The Calling

CHAPTER 17

The Hallissey estate was built in 1964. The design was influenced by Le Corbusier, who admired ocean liners and believed them to be the perfect model for housing estates.

The estate went up quickly and not well. Shabby concrete citadels are accessed via dank passageways, dark stairwells and concrete walkways. Grimy curtains hang at rotten window frames.

Steve Bixby lives on the fifth floor of Milton Tower. He’s a lanky man in a Hawaiian shirt and combat trousers. Small eyes, heavily bagged, and thinning hair in a fuzzy crew cut.

He lingers in the doorway, stuttering slightly, asking why Howie and Luther want to come in.

It’s 5.51 p.m.

Howie tells him they just want to ask some questions.

She glances down. At Bixby’s ankle lurks a tan-and-white pit bull terrier. It looks at her with close-set, moronic eyes.

Bixby clocks her wariness. ‘Don’t worry about Lou,’ he says. ‘He’s a sweetheart, aren’t you, boy? Aren’t you?’

Luther says, ‘Do you mind?’

Bixby doesn’t. So Luther drops to one knee and summons the dog by sucking his teeth and rubbing his thumb across his fingers. Lou lumbers warily towards him. Luther pats its bony, muscular head, mutters to it in a low, comforting voice. He looks up at Bixby. ‘Nice dog.’

‘You a dog person?’

‘The more I learn about people, the more I like dogs,’ Luther says, straightening. ‘Lou’s got scars down his flanks. He been fighting?’

‘He’s been in a lot of fights,’ Bixby says. ‘They found him down by Waltham Forest. They reckon he’d been a bait dog.’

‘Bait dog?’ Howie says.

‘Old dogs that’ve lost the will to fight,’ Luther says. ‘They chain them down. Let other dogs practise on them.’

Howie looks at the dog’s wide triangular head, its beady little eyes, its absurdly muscular chest. She feels a twinge of pity for it. Its hot tongue lolls in the corner of its mouth.

‘Are we okay to come in?’ Luther says. ‘He’s not going to bite, is he?’

Bixby shakes his head and steps aside. ‘He’s got no bite left in him, have you, boy?’

He means it literally. Most of the dog’s teeth have been removed.

They enter a cramped flat; floral curtains and psychedelic carpet that surely belonged to the previous occupant; the kind of armchair usually destined to be garnished with antimacassars, now blackened and greasy. A fat TV on a spindly coffee table. Canine kitsch: porcelain dogs, plastic dogs.

Bixby sits with his hands writhing between his bony knees. He asks why Luther and Howie are here.

Luther says, ‘Your name’s been mentioned in connection with an investigation. And we’d like to speak with you about it.’

‘What investigation?’

‘What investigation do you think?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’

Luther watches Bixby’s fretful hands. ‘You must be thinking something, Steve. It’s difficult not to think something.’

‘I haven’t done a thing.’

‘Well, like I say. Your name came up.’

‘Then someone’s lying to you. Speak to my supervisor, go see my probation officer. Speak to my shrink; I’m in counselling — group counselling and voluntary one-to-one. I accept full responsibility for my previous offending. I stay away from high-risk situations. I’m really trying here.’

‘Trying to what?’

‘Get better.’

‘Do men like you actually get better?’

‘Do you know what it’s like, being me? Do you think I like it?’

His eyes search Luther’s face, then Howie’s. See nothing. No judgement. No pity.

‘I used to drink,’ Bixby says. ‘To blank it out. I’d see a picture of a girl who’d been kidnapped and all I could think was yeah, I could see why he took her. She’s lovely. I’d go to family birthday parties and I’d be singing happy birthday and the whole time I’m thinking: I’d love to take your daughter away and fuck her. What do you think that feels like?’

Howie looks at the shelf of DVDS. Top Gear. Bear Grylls. The Matrix Trilogy.

‘I don’t know,’ Luther says.

‘I’ll tell you. It makes you hate yourself and want to die.’

‘Yet somehow, here you are. Not dead.’

Bixby looks at Luther as if he’s been slapped. ‘Fuck you,’ he says. ‘Fuck you.’ He wrings those skinny hands at the end of bony wrists. ‘Have you ever tried to be someone you’re not? Hating every thought in your head, having them go round and round and round like a fucking train, and you can’t stop them?’

