cigarettes.
They drive to his place, a big double-fronted Edwardian in Camberwell. They light candles and sit at his kitchen table in the remodelled basement. The table is scarred, antique, beautiful.
He pours them each a glass of wine, then concentrates on skinning up a joint.
She sips her wine and says, ‘What am I going to do?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I could take you there. To the police station.’
‘If he’s not answering his phone, it’s because he doesn’t want to talk.’ For half a minute, she concentrates on tearing a cigarette paper to shreds, flattening the pieces in front of her, making them neat. ‘This is it, see? This is what happens. When things are fine, it’s fine. But when things go bad, he just ups and disappears. Surely if he’s going through all this, surely this is the time he should need me around?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m worried enough. I’m frightened for him. I’m tired of being frightened for him. I don’t know.’ She looks at her lap, the shreds of paper. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s pretty intense,’ says Mark. ‘Everything he’s going through.’
‘So you’re defending him now?’
‘Christ, no. But I didn’t come here to bury him, either. I feel for the man. I watched him cry over a dead baby today. And here I am, sleeping with his wife.’
She gives him a flirty smile. ‘Don’t be presumptuous.’ She moves her wine glass around on the table like a planchette on a Ouija board.
She bites her lower lip, thinking it over. Then she says, ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Anything you want.’
‘My worst confession? It’s pretty bad.’
‘Is it something you did?’
‘Shit, no. I’ve never done anything. I’ve been good my entire life.’
Mark doesn’t comment in the way that most men would, working in a double meaning, an undercurrent of sex. He just holds her gaze for a moment, scratches at his short beard, lights the joint.
‘Do you ever get these thoughts,’ Zoe says, ‘these feelings, that go round and round your head at three in the morning and you’re ashamed of feeling them?’
‘Everyone does.’
He takes a few puffs, then passes the joint to Zoe. She hesitates before accepting it.
‘Sometimes I actually wish he was dead,’ she says. ‘I lie in bed and fantasize about him actually dying. Because it just seems so much easier that way. My problems would be solved — I could mourn John, and be free, and not hate myself for it. And everyone would feel bad for me, instead of thinking I’m a total bitch.’
She inhales, holds her breath for as long as she can, then exhales a thin plume of smoke. Passes the joint to Mark.
‘Thoughts like that don’t make you a bitch,’ he says. ‘They’re just an escape fantasy. We all have them. The same thing happens with the spouses of terminal patients. It doesn’t make them bad, either. It’s just one of the ways we cope.’
They smoke for a while. The candles flutter, throw black dancing shapes on the wall.
‘I’m leaving him,’ she says. ‘I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m leaving him.’
‘Good,’ Mark says.
He reaches out, takes her hand. They finish the joint and go upstairs.
CHAPTER 15
Vasile Sava, the baby broker, rents a basement apartment in Maida Vale.
Howie and Luther take the short steps down to the front door, check out the grilled windows.
Howie knocks. She’s got a good police knock.
They wait.
It’s 5.37 p.m.
At 5.38, Howie knocks again.
At length, Sava comes to the door. He’s barefoot in an old muscle T-shirt and faded Levis, a little ragged at the cuffs. He’s pumped up like a bouncy castle, brown hair waxed into a vaguely military flat-top. He looks like he should be forcing ethnic minorities to kneel before shooting them in the base of the skull and rolling their bodies into a ditch.
Actually, he runs a company called Primo Minicabs.
Luther and Howie badge him, ask if they can come in and talk.
They spend a few moments doing the dance: What about? W e’d just like to ask you a few questions. Then Sava gestures with his head: Follow me.
Sava looks like he’s doing okay. It’s a nice flat, somewhat gloomy with dark wood and Turkish-looking rugs. A 46-inch widescreen with hi-gloss bezel.
The open-plan living room and kitchen has a humid smell, not quite unpleasant. Across the longest wall are arranged a number of large glass terrariums.
Luther digs his hands in his pockets, ducks down to look. ‘What’ve we got here?
‘Death’s head cockroaches,’ Sava says. His English is good, just the hint of an accent. He’s been here for eighteen years.
‘Blimey,’ says Luther. ‘They’re big sods.’
‘Scary big. But easy to care for.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Chilean centipede.’ Sava kneels, points out a segmented, multilegged blue horror the length of Luther’s hand. ‘These over here, they’re red-kneed tarantulas. Over here, that’s a Mexican black king snake.’
Luther meets the impassive yellow eye of the black snake. He casts a glance at Howie.
She’s over in the kitchen, arms crossed, trying not to look grossed out.
Luther considers the iguana in the largest tank: a sand-coloured creature, dewlapped and spiny, on a bone- pale branch. Then he ambles over to join Howie while Sava fusses like an old maid round the kitchen, making coffee. He says, ‘So why are we here?’
‘Because we need advice.’
‘On what?’
‘Stolen babies.’
Sava’s busy grinding coffee beans. The machine makes a high dentist noise.
‘We’re not here to go digging up old allegations,’ Luther says. ‘We honestly just need some guidance.’
‘So I guess this’ll be the baby that was taken. The crazy radio guy. The dead lady, whatever.’
Luther nods.
‘Then you’re talking to the wrong man,’ Sava says. ‘The baby trade goes in the other direction. Babies move from Eastern Europe to England. Not the other way round.’ He reads Luther’s expression, the curled lip. ‘What? You don’t like that?’
‘Not much.’
‘Of course! Human rights activists are outraged! It’s wrong to buy or sell a person! Traffickers are interested only in money. They’re scum. Where were you born, DCI Luther?’
‘London.’
‘Right. Your parents?’
‘London.’
‘Their parents?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is: if there’s one thing worse than a bad home in a rich country, it’s no home in a poor country. So
