The Calling

CHAPTER 25

Reed hails a cab. He’s at the factory in about twenty minutes.

He walks in to find Benny Deadhead has colonized his desk.

‘Sorry,’ says Benny.

‘That’s all right,’ says Reed. He hangs his wet coat over the back of Luther’s chair and logs in.

Benny says, ‘How’s the neck?’

Reed waggles his head around to show how much better it is.

Luther nods to the uniforms guarding the door and, ducking his head, steps quietly into Patrick’s hospital room. He’s carrying a slim buff folder.

The room is an artificial, greenish twilight. The kid’s hooked up to a ventilator, a heart monitor.

Howie’s in here, dozing on a moulded plastic chair, head nodding to her chest.

She jumps, looks up, sees Luther. Collects herself.

Luther says, ‘He spoken yet?’

‘No.’

Luther shakes his head, like it wasn’t a question worth asking. He steps closer to the bed, to the bandaged kid, the morphine drip.

The kid opens his eyes. Knows Luther is there.

Luther pulls up a chair and puts his face close to the kid’s.

‘You probably expect me to feel compassion for you,’ he says. ‘And I do. I think it’s grim, what your dad did to you. But anyone who ever killed anyone was a baby once, so in the end the things you did, that’s down to you. But you can help us. You can help us put that right.’

The kid turns his head on the pillow. Away from Luther.

‘I know you love him,’ Luther says. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt him. You can’t help it; it’s what happens to us. Love can be a kind of survival mechanism. Sometimes we love the people we need because we need them. Like dogs. But at the same time, it doesn’t mean you liked doing what you did together, these terrible things. Because you didn’t. Do you know how I know that?’

The kid stares him down. One of his eyes is swollen shut.

‘I know you dialled 999,’ Luther says. ‘The night he killed the Lamberts and took their baby. I know you tried to get him caught.’

The kid looks away, blinks at the ceiling.

‘And it wasn’t just the 999 calls, was it? Because last night, someone rang round all the families in London by the name of Dalton. Warning them. Or trying to. Why would someone do that, d’you think?’

Luther reaches into the folder, brings out a photograph of Mia Dalton. She’s smiling, on a beach somewhere. ‘Now he’s taken Mia. But you know that, right? You know exactly what he’s planning to do — because you tried to help Mia get away from him.’

He sits back, crosses his arms, the picture of Mia held like a playing card he’s about to throw in.

‘A lot of people,’ he says, ‘I mean a lot of people, think you were trying to take her for yourself; that you wanted to do things with her. In private. If you know what I mean. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you were trying to protect her. You didn’t want her fucked up like you were fucked up.’

The kid makes weak fists. Muscles move in his skinny forearms. He glares at the ceiling with one eye.

Luther leans in closer. Sees the green light refracted through the meniscus of tears on the surface of the kid’s eye.

‘I could tell you all about her,’ he says. ‘I could tell you she likes ponies and Justin Bieber. But the thing is, I’d be wasting my time, wouldn’t I? Because you and your dad know that already. You know everything about her.’

Nothing.

‘Except he’s not your dad,’ says Luther. ‘We have to remember that, don’t we? That’s the important thing. He’s not really your dad.’

The kid closes his eyes.

‘It’s not admissible in court,’ Luther says. ‘But I’ve been following your heart on that monitor. The machine that goes ping.’ He grins. ‘Did you ever see that sketch? Probably not. Before your time. This is way back in the seventies, back when I was a little kid. But anyway, the machine that goes ping tells me when you’re lying and when you’re not — even when you’re not talking. Because when I said he wasn’t your dad, it spiked.’

The kid mumbles something, perhaps a denial. It’s too low to hear.

Luther takes a long, calming breath. Then he leans in even closer, close enough to brush the kid’s ear with his lips.

‘The man who calls himself your dad,’ he says. ‘The man who calls himself Henry Grady. He kidnapped you on eighth of September 1995. You’d just turned six.’

The kid’s lip quivers.