‘I know exactly what that’s like, Steve. But you don’t have to act on those thoughts, do you?’

‘I didn’t,’ he says. ‘I never even touched a child. Not once. Are you gay or straight?’

‘Straight, if it matters.’

‘Then can you imagine what it would be like, never to touch a woman? To have craved it since you were ten or eleven years old, to see women every day, beautiful women, sexy women? And never, ever, be able to lay even a finger on them, let alone make love to them? Not ever. To die a virgin. To know that your most loving touch would ruin them.’

‘No,’ Luther says. ‘I can’t imagine that. But then, I can’t imagine trading in child pornography either.’

‘I did that, yeah.’

‘So you hurt kids second-hand. Did it ever occur to you that the kids in those photos would never have been hurt if there wasn’t a market of people like you waiting to buy the pictures?’

‘I think the people who took those pictures might have thought twice about selling them,’ Bixby says. ‘Not taking them.’

‘So,’ Luther says. ‘You ran a network. People would come to you. You’d put people in contact with other people. People with similar interests.’

‘Not any more.’

‘I know. But we’re looking for a man who may have come to you. A while ago maybe.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. But he’d be a man who wanted something very specific.’

‘They all want something very specific. That’s their curse.’

‘You love children, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you watch the news?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Did you watch it today?’

‘I think so. I don’t know. Why?’

‘I think you know why.’ Luther leans forward. Speaks low, the same way he did to the dog, forcing Bixby to lean in closer.

The dog shifts uneasily on the carpet. Whines low in its throat.

‘Night before last, somebody cut a child from its mother’s womb,’ Luther says. ‘A man like that, a man who’d do that sort of thing — I think you’d know him. Or know of him. I think part of you’s been waiting for a knock at the door since this happened. Because you know who this man is.’

Bixby blinks. He pats his lap. The old dog struggles into the chair. Bixby strokes it.

‘Yeah, I knew a lot of these men,’ he says at length. ‘But the thing about them, about us, you have to remember, there’s no such thing as a “paedophile”. Same way there’s no such thing as a “straight man”. Some straight men like high heels, or underwear, or bondage, or being submissive, or dressing as babies — whatever. I don’t know. Sexuality is a broad church, okay?’

Luther nods. Lets him talk.

‘It’s the same with men who want sex with children,’ Bixby says. ‘There are a million and one variations — heterosexual, homosexual. Men who want to kill children. Men who idolize them, who honestly can’t accept that it’s impossible for a child to feel sexual desire for them. That was my problem, and I’m working with it.’

‘And babies?’

‘It’s rare, but it exists. But for all that I’ve seen, I never, ever, in all the thousands of hours I spent communicating with these men, not once did I hear anybody fantasize about cutting a baby from a mother’s womb for the purposes of sexual gratification.’

‘So what are we saying?’

‘That the man you’re looking for isn’t a paedophile.’

Luther takes a moment. ‘So you do know him?’

Bixby looks away. Luther looks at his frantic hands, tickling the dog’s sternum, scratching its angular head. Every now and again he leans in to nuzzle its neck.

The dog stares at Luther.

Luther says, ‘DS Howie, would you mind waiting in the car?’

Howie doesn’t look at him. She says, ‘I’m okay, Boss. It’s nice and warm in here.’

Bixby reads the vibe between them.

Luther says, ‘Steve. It’s important you tell me what you know about this man.’

‘I don’t even know it’s the same man.’

‘But you’ve got a feeling it might be, right?’

Bixby bites his lower lip and nods.

Luther says, ‘Then I don’t understand your reticence.’

‘Aiding and abetting.’

‘Did you help this man in some way?’

‘I think I may have.’

‘And you’re worried about going back to prison?’

‘I’d honestly rather die.’

‘We’ll see what we can do to avoid that. If you help us, right here and right now.’

‘I want immunity. From prosecution.’

Luther laughs. It startles the dog. It gets down from the sofa. Stands in front of Bixby’s spindly legs, protecting him.

‘Everyone wants something,’ Luther says. ‘Except a dog. A dog’s just happy to be here.’

‘Do you know what happens in prison?’ says Bixby. ‘To men like me?’

‘I don’t know. Poetic justice?’

‘I see. So rape’s all right as long as you hate the victim.’

The dog barks — or tries to. Its throat has been damaged. It glares at Luther with its good eye.

