She passes him a buff envelope.
He opens it. Rain splats on the paper.
He scans the document, then looks up. ‘I’ve never even been to Swindon. How far is it?’
‘Sixty-odd miles. I’ll drive.’
Before getting in, he hesitates.
He says, ‘Isobel, are you sure you’re okay about this?’
She can’t meet his eyes. ‘I am if you’re sure you’re right.’
‘I’m right.’
‘Then I’m sure. Hop in.’
He holds up a finger.
‘One call,’ he says.
Howie gets in the car and starts the engine.
She feels sick.
Luther calls Ian Reed.
Reed says, ‘What’s up?’
He’s bleary. He’s been asleep. For a moment, Luther is disoriented by this thought. He realizes that, separated for just a few days, he and Reed have somehow slipped into different worlds.
Reed says, ‘So how’s it going?’
‘Complicated. How’s the neck?’
‘Better.’
‘Better enough to get you into work?’
‘Do I need to?’
‘Mate,’ says Luther. ‘I really need you. I’m doing some bobbing and weaving here.’
‘Let me get dressed. I’ll see you at the factory.’
Luther thanks him, then hangs up and gets in the car.
He and DS Howie head to Swindon.
Reed removes the soft neck brace and calls Teller to let her know he’s coming in.
She’s too busy to thank him; she just briskly and efficiently briefs him. He drinks a mug of instant coffee and knots his tie.
He tells her he’ll be at work within the hour, then goes to get his jacket.
He’s necking painkillers with water when the intercom buzzes, sudden and fretful.
Reed opens the door on a dishevelled, spectacled middle-aged man. He’s affecting the bewildered air of a curate out hunting for fossils. Reed’s never met him, but he recognizes Detective Superintendent Martin Schenk at once.
Schenk removes his slightly absurd beanie. A few strands of hair stand electrified. He gives Reed a shy grin. ‘DCI Reed?’
‘You got me, Guv.’
‘You’re looking very well, considering.’
‘I’m doing okay. Keen to get back on the job.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Schenk twists the beanie in his hands, as if anxious. Schenk is not anxious. ‘A very busy night,’ he says. ‘For your colleagues.’
‘So I hear,’ Reed says. ‘That’s why I’m up. All hands on deck.’
‘One of the perpetrators of this enormity,’ Schenk says, ‘is in the ICU, as I understand it.’
‘Apparently. The son.’
‘Under armed guard.’ Schenk shakes his head, as if to lament the state of the world. ‘So you’re pitching in?’
‘I can walk,’ Reed says. ‘I can still pick up a phone. I’ll leave the actual running round to someone else.’
Schenk nods in admiration. The admiration is real. He says, ‘Would you mind if we had a chat first?’
‘Not in principle,’ says Reed. ‘In practice, Guv, it’s not the best time.’
‘Absolutely. Which is presumably why I’m having such trouble getting through to Detective Superintendent Teller. If I was a more paranoid man, I’d think she was avoiding me.’
‘Well, she’s pretty hectic.’
‘Absolutely. It’s just — we do have one or two things to clear up.’
‘I told you,’ Reed says. ‘I don’t know who assaulted me. It was-’
‘All over very quickly. Absolutely. You’ve already been over that. Absolutely.’
‘Then what?’
‘Are you familiar with a chap called Julian Crouch?’
‘I know of him, yeah. Heard of him. He’s a dirty fucker. Pardon my French.’
‘Oh, I’ve been a copper since dinosaurs roamed the earth,’ Schenk says. ‘There’s not much language I haven’t heard. I was nicking people like Julian Crouch when it was all “blags”, “far-out” and “nostrils”.’
Nostrils is seventies slang for a sawn-off shotgun. Reed appreciates the reference, and likes Schenk for it.
Reed is scared of liking Schenk.
‘So what about him?’ Reed says. ‘Julian Crouch. What’s he got to say for himself?’
‘That you’ve been harassing him.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘As alibis go I’ve got a pretty good one.’
‘Well, he did suggest it may not have been you personally.’
‘Then who did I send? My dad?’
Schenk smiles, sadly. ‘Somebody torched Mr Crouch’s car this morning.’
‘Somebody what?’
‘Torched his car. A Jaguar. Vintage.’
Reed laughs. Knows he shouldn’t, but can’t help it. ‘When?’
‘Four or five hours ago?’
The mood must be contagious, because Schenk gives him a smile so broad and open it’s almost beautiful.
‘Look,’ says Reed, sobering. ‘The man’s a dirtbox. He’s made more enemies than you and me put together. It could be anyone. Besides which, I’m a copper. I don’t go round torching people’s cars.’
‘The, um, chap who actually torched the car-’
‘Did Crouch get a look at him?’
‘Oh yes. Didn’t I mention?’
‘No. You left out that bit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Schenk says. ‘I’m jumbled up. When I get a call that early in the morning, I’m all at sixes and sevens until I’ve had a decent breakfast. And all the proper cafes are closing. Have you noticed that? You want a full English, but these days it’s all low GI this and good cholesterol that. It hardly counts as breakfast at all. A copper needs a decent fry-up. Although don’t mention that to my wife.’
‘So anyway,’ says Reed.
‘Yes,’ says Schenk. ‘Sorry.’ He digs out his notebook, licks the end of a pencil stub. ‘Well, I won’t use the racial terms employed by Mr Crouch, but he describes a very tall black man — six foot fucking seven is, I believe, the term he used. Wearing a long coat. Possibly tweed.’
‘And…’ says Reed.
‘Well,’ says Schenk, putting the notebook away, maintaining the charade that it wasn’t a prop. ‘I know you and a DCI John Luther are very close. And this description, forgive me if I’m wrong, but does it evoke DCI Luther to you the way it does to me?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Reed says.
‘But it doesn’t exactly rule him out, does it?’
‘This wasn’t John.’
‘How do you know?’