Luther slips another photograph from the folder. He holds it up. ‘Do you recognize yourself?’

The kid screws his eyes shut. Refuses to look.

Luther stands. He holds the photograph close to the kid’s eyes.

‘This is you,’ he says. ‘Or it used to be.’

The kid makes fists so tight the flesh goes white. Livid purple in patches.

‘The DNA will prove it,’ Luther says, low and insistent. ‘We know what he did to you, your dad. And we know you tried to stop him. Twice. And this is what you get for it. So why don’t you help us? Why don’t you help Mia?’

Still no answer.

Nothing except spikes and barbs on the heart monitor.

Luther meets Howie’s eye.

Luther pads to the door. He opens it, puts his head round the corner. Whispers, ‘Okay. You can come in now.’

They wait a long time.

The kid’s eyes are fixed on the door when Christine James, whose married name was York, shuffles into the room.

Her face is gaunt, full of lines and fine ridges. She’s twisting the strap of her handbag between two hands. She’s shaking so hard the family liaison officer is supporting her weight.

Luther looks away from Howie’s accusing gaze.

Patrick begins to vibrate. He emits a low whine and looks away.

He’s saying, ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry, Mum.’

Adrian York got the bike for his birthday. It was a Saturday morning. Nearly lunchtime. He and Jamie Smart had been riding in the skateboard park; it was visible from the house. His mum was watching from the bedroom window.

Adrian wanted to go out alone, because he was a big boy.

Now Jamie Smart has gone home and Adrian sits on the kerb at the edge of the field, the bike propped against a lamp post. He can see the back garden. He’s drinking a can of Fanta. He’s feeling pretty good. He’s six years old.

A van pulls up. The worried-looking driver gets out and jogs across the quiet road. He said, ‘Mate — what’s your name?’

‘Adran.’

‘Adran what?’

‘Adrian York.’

‘Right. I thought it must be you.’

‘Why?’ said Adrian York.

‘I’m sorry, mate. There’s been an accident. You’d better come with me.’

The man is breathing strangely. When Adrian hesitates, the man licks his lips and says, ‘I’ve been sent to take you to your mum. You’d better get in.’

‘I’d better not,’ says Adrian York.

‘Your mum might be dying,’ says the man. ‘You’d better hurry up.’

Adrian York looks at the window. He sees that his mum isn’t there, where she’s supposed to be, watching him. He wonders if the man is right.

He begins to cry.

‘You’ll get me in trouble if I go back without you,’ says the man. ‘The police sent me to get you. You’ll get us both in really bad trouble.’

‘What about my bike?’ says Adrian York.

But the man doesn’t answer. He just scoops Adrian York into his arms and carries him to the van.

One of its brake lights is shattered.

The family liaison officer, Luther and Howie linger in the corners like undertakers.

They give Christine James a few minutes with her child. It’s a few minutes more than she can take.

She clutches Adrian’s hand, squeezes it, presses it to her face. She weeps, wretched and unhinged. She calls on God. Oh God, she says. Oh God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my boy, my boy, my boy.

Adrian lies there. All he can say is ‘Sorry, Mum. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

At length, the family liaison officer leads a shuffling, dazed Christine James from the room, back into the hospital light.

Luther feels Howie’s eyes on him.

He burns with shame.

Then he returns softly to Adrian’s side.

‘What’s his name?’ he says. ‘What’s his real name?’

After a long time, the kid whispers, ‘Henry.’

‘Henry what?’

‘Clarke. Nicholl. Brennan.’

‘But always Henry?’

The kid makes a gesture. It’s almost a nod.

‘But you must know,’ Luther says. ‘After all these years, you must know his real name.’

‘Madsen.’

Henry Madsen.

Luther’s hands itch to do something. He wants to grab a pencil, take out his notebook, write it down, circle it, underline it.

He bites the inside of his mouth. Makes himself wait.

‘Adrian,’ he says. ‘Patrick. Where do you and Henry live?’