‘This man, your friend, is going to kill someone,’ Luther says. ‘Maybe tonight. You know that. You saw it on the news, you listen to the radio. Been on the internet.’

‘I’m not allowed on the internet.’

‘Whatever. But you know what he says he’s going to do. And you can help me. If you like, I’ll get on my knees and beg you to tell me what you know. But I’m in a hurry here. The clock’s ticking.’

‘Then I can’t help. I’m sorry.’

‘Steve,’ says Howie. ‘We don’t need to tell anyone where this information comes from.’

Bixby looks up at her, his eyes widening in transitory hope. ‘Would that work?’

‘Absolutely it would work. We do it all the time. We’d log you as an “anonymous source”. If it helps us catch a triple murderer before he kills again, trust me — no questions will be asked.’

‘But you can’t guarantee that, can you? I mean, not absolutely.’

Luther tugs at his thumb, hears the joint pop. He sits back in the armchair as if it’s a throne or an electric chair. He says, ‘Do you know when I last slept?’

‘No,’ says Bixby.

‘Neither do I. And I don’t mind telling you, Steve, I’m having a bad day. A really, really bad day. I pulled a dead baby out of the earth this morning. And I’ve got this stuff going round in my head. Bad stuff. Right now, it’s telling me that if this man kills someone else tonight, it’ll be my fault — for not trying hard enough, for not pushing hard enough to catch him, for saying those things at the press conference. You get me?’

Bixby nods.

‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘So the way I see it, you’ve got two options. Option one: you take DS Howie’s advice. Which is good advice, by the way.’

‘What’s option two?’

‘You sit there while I order DS Howie to leave the flat.’ He lifts his hip, digs in his pocket, removes his pepper spray and his extensible baton. Sits with them in his hands.

Bixby clenches and unclenches his fists.

‘Boss,’ says Howie.

Luther shoots her a look. ‘Shut your mouth, Sergeant.’

Howie shuts her mouth. Sits there shaking, not knowing what to do.

Luther says, ‘Help me, Steve. Help me catch this man. I promise we’ll do the right thing by you. I promise.’

Bixby hugs the dog like a teddy bear. Kisses its muscular neck.

Then he says, ‘A man came to me. A while ago. Two years? Three, maybe. He wanted a baby.’

‘What was this man’s name?’

‘Henry.’

‘Henry?’

‘Grady, I think. I don’t think it was his real name.’

Howie writes it down.

Luther says, ‘Can you describe him? What did he look like? Black? White? Fat, thin?’

‘White. Not big, not small. Very fit.’

‘Fit how? Muscular, like a bodybuilder?’

‘Like a runner. Like a marathon-runner-type build.’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Dark.’

‘Long hair? Short hair?’

‘Short and very neat. In a parting. He used Brylcreem.’

‘How’d you know?’

‘The smell. It reminded me of my granddad.’

‘Accent?’

‘Local. London.’

‘Do you know where he lived?’

‘No.’

‘What kind of car did he drive?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Phone number?’

‘He used different numbers. He seemed quite savvy.’

‘Like you.’

‘Like me.’

‘How’d he dress?’

‘Smart dress. Always suit and tie. Overcoat. One of those ones where the collar’s made of a different cloth, like velvet.’

‘And what’s he like? His demeanour. Was he outgoing? Withdrawn? Friendly? Aggressive? What?’

‘I don’t know. He was just a bloke. You’d pass him in the street.’

‘Okay,’ Luther says. ‘He wanted a baby. What did he want with it?’

‘He didn’t say. But he definitely wasn’t a paedophile.’

‘That’s twice you’ve said that. What makes you so sure?’

‘You ever walk into a strange pub, in a strange town, know someone you’ve never seen before is a policeman?’

‘Point taken. But if he’s not a paedophile, if he’s not part of your network, how does he know where to find you?’

‘Via a friend.’

‘What friend?’

‘A man called Finian Ward.’

‘And where does Finian Ward live?’

‘He doesn’t. Liver cancer. Last Christmas.’

Luther checks his frustration. ‘Did Finian Ward tell you how he and Henry knew each other?’

‘No. But I trusted Finian. He was a good man.’

‘And a paedophile.’

‘By inclination. Not action. He was a very gentle man.’

