people. People with similar interests.’
‘Not any more.’
‘I know. But we’re looking for a man who may have come to you. A while ago maybe.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. But he’d be a man who wanted something very specific.’
‘They all want something very specific. That’s their curse.’
‘You love children, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you watch the news?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Did you watch it today?’
‘I think so. I don’t know. Why?’
‘I think you know why.’ Luther leans forward. Speaks low, the same way he did to the dog, forcing Bixby to lean in closer.
The dog shifts uneasily on the carpet. Whines low in its throat.
‘Night before last, somebody cut a child from its mother’s womb,’ Luther says. ‘A man like that, a man who’d do that sort of thing — I think you’d know him. Or know of him. I think part of you’s been waiting for a knock at the door since this happened. Because you know who this man is.’
Bixby blinks. He pats his lap. The old dog struggles into the chair. Bixby strokes it.
‘Yeah, I knew a lot of these men,’ he says at length. ‘But the thing about them, about us, you have to remember, there’s no such thing as a “paedophile”. Same way there’s no such thing as a “straight man”. Some straight men like high heels, or underwear, or bondage, or being submissive, or dressing as babies — whatever. I don’t know. Sexuality is a broad church, okay?’
Luther nods. Lets him talk.
‘It’s the same with men who want sex with children,’ Bixby says. ‘There are a million and one variations — heterosexual, homosexual. Men who want to kill children. Men who idolize them, who honestly can’t accept that it’s impossible for a child to feel sexual desire for them. That was my problem, and I’m working with it.’
‘And babies?’
‘It’s rare, but it exists. But for all that I’ve seen, I never, ever, in all the thousands of hours I spent communicating with these men, not once did I hear anybody fantasize about cutting a baby from a mother’s womb for the purposes of sexual gratification.’
‘So what are we saying?’
‘That the man you’re looking for isn’t a paedophile.’
Luther takes a moment. ‘So you do know him?’
Bixby looks away. Luther looks at his frantic hands, tickling the dog’s sternum, scratching its angular head. Every now and again he leans in to nuzzle its neck.
The dog stares at Luther.
Luther says, ‘DS Howie, would you mind waiting in the car?’
Howie doesn’t look at him. She says, ‘I’m okay, Boss. It’s nice and warm in here.’
Bixby reads the vibe between them.
Luther says, ‘Steve. It’s important you tell me what you know about this man.’
‘I don’t even know it’s the same man.’
‘But you’ve got a feeling it might be, right?’
Bixby bites his lower lip and nods.
Luther says, ‘Then I don’t understand your reticence.’
‘Aiding and abetting.’
‘Did you help this man in some way?’
‘I think I may have.’
‘And you’re worried about going back to prison?’
‘I’d honestly rather die.’
‘We’ll see what we can do to avoid that. If you help us, right here and right now.’
‘I want immunity. From prosecution.’
Luther laughs. It startles the dog. It gets down from the sofa. Stands in front of Bixby’s spindly legs, protecting him.
‘Everyone wants something,’ Luther says. ‘Except a dog. A dog’s just happy to be here.’
‘Do you know what happens in prison?’ says Bixby. ‘To men like me?’
‘I don’t know. Poetic justice?’
‘I see. So rape’s all right as long as you hate the victim.’
The dog barks — or tries to. Its throat has been damaged. It glares at Luther with its good eye.
‘This man, your friend, is going to kill someone,’ Luther says. ‘Maybe tonight. You know that. You saw it on the news, you listen to the radio. Been on the internet.’
‘I’m not allowed on the internet.’
‘Whatever. But you know what he says he’s going to do. And you can help me. If you like, I’ll get on my knees and beg you to tell me what you know. But I’m in a hurry here. The clock’s ticking.’
‘Then I can’t help. I’m sorry.’
‘Steve,’ says Howie. ‘We don’t need to tell anyone where this information comes from.’
Bixby looks up at her, his eyes widening in transitory hope. ‘Would that work?’
‘Absolutely it would work. We do it all the time. We’d log you as an “anonymous source”. If it helps us catch a triple murderer before he kills again, trust me — no questions will be asked.’
‘But you can’t guarantee that, can you? I mean, not absolutely.’
Luther tugs at his thumb, hears the joint pop. He sits back in the armchair as if it’s a throne or an electric chair. He says, ‘Do you know when I last slept?’
‘No,’ says Bixby.
‘Neither do I. And I don’t mind telling you, Steve, I’m having a bad day. A really, really bad day. I pulled a dead baby out of the earth this morning. And I’ve got this stuff going round in my head. Bad stuff. Right now, it’s telling me that if this man kills someone else tonight, it’ll be my fault — for not trying hard enough, for not pushing hard enough to catch him, for saying those things at the press conference. You get me?’
Bixby nods.
‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘So the way I see it, you’ve got two options. Option one: you take DS Howie’s advice. Which is good advice, by the way.’
‘What’s option two?’
‘You sit there while I order DS Howie to leave the flat.’ He lifts his hip, digs in his pocket, removes his pepper spray and his extensible baton. Sits with them in his hands.
Bixby clenches and unclenches his fists.
‘Boss,’ says Howie.
Luther shoots her a look. ‘Shut your mouth, Sergeant.’
Howie shuts her mouth. Sits there shaking, not knowing what to do.
Luther says, ‘Help me, Steve. Help me catch this man. I promise we’ll do the right thing by you. I promise.’
Bixby hugs the dog like a teddy bear. Kisses its muscular neck.
Then he says, ‘A man came to me. A while ago. Two years? Three, maybe. He wanted a baby.’
‘What was this man’s name?’
‘Henry.’
‘Henry?’
‘Grady, I think. I don’t think it was his real name.’
Howie writes it down.
Luther says, ‘Can you describe him? What did he look like? Black? White? Fat, thin?’
‘White. Not big, not small. Very fit.’
‘Fit how? Muscular, like a bodybuilder?’
