‘You’ve had a shock,’ says Howie.
‘I can answer your questions,’ he whispers.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m sure your wife can give us everything we need. Please.’
Jeremy nods. The movement causes his face to twist in pain.
Howie says, ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ His liver-spotted hand shakes like a diabetic’s. ‘I just need to — if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, of course not’
Howie takes Jeremy’s shoulder, bony through the soft pyjamas. She helps him lie back down.
She hovers at the edge of the bed as he turns into a foetal position.
Embarrassed, Howie slips from the room and heads downstairs.
In the living room, Luther leans forward, still perched on the edge of the floral sofa. ‘Has Henry been in contact?’
Jan Madsen nods. ‘He did call, yes.’
‘When?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. There was just noise on the line.’
‘Then how did you know it was him?’
‘I’d been waiting.’ She almost spits it. ‘He always did come to us when he was in trouble.’
She plucks at her knee, can’t meet Luther’s eye.
‘What did he want?’
‘Money. What else?’
Howie enters the room and quietly sits.
‘Henry called,’ Luther says. ‘An hour ago. Didn’t speak.’
Howie immediately stands. ‘I’ll get a trace on the call.’
Luther reaches up, takes her arm. Shakes his head. ‘He’ll be long gone. I’ll text through a request to trace.’
Howie hesitates, unsure, then rejoins him on the sofa. Their thighs are touching.
Luther raises his hip, digs out his phone. Begins awkwardly to thumb out a message. Frowning as he concentrates, he says, ‘You’re aware that Henry is a suspect in a very serious crime?’
Jan nods. Looks away. Toys with her bare wedding-ring finger. Luther looks at the pale band where the wedding ring had been, then at those swollen, arthritic knuckles.
‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you call the police when he rang?’
‘To say what? My estranged son called, didn’t say anything and then hung up? I’d have been wasting your time.’
For a moment, Luther discontinues his meticulous, hunt-and-peck texting. ‘Mrs Madsen. Nobody’s blaming you for this.’
She nods, pretending to believe him. Tugs at her wedding-ring finger.
‘Are you and Henry in contact?’ Howie says. ‘Generally speaking?’
‘We haven’t heard a peep in twenty years.’
Luther lowers his voice. ‘We understand that Henry was adopted?’
Jan snorts at her lap; an expression of ancient, incalculable bitterness. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No,’ Luther says.
‘Well, we tried,’ says Jan. ‘Jeremy and I. We tried and tried. No IVF in those days. This is the early seventies.’
‘And how old was Henry when you adopted him?’
‘Two. Just turned two. He was a helpless little thing. You wouldn’t treat a dog the way his mother treated him. The poor little thing, he’d been beaten, starved and God knows what. Locked him in a cupboard when her gentleman callers paid a visit. She hit him. Called him all sorts of things. Effing this, effing that.’ That bitter laugh. ‘God, we were so nervous. But people had told us, You’ll fall in love at first sight, or Once you see him it’ll all just slot into place. But walking into that room, seeing that little boy with his dirty knees and his hair all sticking up. I looked at him and my first thought was: I don’t like the look of you.
‘And I detested myself for it. Absolutely detested myself. I was riddled with guilt from the minute we got him home. After that, I think I was in denial.’
In the slightly hesitant use of the term, Luther hears years of anguish and self-recrimination.
‘If you don’t feel the kind of love you think you should be feeling,’ she says, ‘they pick up on it. They do. Children are so perceptive.’
‘There’s something called Adoptive Child Syndrome,’ Luther tells her. ‘About ten per cent of adopted children show some kind of behavioural disorder. It’s nobody’s fault.’
‘We didn’t have syndromes back then,’ she says. ‘In our day it was all about nurture. And the truth is, I didn’t feel maternal towards him.’ She’s watching her hands. She begins to tug on them, knuckle by knuckle. ‘I did feel protective,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him. And I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not for a long time. And by then, by the time I’d come to love him as my own child, as a mother’s supposed to, well. It was too late.’
‘How old was he when the trouble started?’
‘Seven, I suppose. Jeremy and I went for an anniversary dinner. Just this little Bistro they used to have on the High Road. We left him with a babysitter for the first time. He set fire to his bed.’
Luther winces.
‘And it just got worse from there. We tried everything. Psychiatrists. Psychologists. Whatever we thought might possibly work, we tried it.’
She coughs into her fist and sits back. Drained, to be reliving it all.
Luther says, ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.’
Luther heads to the kitchen. On the way, he nods to Howie. Points to his phone.
Howie frowns: What?
Luther steps into the kitchen, texting. He finds the glasses in a high cupboard and draws off a glass of water.
On the window behind the sink is a small jar of petroleum jelly. The lid is loose.
Luther looks at it as he finishes the text. He addresses it to Rose Teller, Ian Reed, Benny Deadhead and Isobel Howie.
Then he carries the glass of water through to Jan Madsen.
She takes it, gratefully. Takes a sip. Sits holding it in her lap.
‘Adopted kids,’ Luther says, sitting. ‘They sometimes get to wondering about their biological parents. Especially the birth mother.’
‘Don’t they just. God knows, Henry made an absolute Madonna of his. Concocted all these mad fantasies about her.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as, he came from bad blood.’
‘That’s how he put it? Bad blood?’
‘Bad blood. He was obsessed with the idea.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Jeremy’s a vet. Retired now, obviously. But the only thing Henry ever showed any positive interest in was the animals. So we tried to get him involved. We bought him a little mongrel pup. Digby. We thought that might help.’
‘Did it?’
She takes another sip of water. Her hand is shaking. She says, ‘God knows. He had it for a few weeks. Then it ran away and never came home.’
Luther thinks he knows what happened to the dog. He thinks Jan Madsen probably knows, too.
He sends the text, then pockets his phone and says, ‘What did you actually tell Henry about his birth