‘So Henry Grady comes to you, via Finian Ward. Says he wants a baby. But he’s not a paedophile. So the baby’s for his wife, maybe?’

‘I thought it must be. Until…’

‘Until what?’

Bixby can’t meet his eye.

‘Steve, until what?’

‘Well,’ Bixby says. ‘I told him that babies aren’t easy to get. They’re always with somebody. Once they’re two or three years old, there’ll always be a moment when they’re unprotected. But not babies. It’s just not happening. But he knew all this.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I was actually trying to put him off the idea, for his own sake — and for the baby’s. I said the only possible way to get what he wanted, if he really couldn’t adopt, was to buy a baby. There’s always women willing to sell.’

Luther’s leg jiggles. ‘Is that what you did?’

‘Yes. I told him about a man called Sava. Do you know him?’

‘We’ve met, yeah. So then what?’

‘He came back to me. Said he didn’t want a junkie’s baby or a hooker’s baby or a foreign baby.’

‘Why not?’

‘He said you wouldn’t buy a dog without knowing its pedigree. He wanted a pedigree baby.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Good parents,’ Bixby says. ‘Good looking. Clever. Rich. Happy.’

‘Happy. He said “happy”. He actually used that word?’

Bixby nods. ‘I told him it was a no-go. That kind of person, they never take their eyes off a baby. I told him, no way. It’s just not going to happen.’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘He said, there’s always a way to make things happen.’

‘And what was that way? What was the way to make it happen?’

‘He told me he needed a woman,’ Bixby says.

‘To what?’

‘Make him look harmless. Because people trust women.’

Luther thinks about the IVF group. About the strange couple who paid too much attention to the Lamberts. He knows this is the right man, the man calling himself Henry Grady. He can taste copper in his mouth, the taste of blood and anxiety. His heart is thin and fast.

‘And that’s what you did? You put Henry Grady in contact with a woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘What woman?’

‘Sweet Jane Carr.’

‘And where do I find Sweet Jane Carr?’

‘In Holloway prison.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since about six weeks. She’s on remand.’

‘For what?’

‘Sexual abuse of a minor,’ Bixby says. ‘She abused local kids on webcam. Pay per view.’

Luther leaves the flat on shaky legs, Howie at his heel.

He says, ‘You okay?’

‘I’m good,’ she says, ‘I’m fine.’

‘But?’

‘Boss, you just assaulted a witness. And intimidated another.’

‘Extenuating circumstances.’

‘I’m not sure the law recognizes that.’

‘It does when you’re dealing with paedophiles.’

He disappears into the dank stairwell, into the shadows.

Howie lingers.

She’s there long enough to see Luther emerge from the building and walk towards the car.

She digs out her phone and asks in a shaky voice to speak to DSU Rose Teller.

‘It’s urgent,’ she says.

Luther steps into the evening.

He knows Howie’s troubled by what just happened. But he’ll explain on the way to Holloway prison. He’ll apologize, if that’s what it takes.

He reaches the car. No keys in his pocket.

He turns to see DS Howie on the concrete walkway, just a shadow in the misty gloom. She’s on the phone. She probably doesn’t know it, but she’s pacing.

The pacing is the tell.

Luther knows he’s in trouble.

He ducks into the deeper shadows of the estate and hurries away.

In five minutes he’s on Lavender Hill Road.

Three minutes after that he’s in a taxi, en route to Holloway prison.

Caitlin doesn’t know the bar, Cafe Piccolo. She’s never been here before. It’s got an untrendy, Italian vibe; less retro than cheesy. It’s full of the early evening, after-office crowd.

She sits at a corner booth and works her way through a bottle of wine. By the third glass, she’s thinking about calling Carol, dragging her out and having a laugh. But she knows that if she actually sets eyes on Carol, she’ll break down. And she won’t be able to tell Carol why. And that won’t be good.

She puts her phone away.

She considers popping upstairs, buying a packet of Silk Cut, sitting on a bench and smoking them all. She decides against it. It’s cold outside and warm in here, even a little humid.

The waiter is giving her inquisitive looks when the first tosspot hits on her, asks if she’s waiting for someone, or just had a bad day.

It sounds like there’s going to be a punchline but there isn’t. He’s just testing the water, trying to establish if she’s been stood up, if she’s some kind of psycho bitch.

She gives him a hard look and he fucks off back to his mates.

