desperate man. And we’re keen, if he’ll let us, to give him the help he needs.
‘However, given the danger to the public this man represents, let me reiterate that we’re asking members of the public to help us identify and apprehend him. Someone out there knows who he is. In order to hasten this process, the Metropolitan Police Service has authorized a reward of one hundred thousand pounds for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the man calling himself Pete Black.
‘That’s concludes the statement. I will, however, take one or two questions. Let’s keep it orderly please, ladies and gentlemen.’
Here they come, in a flashing, overlapping babble:
‘Will you be making an apology to Pete Black?’
‘I refer you to my statement, which you should consider the last word on this matter.’
‘Will Pete Black kill again if you refuse to do as he says?’
‘That would be entering into unwarranted realms of speculation.’
‘How big is the threat?’
‘That’s impossible to gauge at this time.’
‘If Pete Black does kill another family, will heads roll in the police service?’
‘I’m not entirely sure I understand what that question means.’
‘Who takes responsibility for signing off DCI Luther’s tactics?’
‘I do.’
‘Has DCI Luther been removed from the case because of tensions inside the investigation?’
‘DCI Luther has not been removed from the case.’
‘Are you willing to back DCI Luther?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Have you drawn up a psychological profile?’
‘No comment.’
‘What do we know about the killer? Has he done this before?’
‘No comment.’
‘Should you have known earlier?’
‘Once again, I don’t understand the question.’
‘Do you have faith in your senior investigating officer?’
‘I have absolute faith in my senior investigating officer.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘You’ll appreciate that he’s busy.’
‘Is he off the case?’
‘No.’
‘Shouldn’t he be?’
‘No.’
‘Did you make a mistake by not giving Pete Black an apology?’
‘No. We did not.’
‘How many Londoners are in danger tonight because of questionable operational decisions taken by DCI Luther?’
‘If any Londoners are in danger tonight, and I stress the word “if”, then it’s because of a man calling himself Pete Black. Once again, I urge Londoners to search their hearts and their consciences. If you know who this man is, please contact us on the hotline. That’s it. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and good afternoon.’
While Cornish and Teller address the mobbed press room, Luther and Howie huddle at Benny’s desk.
‘I trawled the records,’ Benny says. ‘Looked at everyone on the sex offenders’ register. I went through the list of names.’
‘Anyone we like?’
‘I’m not feeling it. So I looked off-register a bit, followed my nose.’
‘How far?’
‘I get to thinking, what if, during his years off the radar, our Pete’s not abducting kids. Maybe he’s buying them.’ He shows Luther a mugshot. ‘This is Vasile Sava. He’s a child broker. He arranged the illegal adoption of babies from all over Eastern Europe. Anybody tried to buy or sell a baby in London, chances are he’d know them.’
‘And why do we like him exactly?’
‘Because when they arrested him and trawled his database, a “Mr Torbalan” was included in his list of clients. That’s one of the names for the guy who steals away the bad kids.’
Luther claps his shoulder. ‘Nice work, Ben. Where does he live?’
Benny hands him a printout.
‘Take disinfectant,’ he says. ‘Plus maybe garlic and a crucifix.’
Bill Tanner watches the lunchtime news, because he always does.
He’s surprised to see the copper who came round the other night sitting hunched behind the desk at some press conference or other, looking trapped and uncomfortable.
Bill feels for him; he’s a decent bloke, and it’s always a sad thing to see a big man made to look small.
Bill turns the telly over but there’s nothing else on. He tries a bit of Radio 2; it’s the same story. He catches snippets of it, knows it’s horrible — a story he doesn’t want to hear, more evidence that the world’s going to hell in a fucking handbasket.
Dot’s better off out of it.
Thinking of her gives Bill that trembly feeling in his shanks. He supposes it’s loneliness, but loneliness is such a silly word, a pop-song word, a Herman’s Fucking Hermits word. It’s got very little to do with the awful feeling in his guts and in the top of his legs. If he sits still, he knows it’ll sweep up his spine and round the back of his head and he’ll start to cry like a fucking baby. In moments like this, he sees that the house stinks of cold and dirt.
He grabs the lead and collar from the hook on the back of the kitchen door. Little Paddy goes mad. He always goes mad for a walk.
Bill shuffles over to grab his grey windcheater and his Hush Puppies. He zips his windcheater to his chin and puts on the bobble hat Dot bought for him.
Then he and Paddy step outside.
It’s all a bit awkward. Bill needs a walking stick and one hand’s still in plaster. So he has to slip the loop of the lead over the plaster and kind of hook it there. Luckily Paddy’s got a bit of arthritis in his hips, Yorkies get that, and he’s happy to trot at Bill’s heel, stopping every now and again to cock his leg. He’s a fearless little thing, and Bill admires that.
Time was, he’d have been embarrassed by little Paddy. He was Dot’s dog, really. He wasn’t a man’s dog; a man wants a companion, not one of these ridiculous fierce fuckers all the young ones have these days, the mean little ones with the tiny eyes and the puffed-out chests and the bandy legs. When Bill was a bit younger, the dogs you were scared of were German Shepherds and Dobermans.
Working on the bins in the sixties and seventies, you’d swap stories of fierce dogs. The dogs you swapped stories about were always black and tan.
But those dogs were intelligent and handsome; even a ratty and half-fed Alsatian had understanding in its eyes, that’s why the police used them. And Dobermans were used as guard dogs for good reason. These muscular little things, all jaw and chest, they looked like fucking idiots, like wife beaters.
Bill and Paddy wander along, a bit shaky but doing all right.
He pops into Mr Patel’s to pick up a copy of the Racing Post and twenty Benson amp; Hedges, then wanders down to William Hill. Even the bookie’s not what it was.
A bookie’s used to have a sorry, collegiate air about it, all the labourers and the cabbies and the alkies. He’d pop in after his shift ended, it was still early. Dot would be at work. He’d spend a pound or two, go home and have a nap. Then he’d tidy round a little bit: Dot always came home to a clean house, although that wasn’t something you talked about down the pub.
But Bill was brought up in the navy, he knew how to keep things neat and tidy and everything in its place — and Dot worked long hours and came home footsore.
Bill never did the laundry, and he never cooked a meal in his life except sometimes a bit of egg on toast for
