The coffin is a large weapons case, made airtight with duct tape and sealed with six throw-latches.
Four officers, Reed included, heave it from the cavity inside the wall and lay it flat.
Reed digs out his thumb knife, cuts along the duct tape, then throws the latches one by one.
He lifts the lid of the case.
Inside is Mia Dalton. Eyes closed. Arms crossed over her chest. They’ve been taped, to stop her pounding and scratching at the walls of her casket. Seeing that brings it home.
Reed stands up and back.
Suddenly, he’s frozen.
Teller steps up. She hauls Mia from the coffin; a skinny little dark-haired girl. She lays her out on the filthy floor. Puts an ear to her chest.
Shit.
She turns Mia’s head, clears her airway. Then tilts back her head. Pinches her nose. Covers Mia’s mouth with hers, and gently forces air into her lungs.
Mia’s chest rises.
Luther watches Madsen. There’s silence, except for the reverberations of Madsen’s begging.
Reed keeps the phone to his ear as Teller continues to administer CPR.
Down the line, he can hear echoing screaming.
He lowers the phone and watches Teller.
Until Mia Dalton takes in a great whoop of air and sits up — blinking, bewildered, terror-stricken.
Teller cries out and embraces the child. ‘Oh, good girl,’ she says. ‘Good girl. Good girl.’
Reed’s legs go weak. He braces himself against the wall, lifts the phone. ‘We’ve got her!’
‘Good,’ says Luther.
Reed listens to the screams.
Please. Please. I’m falling. I’m going to fall.
He thinks for a moment. Then he hangs up, pockets his phone.
He steps aside to make way for the incoming paramedics.
Teller is hugging Mia tight. Rocking her, calling her a good girl, a good girl.
The paramedics have to ask three times before she’ll let Mia go.
Luther stares at Madsen, hanging pendent.
‘Please,’ says Madsen. ‘I can’t hold on.’
Luther considers it. ‘Tell me about the others, Henry.’
‘PLEASE,’ says Madsen.
‘How many more were there?’
‘None!’
‘HOW MANY MORE? There was Adrian, wasn’t there? There was baby Emma. I dug her out of the ground myself. But I was too late. SO HOW MANY MORE?’
No answer comes.
But Madsen’s terror slips away. Control passes to him.
He stares up at Luther. In agony. And in defiance.
Luther surges with hate. It rises from in his feet. It spreads in his chest and shoulders like wings unfurling.
He reaches out a foot.
He hesitates.
He meets Madsen’s eyes.
Then he places his foot on Madsen’s fingers.
Madsen screams.
Luther presses down. He brings all his weight to bear.
And then he steps back.
Madsen’s hand slips.
There’s an insane flurry as he scrabbles for purchase.
Then falls into blackness.
Down he falls. Down and down.
Luther doesn’t see him hit the ground, but he hears it: a wet crunch; a long, chiming reverberation.
The strength leaves him. He staggers back to the walkway and sits. He dangles his feet over the edge.
He looks down. He can’t see Madsen’s body. But he looks down anyway.
He tries to think.
He’s still there, trying to think, when the police arrive.