Caitlin seethes as she drinks, then makes an effort to feel a Samaritan’s compassion. She glances over and gives him a rueful half-wave. It’s supposed to say ‘sorry’, but it doesn’t come across like that; it comes across as a victory wave.

Caitlin burns with embarrassment and takes a sip of wine. She can feel it heavy in her stomach now, sloshing around.

She thinks about the Daltons, who have a daughter who is eleven years old.

She shoves that to the back of her mind.

She scrolls through her contacts, knowing she’s about to make a cardinal error. But she has to do something. She has to talk to somebody. So she calls Gavin.

He says, ‘Hey, Cate. What’s up?’

She hates the way he says it. Already, she regrets making the call. But what else is she supposed to do?

She says, ‘Hey, Gav.’

‘So,’ says Gav.

‘So,’ she says. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Pretty mental. Work and whatever. You?’

‘Pretty mental.’

‘Right,’ says Gavin. ‘So…’

‘So I’m in this bar,’ she says, ‘a Trattoria.’

She enunciates fastidiously, as if the word ‘Trattoria’ was some kind of private joke between them. It’s not.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘And I’m a bit tipsy,’ she says, ‘a little bit woo-hoo, and I thought I’d ring and say hello. So hello!’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘It’s just…’

She doesn’t want to hear what comes next because it involves Gav feeling bad for her; he’s got his mates round, or some girl, or both. Gav’s having a laugh, because Gav loves having a laugh.

She wants to say something bitchy and cutting, but she honestly can’t think of anything. So she just sits there with her Greek-goddess hair piled on her head and the iPhone in her hand and she wants to share with him the enormity of the secret to which she is privy. The things that might be going on right now, right this second, to a family called the Daltons, who have an eleven-year-old girl.

She’s got enough control to say, ‘Cheers!’ and hang up, leaving him genially baffled and secretly happy about the nervous breakdown she seems to be enduring in the wake of their breakup.

She drains her glass and gets the bill. Can’t remember her PIN. She has to ask the waiter to hold on a moment, it’ll come to her. In the end it does. She leaves a stupidly big tip, scrawls a signature, drops her purse in her bag, puts on her coat and staggers out.

She walks to the bus stop and waits, stamping her feet and shivering. It’s really, really fucking cold.

She doesn’t mind because it should sober her up. But all it does is make her want to pee.

She digs out her phone again. She thinks about calling Matt, back at the Samaritans office. But she already knows everything he’s going to say.

So she puts the phone back in her pocket and waits for the bus.

She watches cars and taxis and minicabs.

A bus coughs and rumbles past on the other side of the road, a long bright bubble full of people.

A car stops at the lights. An ordinary car. There’s a man at the wheel and his wife is next to him. They’re chatting about whatever. In the back seat are two kids, a girl who must be about five, and a sleeping baby in a car seat.

Caitlin is close enough to take a single step forward, gently rap on the window and say, Don’t go home, it’s not safe.

But these aren’t the Daltons. They can’t be. London is too big and too abundant.

But even in a city this teeming and this ravenous, lives cross and touch one another. Caitlin imagines reaching out her hand, rapping on the safety glass, saving these people.

The woman, the wife, can feel Caitlin staring. She turns her head and looks Caitlin in the eye with an unbroken lioness challenge — the face of a woman whose young children are asleep in the back of the car, and who would kill for them in an instant.

Caitlin wells up. She smiles.

The woman gives her an odd look, softer round the eyes. Then the lights change and the car pulls away and is gone, sucked round the veins of London, and Caitlin knows she will never see those people again.

She thinks about Megan, the friend who committed suicide. And she thinks about her moron of an ex. She thinks about her mum and her dad and her sister and her nieces and her nephews.

She thinks about her grandparents, the good smell of them and their infinite belief in the unqualified wonder of her.

Caitlin walks to a phone box.

She inserts a two pound coin.

She uses her iPhone to access the telephone directory. Then dials the first Dalton in the London directory.

The phone is answered on the ninth ring. A foggy voice, the voice of a family man woken from sleep. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ says Caitlin. ‘This is going to sound really weird, and I’m sorry if I’m wrong. I’m really sorry. I hope I’m wrong. But I think somebody might be planning to hurt you and your family.’

There are one hundred and sixty Daltons in the London phone book.

Caitlin calls them all.