The Calling

CHAPTER 10

Luther walks through a night swarm of briefcases, umbrellas, pinstripe suits and taxis, then steps into Postman’s Park. He walks through the icy rain until he reaches a long wooden gallery that shelters a wall decorated with ceramic tiles.

Waiting, he reads some of the tiles. Takes strange comfort from them:

Elizabeth Coghlam, Aged 26, Of Church Path, Stoke

Newington. Died saving her family and house by carrying blazing paraffin to the yard. Jan 1 1902

Tobias Simpson, Died of exhaustion after saving many lives from the breaking ice at Highgate Ponds, Jan 25 1885

Jeremy Morris, Aged 10, Bathing in the Grand Junction Canal.

Sacrificed his life to help his sinking companion, Aug 2 1897

It’s called ‘The Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice’. They knew how to name things in the Victorian era.

He turns and Zoe’s there, shivering wet in her coat and holding a takeaway coffee in each hand.

‘I saw the news,’ she says.

‘Yeah.’ He takes a coffee. ‘Bad day.’

They stand next to each other, read the tiles. Sip coffee.

She says, ‘Is the baby alive?’

‘I don’t know. Part of me hopes not.’

‘Will you be home tonight?’

‘I can’t. Rose has asked me to stay on.’

In fact, Teller has ordered him to go home and get some sleep.

He’s not needed: they’re pulling people off sick leave. Specialist surveillance units will be monitoring hospitals and late-night surgeries, drop-in centres. There are hundreds of coppers out there right now, waiting for Pete Black to show up somewhere on the sombre face of London; a baby bundled in his arms, alive or dead.

Luther says, ‘Will you be okay?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘Glass of wine, catch up on work. I spent two hours today with those sodding school kids.’

‘Lock the doors and windows,’ he says. ‘Set the alarm. Put on the deadbolts. Front door and back.’

‘I always lock the doors and the windows.’

‘I know.’

‘So why say it?’

‘To make me feel better.’

‘That’s the problem with all this,’ she says. ‘You spend all day in it. You see it everywhere.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s not everywhere.’

‘I know.’

‘When we were kids,’ she says, ‘when you’d just started out, you went to this flat. An old woman had died alone. She’d been dead in her chair for about two years. She’d mummified.’

‘Irene,’ he says.

‘That’s her. You came home. We had that little flat on Victoria Road, that tiny little place with the shared bathroom and that weird couple downstairs. Wendy and Dave.’

He smiles sadly, remembering.

‘I fell asleep before you got back,’ Zoe says. ‘You came in, sat on the edge of the bed. I watched you drink a pint of whisky in about ten minutes. It was the first time I ever saw you really cry.’

He shrugs. ‘It was sad.’

‘I know it was sad, it was really sad. I still think about her sometimes.’

‘Me too.’

‘But that night, when you were drunk, you were angry. I mean, really angry. Scary angry.’

He turns to her, not remembering. ‘Angry about what?’

‘The jokes they told. The police, the medical examiner, the ambulance crew. The lack of respect. You said they objectified her exactly like a killer would. And you got so angry at yourself, for not saying anything to them. Telling them to have more respect.’

‘I was a kid.’

‘And you wondered if you’d made a terrible mistake — done the wrong thing by joining the police.’ She brushes wet hair from her eyes. ‘That was the first time you talked about leaving the police. Sixteen years ago. And you’ve been talking about giving it up ever since.’

‘I know.’

‘But you never have.’

‘I know.’

‘And you never will.’

He doesn’t answer that. How can he?

She steps closer. They stand side by side, looking at the tiles. She says, ‘Have you ever heard of Bipolar Two Disorder?’

He laughs.

‘It’s under-diagnosed,’ she says. ‘I looked it up. Hypomania often presents as high-functioning behaviour.’

‘I’m not manic. I’m exhausted.’

‘But you can’t sleep.’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘I mean, you don’t sleep at all. Not at all.’

‘So I’ll get pills.’

‘You say they cloud your thinking.’

‘They do.’

‘People with Bipolar Two are at a high risk of suicide.’

‘I’m not suicidal.’

‘Seriously? Not ever? It never crosses your mind?’

‘It crosses everyone’s mind. Now and again.’

‘Not mine.’

‘It’s just a thought pattern,’ he says. ‘Suicidal ideation: if I had to do it, how would I do it? It’s not an intent. It’s a game. Sort of.’

‘Hypomania in Bipolar Two Disorder manifests as anxiety and insomnia,’ she says.

‘Don’t do this to me now,’ he says. ‘Please. Not now.’

‘If not now, when?’

‘Soon. We’ll talk about it soon.’

She laughs, and he catches the magnitude of her bitterness.

‘I promise,’ he says.

‘You always promise. It’s all you do.’

‘Then I don’t know what to say.’

‘Maybe there’s nothing to say. Because we’ve both said it all, a hundred times. I’m as bored of saying it as you must be of hearing it.’

He doesn’t answer.

She says, ‘Look into my eyes, John. Look at me.’

He turns. He looks at her. She’s wet. Elegant. Drenched in London rain. He loves her inexpressibly.

She says, ‘What do you see?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Just you.’

‘And there’s your problem.’

She gives him a look, years of weary love in it.

He watches her walk away; perfectly poised and perfectly lost to him.

When she’s gone, he drains the coffee and scrunches up the cup, then bins it and goes to meet Howie. She’s sitting behind the wheel on a meter, reading the Standard, late edition: Maggie Reilly on the front page looking grave and glamorous. A smaller insert shows the Lambert crime scene.

‘London awaits,’ Luther says.

Howie grunts, folds the paper and jams it down the side of her seat. She’s left the engine and the heater running. The car’s uncomfortably warm.

‘Twitter’s going mad,’ she says. ‘Facebook. Dead Tree Press is running with it on their websites. Maggie Reilly’s all over the place. She’s doing the overnight show, apparently. She wants to be,’ she checks the interview in the Standard, ‘ on hand when he calls.’

Luther leans over and tunes the car radio to London Talk FM. He and Howie listen to the lonely and the lost and the mad rage about bringing back the death penalty.

He stares ahead, at the constant snarl of traffic, the rainy lights shining red, amber, green. He looks at the people. Flitting by too fast to identify. A river of flesh, ever changing, never changing. The commuters with their briefcases and laptop bags, the kids in their jeans and urban coats.

Eventually, he says, ‘You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Husband? Whatever.’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Robert. Website designer. Bless him.’

‘When’s the last time you saw him?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘When’s the last time you actually slept?’

She doesn’t answer that. Just looks at the windscreen as she drives.

‘Go home,’ Luther says.

‘I can’t, Boss. Not tonight.’

‘There are hundreds of coppers out there looking for this man,’ he says. ‘Go home. Be with Robert. Sleep. Come in early tomorrow, take a look at the York and Kintry files. You’ll need a fresh eye for that.’

Howie smiles as she drives. Looks like she wants to hug him.