the Lamberts. For whatever reason the Lamberts were his favourites. But there are more. And he’s not a paedophile. He’s a family man-’
She crosses her arms and shifts her weight. She’s wearing an impatient, scowling expression.
‘He wants to be normal,’ Luther says. ‘He thinks of himself as an outsider; he’s always been an outsider. He didn’t grow up in a conventional household. That could mean anything — a cult. Hippies. But most likely it means he was adopted. Adoption can have a negative effect on some kids; even a really good adoption. Henry never felt like he belonged. And now he’s trying to make a family around him. That’s why he gets so angry. Any dad would, if someone accused him of being a paedophile. He’s-’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Stop now.’
The words are jammed behind his mouth, crammed up behind his eyes.
‘We need to look for a man called Finian Ward,’ he says. ‘And any bogus social-worker activity in Bristol during the mid-nineties. I think that’s how he knew to target Adrian York. He’d pose as a social worker and-’
‘Stop,’ says Teller.
He stops. His hands drop to his sides.
She says, ‘Go home.’
‘What do you mean? He’s out there. Tonight. Right now. And I’m getting close to him.’
‘Hundreds of good coppers are after him. We’ll feed everything you’ve given us into the pool.’
‘Boss, you can’t do this to me. I asked to come off the case. You made me stay on. And now here we are. I can smell him. I’ve got his stink.’
‘And to get here, you assaulted one witness and threatened another.’
He grits his teeth, thinks of Howie and the phone call from the dank concrete balcony. ‘Exigent circumstances,’ he says.
‘That’s not a defence. Not in law. Not to me.’
‘Boss,’ he says. ‘There’s a family out there tonight. He’s probably got keys to their house. He’s going to let himself in and do what he wants to them.’ He shows her his watch, the ticking second hand. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘Tonight. You know what that means. You saw what he left of the Lamberts.’
‘And you haven’t slept for three days. It’s showing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t keep still. You’re pacing. ‘
‘I’m frustrated.’
‘You’re wired.’
She takes his elbow, leads him away.
‘I’m pretty sure Sava won’t file a report,’ she says. ‘A bloke like that sees a bit of harassment as cost of business. And nobody will believe a word Bixby said.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, you did it.’
He exhales, helpless and trapped. He holds out his hands as if petitioning the moon. ‘Boss, I’m fine.’
‘You got a pretty decent result from Jane Carr,’ Teller says. ‘How’d you pull that off? Don’t say you flirted with her. Because I tell you, mate, you’re not her type.’ She skewers him on her bright raptorial gaze. ‘What if we ask the screws to toss her cell? They going to find anything?’
He shoves his hands in his pockets, wanders in a baffled circle.
‘I can’t go home with all this happening,’ he says. ‘I can’t.’
‘That’s not your decision.’
‘Seriously,’ he says. ‘Make up your mind. I’m on or I’m off.’
‘Go home, John.’
He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right, I’ll go home and I’ll get my head down. But do me a favour?’
‘Depends.’
‘Anything happens, you get a good sniff, give me a call.’
‘Done.’
He scuffs his feet. Scowls. ‘I’m honestly fine,’ he says.
But he accepts it, and heads home.
There is no single register of prank calls made in London during any twenty-four-hour period.
But tonight there are many more such calls than usual.
London-wide, mischievous teenage boys, hate-filled ex-lovers, racists, stoned students and the mentally ill call many hundreds of different families, warning them that Pete Black is coming for them.
Hundreds of people are terrorized. Several dozen of them call 999. They include a number of families who share the surname Dalton.
All calls are logged, but are subject to triage.
Nobody thinks the man who calls himself ‘Pete Black’ will call ahead to warn his targets he’s on his way.
CHAPTER 19
Luther’s home shortly after 8.40 p.m. Zoe’s not back yet.
He checks his mobile for messages before letting himself through the red door and into the dark hallway. Eleven missed calls. Three voicemails from Zoe, increasingly worried and exasperated. She gave up calling several hours ago.
He wonders where she is.
He turns off the phone, pockets it and steps further into the house, hangs his coat on the banister.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He trudges through to the kitchen and plugs the phone in to charge.
He goes upstairs to the bathroom. He cleans his teeth and washes his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, beaded with water, then goes downstairs and turns on the TV. He cycles through the channels three times, then turns it off.
He walks around the house turning lights on. Then he goes back to the kitchen, checks his phone, clears away Zoe’s breakfast things, puts the dishwasher on.
He opens the fridge and looks at their food, their bottled sauces, their fruit and milk and yogurt, displayed under surgically bright light. He stands in the cool breath long enough for the fridge to start beeping at him.
There’s a carton of milk in there, bought on Monday when the Lambert baby was still in her mother’s womb. And now the child lies with her parents on a slab. Their eyes are low and sly, the artfulness of the dead, as if they know something you don’t, something you’ll find out soon enough.
But the milk is still good enough to drink; he could make a cup of tea with it. He looks at the milk while the fridge beeps and he doesn’t hear the keys in the latch or the door open or Zoe set her bags down in the hallway. He doesn’t hear her walk down the hall and linger in the kitchen doorway.
She says, ‘You’re home.’
He ignores the redundancy. It’s just one of those things people say to one another. Most words people say to each other don’t mean what they seem to. Spoken words carry their real meaning like rats carry infected fleas.
‘I called about a hundred times,’ she says. ‘Your phone was off.’
‘If you leave your phone on, all it does is ring.’
The fridge is still beeping. He shuts the door. He thinks that if he could explain about the milk, then everything will be all right.
He says, ‘Did you see the news?’
Her lip trembles with fury. ‘Of course I saw the news. I’ve done nothing but talk about the fucking news all day. My mother called to talk about the news, and to ask if you were all right. The entire world’s talking about the news. The only person who hasn’t talked to me about the fucking news is you.’
He’s rocked by her ferocity. He swallows it and says, ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No.’
