‘Because after a week like John’s had, the last thing he’s got time to do is go round setting fire to people’s cars.’
‘Not even to avenge a grave insult to an old friend?’
Reed is quiet now. Knowing better than to speak.
‘Coppers talk,’ says Schenk. ‘It’s common currency you were beaten up by Crouch’s thugs.’
‘Gossip isn’t the same thing as evidence. I don’t know who beat me up. And John wouldn’t go off piste based on chitchat.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘He loves his job,’ Reed says, ‘he wouldn’t jeopardize it over something like this. It’s not in him.’
‘But as you say, he’s had a traumatic time. On a day like that, who’d blame a man for going a little over the edge?’
‘All you’ve got to do,’ Reed says, ‘is speak to his wife. I’m sure she’ll tell you where he was.’
‘I intend to. Zoe is it?’
‘Yeah,’ says Reed. ‘Zoe.’
‘And how are Zoe and John?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. Marriage to a copper — it can be difficult. We all know that.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Reed says.
Schenk gives him a meek, humorous look that suggests he’d like to if only he wasn’t here, doing this.
‘Well anyway,’ Schenk says. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
He means exactly the opposite.
Reed looks at him. Bright blue eyes in pale skin. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he says, indicating the door.
‘Goodness gracious,’ Schenk says. ‘What am I thinking? Can I give you a lift? Do my bit?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’
‘With the whiplash?’
‘Honestly, I’m good. Codeine. Swear by it.’
‘Then at least let me walk you to your car.’
He walks him all the way and stands at the kerb as Reed pulls into the traffic.
Christine James is woken by strident hammering at the front door. At first, she thinks it’s next door having another barney. She turns over, bundles the duvet round her head, ignores it.
But there it is again. Like someone’s hitting the door with a sledge-hammer. Then a voice.
‘Christine? Christine James?’
Blinking, Christine pulls the duvet to her throat and bellows: ‘Who is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector John Luther, from the Serious Crime Unit in London. I need to speak to you urgently.’
‘What about?’
‘Please open the door.’
Christine gets out of bed. She considers going downstairs. Instead, she opens the curtains.
She sees a pretty red-headed young woman leaning with her arms crossed against the bonnet of an old Volvo.
Christine has spent enough time with the police — family liaison officers, detectives, press officers, all the rest of it.
She knows them at once.
She opens the window, pokes her head out and cranes down to look. A big, black police officer is standing at the door, looking up at her.
The street is quiet. It’s a nice street. She’s got some nice neighbours. She’s got an okay life, a decent job at WHSmith’s head office. She’s come a long way.
She’s got that feeling, deep in her gut.
It’s like every other big event in your life: your first day at school, your first kiss, losing your cherry, your first day at your first job, getting married. All those days you anticipate, rehearsing in your imagination, going over them again and again and again. But when the day comes, it’s never like you expected it to be.
For years, Christine was counselled by a woman from the Elise Fox Foundation. Closure may never come, the woman told her, you have to prepare yourself for that. And if it does come, it may not be what you were hoping for. You have to prepare yourself for that, too.
Christine had cried at that point, because the woman was kind, and had been through something.
But the woman knew Christine would fantasize about this day anyway. It was just one of the things you did, one of the ways you get through the not knowing.
Christine knows this is the day.
It’s six o’clock in the morning and she’s leaning out the bedroom window and a tall policeman’s craning his head to look up at her, saying in a low, deep voice, a nice voice, ‘Ms James. It’s very important.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ says Christine. ‘Just let me put some clothes on.’
Ten minutes later, she’s in the back of a police car, hammering under lights and sirens towards London.
The red-headed young woman drives faster than Christine has ever been driven before. For a while it gives her motion sickness.
Then she realizes it’s not motion sickness. It’s just the old familiar nausea, an enemy so old it’s almost a friend.
Reed drives for half a mile through growing traffic before he feels safe enough to call Luther.
‘Wotcher,’ Luther shouts down the line.
Reed can hear the siren’s lament. He says, ‘Where are you?’
‘Just inside the M25.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Witness transport.’
‘Can you talk now?’
‘About what?’
‘Someone torched Julian Crouch’s car last night,’ Reed says. ‘Big black geezer. Tweed coat.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Luther shouts. ‘I’m not much of a car person, but that thing was nice. That was a nice car.’
‘So,’ says Reed. ‘I’ve had Complaints round.’
‘Already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s on the case?’
‘Martin Schenk. You know him?’
‘I know his work.’
‘So do I. He’s not the kind of dog you want sniffing your arse.’
‘He’s not, is he? Shit.’
Reed imagines Luther scratching his head and thinking this through as outer London flashes past, the car hammering it under blues and twos.
‘So,’ says Reed. ‘The minute Schenk sets eyes on any copper who matches the description Crouch gave, that copper’s in deep shit.’
‘Even if he’s busy?’
‘If they think he’s going round torching vintage Jags, it doesn’t matter how busy he is.’
‘But if they pull in the wrong copper,’ Luther says, ‘that wouldn’t be good for Mia Dalton.’
‘How are you looking on that?’
‘I’m close. I can do it.’
‘Okay,’ says Reed. ‘So Crouch needs to change his mind about what he saw.’
‘He does,’ says Luther. ‘Can you take care of that?’
‘I can give it a try.’
‘Excellent. So where’s Schenk right now?’
‘That’s the thing. He’s on his way to speak to Zoe.’
