‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning, he’s not allowed to keep dogs. So he keeps them off site. We never established where.’
‘Well, I think I might be able to help you out there. The name “Henry Madsen” mean anything?’
‘Not off the top of my head, no.’
‘He’s Braddon’s vet. And corner man.’
‘Braddon’s vet goes by the name of Henry Mercer.’
‘That’ll be our boy.’
‘Allegedly runs the best training yard in London, although we never tracked it down. He’s a very secretive boy, Mr Mercer.’
‘He is that,’ Reed says. ‘So is there money in this game? Because money’s an issue right now.’
‘There’s plenty. Your dog wins three fights, it’s a champion. Five, it’s a grand champion — that’s what they aim for. So they put the dogs through a training regime, get them down to an agreed fighting weight, just like a boxer. That means treadmill work, diet, stamina, running around. And steroids, so you can get them completely lean, no fat.’
‘Do you think Henry could go to Braddon for money?’
‘You think he’s the man who kidnapped Baby Emma and that other little girl?’
‘We’re pretty sure, yeah.’
‘Then not in a million years. Braddon’s a right-wing nutcase. And he’s a dog lover. Two inches to the right of Mussolini. That’s a dangerous combination for a man who kidnaps children. Mercer, Madsen, whatever his name is, Braddon would cut his balls off and feed him to the dogs if he ever showed his face.’
‘All right,’ says Reed. ‘So this is the problem we’ve got: our man’s gone to ground somewhere in London. And you’re right, he’s very secretive. He’s got no friends to speak of, and he’s got no money. He needs somewhere to hole up.’
Cooke hesitates a moment then says, ‘Braddon’s dog fights tend to be held in any one of a number of vacant properties. Mercer, or Madsen, he’d have keys to them all.’
‘You know the locations?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Can you send us a complete list, soon as? And any other material you might have to hand that’s going to help expedite a warrant to search.’
‘Plenty of that,’ says Cooke.
Reed says, ‘What do you drink?’
‘I don’t mind a whisky.’
‘There’s a bottle on the way,’ Reed says. ‘We owe you one.’
Cooke asks Reed to give him a little time.
Fifteen minutes later he comes back with a list of five properties used by Gary Braddon as venues for holding dog fights.
Within the hour, Search Team One, with DS Justin Ripley acting as Police Search Adviser, arrives at the first address on the list.
It’s an abandoned kitchen interiors shop in Lewisham.
They find cupboards have been removed and converted to make a dog-fighting pit, much like a boxing ring.
A comprehensive search proves the property to be unoccupied. Search Team One finds no indication that Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen have been present.
Search Team Two, headed by DS ‘Scary’ Mary Lally, stumbles upon an extemporized dog fight in progress behind a tyre-replacement garage in Deptford.
Watched by a dozen men, two pit bull terriers quietly maul each other in a pit fourteen feet square and three feet high.
Diagonal ‘scratch lines’ are drawn on opposite corners of the pits. These are the lines behind which the dogs must remain until the referee commands them to be released.
Four arrests are made. Two of the dogs will later be destroyed.
They find no evidence that Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen have been present.
CHAPTER 29
Luther and Howie drive to Finchley.
On Royal Drive, they pass the site of the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, now converted into high-end apartments. The Asylum used to be home to Aaron Kosminski. Luther’s pretty much convinced that Kosminski was Jack the Ripper.
Jeremy and Jan Madsen live in a gabled, semi-detached Edwardian house in a Finchley cul-de-sac.
Jan Madsen comes to the door. She’s an imposing presence: chiselled jaw, strong cheekbones. Greying pre- Raphaelite hair. She’s seventy-two, a retired pharmacist. She gives Luther a regal once-over and says, ‘Is it about my son?’
Luther nods. Tucks his badge into his pocket.
She invites them in. Brisk with anxiety.
The house is clean. In the living room are knick-knacks and family photographs, a TV that was top of the line when it was acquired, twenty-five years ago. Fruit in a blue and white ceramic bowl; the coral skeleton of recently eaten grapes. An old HP computer is plugged into the wall, screen black. Two credit cards on the table. A cup of milky tea on a coaster next to it. Evidence of cats, although no cats are to be seen.
Jan faces Luther and Howie, her son a spectre between them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Howie smiles agreeably. ‘No, thank you.’
‘There’s plenty in the pot.’
‘Honestly. But thank you.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you, we’re good.’
‘Water? Something to eat?’
Howie smiles. ‘Really. We’re fine.’
Jan invites them to sit.
Luther and Howie perch on the edge of a Laura Ashley sofa.
Jan sits in a matching armchair. Wrings her gardener’s hands, knotty with arthritis.
Anxious people are compelled to fill silence. So Luther and Howie sit and wait.
‘It’s vile,’ she says. ‘The things he’s done. It’s vile. He wasn’t brought up like that.’
‘I can see that,’ Luther says. ‘You have a very lovely house. Have you lived here long?’
‘Since 1965.’ Said with pride and a touch of something like embarrassment.
‘And is your husband-’
‘Upstairs,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. Fibromyalgia. And all this…’
Luther nods and, with a small gesture, directs Howie to go upstairs and check on the husband.
Howie half stands, addresses Jan Madsen. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Second door on your right, top of the stairs.’
Howie thanks her, then leaves the room and heads upstairs, into the smell of Mr Sheen furniture polish.
She raps gently on the bedroom door. Hears a whispered, ‘ Come in?’
Howie opens the door. Jeremy Madsen lies in bed. A tall, raw-boned man, balding and heavily liver-spotted. His wife’s senior by perhaps a decade.
She takes in the room, the cluttered dressing table and the solemn wardrobes. Leather slippers arranged next to the bed.
Howie introduces herself, shows her badge, and whispers, ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
Jeremy sits up. He has a slight palsy. He squints through one eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers in return. ‘Migraine. Very bad.’
