the child. All I’m saying is, perhaps it’s an option they could have explored.’
‘But as you know, police are refusing to comment on operational details. They simply won’t say whether they had officers posted at hospitals and churches.’
Maggie Reilly laughs. ‘I’ve been a journalist too long to trust a “no comment” from the police, no matter how prettily it’s dolled up.’
‘Maggie Reilly, we’ll leave it there. Thank you.’
Luther rubs the flat of his hand in slow circles around the crown of his head.
He says, ‘This is all such bullshit. The baby was long dead. She’s been dead since yesterday. He’s mortified by that. The baby dying wasn’t part of his plan, whatever his plan was. He can’t accept the blame, so it must be someone else’s fault. He’s passing the burden of guilt on to us.’
‘I know that. You know that. Whether people out there,’ she gestures, meaning the wider world, ‘actually want to believe it. That’s a different matter.’
Luther tugs at his ear, considering. He says, ‘I don’t think I can do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘This.’
She gives him the Duchess look.
‘Things aren’t good,’ he says. ‘At home. Between me and Zoe.’
‘I see. She’s being a madam, is she?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘It’s always that. You’re not the first copper to marry a spoiled cow. You won’t be the last.’
‘Boss, that’s not fair. She just-’
Teller gestures with open palms: Just what?
Luther rubs his face, exhausted. He needs to shave and change his shirt. ‘I’m not right,’ he says. ‘In myself.’
‘So what are you suggesting we do?’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask about leave of absence. Stress leave. Whatever you want to call it.’
‘And whose idea was this? Yours, or Princess Tippietoes?’
‘Both of ours.’
Teller removes her spectacles, blinks at him like an owl. ‘If we take you off this now, it looks like an
