Julian frowns, juts out his lower lip. He mentally rewinds. Then he says, ‘What do you mean, motivations for murder?’
‘I mean,’ says Luther. ‘You’re about to be indicted.’
‘For what?’
‘Conspiracy to murder.’
Julian makes to stand. Luther says, ‘Calm down. And sit down.’
Julian sits down.
‘We found the gun,’ Luther says.
‘What gun? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I think you know what gun.’
‘No, I don’t know what gun. What gun? I don’t have a gun. Do I look like I’ve got a gun?’
‘Thing about this gun,’ Luther says. ‘They found it in Barry Tonga’s flat. Do you know Barry Tonga?’
‘I don’t think I do, no. Barry who?’
Luther gives him a bright, predacious grin. ‘That’s the spirit. If in doubt, lie.’
Julian changes tack. ‘What about Tonga? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘Well. Between me, you and the gatepost, Barry works for us. He’s what you’d call a confidential informant. Has been for years. And he’s going to testify that you paid him five grand to stage a burglary at the old man’s house. And shoot him dead.’
‘But that’s not true. That’s fucking outrageous. It’s not true. He can’t say that.’
‘He’s saying it.’
‘How can he say that if it’s not true?’
‘We found the gun.’
‘What gun? There isn’t a gun. What gun?’
‘The gun you gave him,’ Reed says. ‘The gun that ballistics will discover has been used in any number of other crimes. Including a shooting.’
‘Two shootings,’ Luther says.
‘Sorry,’ says Reed. ‘Absolutely right. Two shootings.’
Julian gapes at them.
‘You can’t do this,’ he says. ‘You can’t.’
Silence.
‘Shit,’ says Julian. ‘So what am I going to do?’
‘Go to prison.’
‘I can’t go to prison. I’ve got a phobia.’
‘That’s a new one,’ says Reed.
‘It’s true. It’s got a name. It’s a syndrome.’
‘I bet it is.’
‘Well anyway,’ says Luther. ‘That’s really why we’re here. To give you some advice.’
‘I don’t get you. What’s happening? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re talking in riddles.’
‘Just calm down and listen,’ Luther says. ‘And speak a bit more quietly.’
Julian calms down and listens. He speaks a bit more quietly.
Luther says, ‘You’re finished here, Julian. You know that. You’ve been finished for a long time. You must be tired of it all. All this shit you’re pulling, just to keep afloat. Creditors, ex-wives, mortgages, bank loans, sitting tenants. It must be a nightmare for you. If I were you,’ Luther says, ‘do you know what I’d do?’
‘No.’
‘I’d call my accountant. Then I’d go to Heathrow and buy a ticket. And I’d do it really, really soon.’
Julian blinks at him. He says, ‘You’re asking me to leave my home.’
‘That’s right,’ Luther says.
‘And all this is for the old man in that house?’
Luther doesn’t answer. He unscrews the maroon lid from the malt vinegar. Then he screws it back on again.
Julian says, ‘Or is it because without me, there won’t be any charges against you?’
Luther grins. Then his phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks it out.
It’s a text from Howie: Patrick’s conscious.
Luther reads the text, pockets the phone.
He says, ‘We’ve got Tonga in hiding for thirty-six hours. That’s enough time for you to pack your bags and get away. After that, we bring him in, he makes his statement — and you’re in big trouble.’
Luther squeezes out of the booth, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, dumps the napkin on the table and leaves.
Reed lingers a few moments, to finish his pie. Then he claps Julian on the shoulder, says, ‘Happy travels, dickhead,’ and follows.
Henry hurries to the garage.
Passing the dogs, he can feel their flat amber gaze. They’re waiting for him to chuck in a rabbit or a cat.
But Henry ignores them for the moment and jogs instead to the tall metal locker at the far end of the garage. He opens it with a small key and runs a quick inventory: Dexamethazone, Talivin, codeine, procain penicillin, testosterone, ketamine.
There are catheters, needles, syringes, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, Betadine, suture needles, staple gun and staple remover, surgical scissors, forceps.
In the far, cobwebby corner stands a rusty oxygen cylinder. Still good.
In the attic, he knows, is a large, empty weapons case. In the cupboard under the sink is a multipack of duct tape.
You can’t have enough duct tape.
The inventory relaxes him. He counts again, and again. When he’s tallied three times, he knows what to do.
As he prepares the first syringe of amphetamines, he apologizes to the dogs.
CHAPTER 25
Reed hails a cab. He’s at the factory in about twenty minutes.
He walks in to find Benny Deadhead has colonized his desk.
‘Sorry,’ says Benny.
‘That’s all right,’ says Reed. He hangs his wet coat over the back of Luther’s chair and logs in.
Benny says, ‘How’s the neck?’
Reed waggles his head around to show how much better it is.
Luther nods to the uniforms guarding the door and, ducking his head, steps quietly into Patrick’s hospital room. He’s carrying a slim buff folder.
The room is an artificial, greenish twilight. The kid’s hooked up to a ventilator, a heart monitor.
Howie’s in here, dozing on a moulded plastic chair, head nodding to her chest.
She jumps, looks up, sees Luther. Collects herself.
Luther says, ‘He spoken yet?’
‘No.’
Luther shakes his head, like it wasn’t a question worth asking. He steps closer to the bed, to the bandaged kid, the morphine drip.
The kid opens his eyes. Knows Luther is there.
Luther pulls up a chair and puts his face close to the kid’s.
‘You probably expect me to feel compassion for you,’ he says. ‘And I do. I think it’s grim, what your dad did to you. But anyone who ever killed anyone was a baby once, so in the end the things you did, that’s down to you. But
