heavy, like an ingot of metal. Luther’s arms are numb. His fingers hurt.
He follows Bixby into the flat. Sets down the dog.
It scampers into the kitchen. Luther deadbolts the door. Makes sure the curtains are closed.
There is a silence outside before someone bangs on the door and cries out in some kind of protest.
Bixby looks at it all in dismay, tugging at his throat.
Distantly, the sound of approaching sirens.
Outside, the crowd gets louder. Someone kicks the door again, harder this time.
Luther grabs Bixby’s shoulder and hustles him into the kitchen. Sits him down.
The dog quivers by the fridge, regards him in abject terror.
Luther says, ‘I haven’t got much time.’ He puts his back to the flimsy kitchen door and folds his arms. ‘So hurry up.’
‘All right,’ Bixby says. ‘He did come round.’
‘When?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘A day? A week? When? ’
‘About an hour.’
‘An hour? So what did he want?’
Bixby mumbles.
‘I can’t hear you.’
Bixby mumbles again, looks away.
‘Steve,’ says Luther.
Bixby’s eyes flare with shame and fury. ‘He said he had a girl to sell me. All right?’
‘To sell you?’
‘He wanted ten grand. I said, I haven’t got ten grand. He said, okay seven grand. I said, I haven’t got it.’
‘Why does he want the money?’
‘To get out of London.’
‘And were you tempted? To buy her?’
‘What do you want me to say? Yes? Do I look totally mad to you?’
‘What did he say to you? Exactly. Exact words. What did he say?’
‘That she’s very pretty. And loving.’
‘Loving. Jesus.’
‘And she could be all mine.’
‘Did you see her? Did you actually set eyes on her?’
‘No!’
‘But she was alive?’
‘She’d have to be.’
‘How well do you know him, Steve?’
‘Not that well. I’d just see him at the fights. He was always there.’
‘Dog fights?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that’s where he first approached you — at a dog fight.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He told you he wanted to buy a child.’
‘Not straight away. Months later. But eventually, yeah.’
‘So you were friends?’
‘No. I just saw him at the fights.’
‘And after a few months, you put him in contact with Vasile Sava. Then with Sweet Jane Carr.’
Bixby nods.
‘What about since then?’
‘Nothing really. I see him now and again at the fights. We say hello.’
‘What’s he doing at all these fights? Is he a punter, an owner, what?’
‘He’s a breeder. And he’s a vet. He works mostly for a bloke called Gary Braddon.’
‘So let me get this right. You’re not friends.’
‘No. He’s always been pretty clear that he hates people like me. People with my problem.’
‘So if he came to you, he must’ve been desperate, right?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’
‘Don’t suppose. Tell me where else he can go to sell the girl?’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. But even if there was someone, which I doubt, they’d be mad to get involved with him right now, wouldn’t they? With him all over the telly. Nobody’s that stupid.’
Luther calls Ian Reed.
‘Ian,’ he says. ‘You need to pull in a bloke call Gary Braddon. Organizes dog fights. Put the strong arm on him. He’s a dog lover, right? These are sentimental people. If you tell him a little girl’s been kidnapped, he’ll sing in a second. Use photographs of Mia.’ He glances at Bixby. ‘Pretty ones.’
He hangs up, waits for backup to arrive.
Howie passes through the crowd at the tail end of a riot squad. She’s wearing a luminous police vest, baton in hand.
She watches from a distance as the riot squad pulls Bixby and Luther from the flat, which is being mobbed by irate residents.
A few bottles are thrown at a few shields. Half a dozen arrests are made. They’ll be charged with affray and given community service sentences.
Luther and Bixby are marched out under protection. Bixby is bundled into the back of a van along with his dog.
Luther and Howie make their way to the Volvo. Get in. A bottle smashes against the rear windshield.
Howie says, ‘And how often does this happen?’
Luther says, ‘I’ve never actually started a riot before.’
As Howie reverses out, eggs explode against the bodywork, the windows. She ducks instinctively with each impact. And then they’re on the road. Luther doesn’t say anything to her. Just calls Benny Deadhead.
‘Benny, mate. How’re we doing on Madsen’s adoptive parents?’
‘Jan and Jeremy Madsen,’ Benny says. ‘She was a pharmacist. He was a vet.’
‘Address?’
‘Finchley,’ Benny says. ‘Same house they’ve lived in for forty years.’
CHAPTER 28
Reed sits himself down in Luther’s chair and calls the Status Dogs Unit. The call is taken by Sergeant Graham Cooke. Reed introduces himself, briefly outlines the situation.
Cooke says, ‘Does this have anything to do with that little girl?’
‘It may do, yeah.’
‘Then let me sit down a minute. Close the door, get a pen.’
Reed waits. Then Cooke comes back to the phone and says, ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Let’s start with, who is he?’
‘Gary Braddon. Born Caerphilly, 1963. History of association with the far right.’
‘And he likes dogs, does he?’
‘Well, it depends what you mean by “like”. He’s got previous: keeping a dog for fighting, causing unnecessary suffering to a dog by failing to seek veterinary care for its wounds. Also convicted of possessing equipment associated with training dogs to fight. Five counts of illegally owning pit bull terrier-type dogs for the purposes of fighting.’
