and Kevlar body armour, assault vests with stun grenades, tear-gas canisters, SF-10 respirator and C100 ceramic helmets.
The Air Support Unit dispatches India 97 and India 98 from Lippits Hill.
Reed sits in the back seat of a marked BMW area car, one of a convoy of four racing under blues and twos.
He flexes his jaw. Clenches and unclenches his fist. London goes past.
Nine million people.
Search Team One searches the basement of a condemned block of flats in Walthamstow.
They find signs of a blood-stained pit, the smell of shit and sweat and alcohol.
The electric lights crackle overhead.
There is no sign of Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen.
Luther stands on the stairs.
‘I know you told your mum to get rid of us,’ he says. ‘And she did a good job. She tried really hard. She answered our questions very honestly. But she’s not wearing her wedding ring, is she? It doesn’t look to me like she’s taken it off for forty years. And there’s a jar of Vaseline in the kitchen, next to the tap, as if she’d just taken the ring off. It’s a nice ring. I saw it in the photos. Probably worth a bob or two, eh?’
He waits out a long silence.
‘So listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve called it in. We’ve got a load of coppers on their way. So it’s all done. Either we get a very, very messy siege and you end up dead. Or you come with me.’
Howie takes Jan by the elbow. She leads her to the adjoining door and through the long, narrow kitchen.
Jan is shaking so badly she’s finding it difficult to walk.
Luther pauses on the second stair. ‘All right, Henry. I’m coming up.’
He produces his ASP extendable baton, keeps it collapsed in his fist.
He takes the stairs slowly, one by one.
There are fifteen steps.
Howie helps Jan past the cupboard units, the fridge, an old-fashioned larder, a chest freezer in the corner.
‘That poor little girl,’ Jan says. ‘That poor little darling. What’s going to happen?’
‘We’ll find her,’ Howie says.
She reaches the kitchen door.
It’s an old-fashioned door with a heavy mortice lock; the kind that requires a large metal key.
The door is locked.
Luther reaches the top of the stairs and edges along the landing.
He opens the first bedroom door. It’s a sewing room.
He stands framed in darkness. Street lamps filter through pale curtains, give the room an orange glow.
There’s no one here.
He turns to the master-bedroom door.
It’s slightly ajar.
He steps inside.
Jeremy Madsen lies on the bed.
Howie tries the handle. Turns in frustration to Jan Madsen. ‘Where’s the key?’
She sees the look in Jan’s eyes.
Panic.
Howie follows the line of Jan’s gaze.
Jan is looking at the two old, black deadbolts fitted to the door — one at head-height, the other near the ground.
She wonders for a moment about their significance.
Then she notices that each deadbolt is in the open position, as if someone had been trying to leave by the back door.
But has failed because the door is locked and needs a key to open it.
And then Howie knows.
She turns, pushing Jan behind her, reaching for her pepper spray as Henry Madsen steps out of the broom cupboard.
She sees his face for the first time, the twisted thing in his eyes and then she looks at the long screwdriver in his fist, yellow handle, ten-inch, flat-head Howie yells, ‘Down on the ground! Down on the ground, now!’
As Madsen jams the screwdriver between her ribs, just under her breast, and twists it.
Luther hears Howie bellowing and Jan Madsen screaming and sees the animal terror in the eyes of Jeremy Madsen.
He turns and runs.
He’s at the top of the stairs when Henry Madsen reaches the front door.
Madsen glances over his shoulder, sees Luther.
He mishandles the lock. His hands are wet with blood.
Luther vaults the stairs as Henry Madsen opens the door.
Luther throws out a hand, slams it shut.
Then he punches his shoulder into Henry Madsen.
Madsen slams into the solid wood door.
Luther takes Madsen by the lapels. Smashes him into the door, into the wall. Into the door again.
He looks up, holding a collapsed Madsen in his hands.
Jeremy Madsen stands at the top of the stairs, cadaverous with shock.
‘Move,’ Luther says. ‘Back to your room.’
‘My wife-’
‘Move!’ Luther screams, and Jeremy retreats like a spectre to his sickbed.
Henry Madsen grins, and with a movement of the tongue, produces a razor blade. He grips it in his front teeth and slashes at Luther.
Luther steps back.
Madsen runs for the kitchen.
Luther a moment behind him.
Madsen slips in blood that has pooled on the tiles. His legs go out from under him.
He scrambles to his feet.
Luther tackles him to the floor again.
Madsen slashes at him with the blade between his teeth.
Luther grabs Madsen’s wrist, twists it, jams it up between his shoulders.
Madsen cries out. Drops the razor blade.
He lies face down.
Luther places his knee into Madsen’s back. Then he stands, keeping Madsen’s arm in a wristlock, and kicks him three times in the ribs.
He drags Madsen across the blood-smeared floor and cuffs him to the oven-door handle. It’s an old oven. The handle is heavy, a little greasy underneath.
Madsen lies with legs askew.
Luther hurries to Jan Madsen. She’s curled by the back door. A yellow-handled screwdriver protrudes from her eye socket.
Howie is alive. The screwdriver has opened a hole in her chest wall. Blood froths at the lips of the wound; it means her lung has collapsed. Soon she’ll enter irreversible shock. She’s dying.
Luther fumbles in his pocket, digs out his wallet. Removes a credit card. He rips open Howie’s shirt. The bubbling wound on her pale flesh, dotted with moles, strikes him as obscene. He presses the card to the hole, the frothing blood.
He says, ‘Isobel. Isobel, can you press here?’
He guides her hand. It’s light in his grip. He waits until she’s pressing down on the credit card.
Her face is the wrong colour.
