‘Like a runner. Like a marathon-runner-type build.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘Dark.’
‘Long hair? Short hair?’
‘Short and very neat. In a parting. He used Brylcreem.’
‘How’d you know?’
‘The smell. It reminded me of my granddad.’
‘Accent?’
‘Local. London.’
‘Do you know where he lived?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of car did he drive?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Phone number?’
‘He used different numbers. He seemed quite savvy.’
‘Like you.’
‘Like me.’
‘How’d he dress?’
‘Smart dress. Always suit and tie. Overcoat. One of those ones where the collar’s made of a different cloth, like velvet.’
‘And what’s he like? His demeanour. Was he outgoing? Withdrawn? Friendly? Aggressive? What?’
‘I don’t know. He was just a bloke. You’d pass him in the street.’
‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘He wanted a baby. What did he want with it?’
‘He didn’t say. But he definitely wasn’t a paedophile.’
‘That’s twice you’ve said that. What makes you so sure?’
‘You ever walk into a strange pub, in a strange town, know someone you’ve never seen before is a policeman?’
‘Point taken. But if he’s not a paedophile, if he’s not part of your network, how does he know where to find you?’
‘Via a friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘A man called Finian Ward.’
‘And where does Finian Ward live?’
‘He doesn’t. Liver cancer. Last Christmas.’
Luther checks his frustration. ‘Did Finian Ward tell you how he and Henry knew each other?’
‘No. But I trusted Finian. He was a good man.’
‘And a paedophile.’
‘By inclination. Not action. He was a very gentle man.’
‘So Henry Grady comes to you, via Finian Ward. Says he wants a baby. But he’s not a paedophile. So the baby’s for his wife, maybe?’
‘I thought it must be. Until…’
‘Until what?’
Bixby can’t meet his eye.
‘Steve, until what?’
‘Well,’ Bixby says. ‘I told him that babies aren’t easy to get. They’re always with somebody. Once they’re two or three years old, there’ll always be a moment when they’re unprotected. But not babies. It’s just not happening. But he knew all this.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I was actually trying to put him off the idea, for his own sake — and for the baby’s. I said the only possible way to get what he wanted, if he really couldn’t adopt, was to buy a baby. There’s always women willing to sell.’
Luther’s leg jiggles. ‘Is that what you did?’
‘Yes. I told him about a man called Sava. Do you know him?’
‘We’ve met, yeah. So then what?’
‘He came back to me. Said he didn’t want a junkie’s baby or a hooker’s baby or a foreign baby.’
‘Why not?’
‘He said you wouldn’t buy a dog without knowing its pedigree. He wanted a pedigree baby.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Good parents,’ Bixby says. ‘Good looking. Clever. Rich. Happy.’
‘Happy. He said “happy”. He actually used that word?’
Bixby nods. ‘I told him it was a no-go. That kind of person, they never take their eyes off a baby. I told him, no way. It’s just not going to happen.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He said, there’s always a way to make things happen.’
‘And what was that way? What was the way to make it happen?’
‘He told me he needed a woman,’ Bixby says.
‘To what?’
‘Make him look harmless. Because people trust women.’
Luther thinks about the IVF group. About the strange couple who paid too much attention to the Lamberts. He knows this is the right man, the man calling himself Henry Grady. He can taste copper in his mouth, the taste of blood and anxiety. His heart is thin and fast.
‘And that’s what you did? You put Henry Grady in contact with a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘What woman?’
‘Sweet Jane Carr.’
‘And where do I find Sweet Jane Carr?’
‘In Holloway prison.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since about six weeks. She’s on remand.’
‘For what?’
‘Sexual abuse of a minor,’ Bixby says. ‘She abused local kids on webcam. Pay per view.’
Luther leaves the flat on shaky legs, Howie at his heel.
He says, ‘You okay?’
‘I’m good,’ she says, ‘I’m fine.’
‘But?’
‘Boss, you just assaulted a witness. And intimidated another.’
‘Extenuating circumstances.’
‘I’m not sure the law recognizes that.’
‘It does when you’re dealing with paedophiles.’
He disappears into the dank stairwell, into the shadows.
Howie lingers.
She’s there long enough to see Luther emerge from the building and walk towards the car.
She digs out her phone and asks in a shaky voice to speak to DSU Rose Teller.
‘It’s urgent,’ she says.
Luther steps into the evening.
He knows Howie’s troubled by what just happened. But he’ll explain on the way to Holloway prison. He’ll apologize, if that’s what it takes.
He reaches the car. No keys in his pocket.
He turns to see DS Howie on the concrete walkway, just a shadow in the misty gloom. She’s on the phone.
