‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,’ says Reed. Then he says, ‘I’ll tell you what, whoever torched Crouch’s car, I don’t think he was thinking straight.’
‘I don’t think he was,’ Luther says. ‘I think he was probably having a bad day.’
‘I think he probably was.’
‘Can you text me Schenk’s number?’
‘On its way.’
Reed hangs up, begins to thumb out a text as he drives.
Luther hangs up. He turns to Howie. ‘I need you to pull over.’
She gives him a look: You’re joking.
‘It’s important,’ he says. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
Howie pulls over to the hard shoulder.
Christine James sits in the back, looking wide-eyed and lost.
Howie shoots her a reassuring glance.
Then Luther turns in his seat to face her. He says, ‘Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I won’t be long.’
Christine blinks at him. As if this morning could get any stranger. Then she rifles in her handbag and passes Luther a battered pink clamshell Motorola.
Luther paces the hard shoulder in the morning rain. He uses his own phone to call Schenk’s number.
Schenk is quick to answer, barking his name by way of salutation: ‘Schenk.’
Luther can hear he’s at the wheel, on the hands-free.
‘Hi,’ Luther says. ‘DCI Luther here. I was asked to give you a call?’
‘DCI Luther! Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’
‘Not a problem. How can I help?’
‘Well, it’s silly really.’
Luther makes himself ride that out without answering. He waits for two or three seconds, watching the motorway traffic, then says, ‘So what can I do to help?’
‘Silly as it is, this is obviously a matter I’d prefer to discuss face-to-face.’
‘So let’s do that. Where are you now?’
‘En route to Peckham.’
‘Then you could take a detour? I’m near the station. Can you make it over here?’
‘Well,’ says Schenk. ‘I could, yes. But I do have this one call to make.’
‘I can’t promise to be around later,’ Luther says. ‘We’re having a funny old day.’
‘Quite. Well, if you could make yourself available at Hobb Lane, I’d certainly appreciate it.’
‘I’ll try, I’ll definitely try.’
‘Then I’ll see you as soon as I can.’
Luther hangs up. He swears, rubs his head, paces. Then he calls home. ‘Zoe? It’s me.’
Zoe sounds weary. The mild sense of dislocation that follows a sleepless night.
‘John, listen. I don’t want to argue.’
‘Nor do I,’ he says. ‘Forget about last night.’
‘How can I?’
‘That’s not what I mean. I just mean, this isn’t about last night. Listen, I haven’t got time to talk. Not properly. So I’m going to be quick, okay?’
‘Go on.’ Less weary now. A warning edge of chipped flint.
‘I need to ask you a favour,’ he says. ‘Not a nice favour.’
‘What favour?’
‘First, I’ve got to tell you, I’m not asking lightly. I’m asking it for the little girl, Mia Dalton. You’ve seen her on the news. You must have. This is about her. About getting her back.’
‘What are you asking me to do?’
‘Lie for me.’
‘Lie to who?’
‘To a policeman.’
He tells her what he needs. And at the end of it, she sighs. He can picture her, barefoot in pyjamas, tugging at her hair.
‘Fuck you, John,’ she says. ‘I mean seriously. Fuck you, for asking me to do this.’
‘I know. But will you do it?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
He thanks her and hangs up. Then he makes one last call, using Ms James’s pink phone. ‘Boss?’
‘What?’ says Teller.
‘How’s the patient?’
‘In the ICU.’
‘Conscious?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, listen. I need you to do me a favour.’
‘What now?’
‘In about two minutes, I need you to call me.’
‘Why am I doing that?’
‘So there’s a record.’
‘And what are we saying during this imaginary conversation?’
‘You’re ordering me from the station to the hospital as a matter of urgency.’
‘And — real world now — why would you ask me to do that?’
‘Because I’ve got Complaints sniffing round my ass.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ she says. ‘Today?’
‘Today.’
‘I’ve had Martin Schenk badgering me,’ she says. ‘Leaving messages. So now I know why. What did you do?’
‘Nothing. But if you don’t help me out here, Schenk will make sure I’m pulled off this thing. I can’t let him do that. I need to find Mia Dalton. Now. Today.’
‘If you’re asking me for an alibi,’ she says, ‘it won’t hold water. As soon as Complaints look into it, it’ll fall to pieces. There’s a factory full of coppers who’ll testify you weren’t there at the time the call was made. Then we’ll both be in it.’
‘I know that. It just needs to stand for a few hours.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the allegation’s going to be withdrawn.’
‘Okay, stop there,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me any more. Don’t hint. Don’t imply. Shut up.’
‘Okay. But call me, yeah? In two minutes?’
She agrees with a grunt. Then says, ‘Whose phone are you calling from?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘John, am I going to get sacked over this?’
‘Nope.’
He hangs up and hurries back to the car, hunched and jogging in the rain. He gives the Motorola back to Ms James, thanks her.
Howie pulls away. Tyres hiss wet, aquaplane. Sirens wail.
Howie doesn’t look at Luther. Doesn’t ask.
A minute later, Luther’s phone rings.
He checks the number: DSU Teller.
He says, ‘Morning, Boss. We’re on our way. How’s the patient?’
