The Calling

CHAPTER 27

Howie pulls up close to Milton House. She kills the engine, glances at Luther. ‘You okay there, Boss?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You don’t look right.’

‘When we’ve got Mia Dalton back,’ he says, ‘I’ll go to bed for a week.’

‘I’ll join you,’ says Howie. Then she blushes from her sternum to her hairline. She’s a redhead, so it shows. ‘By which I don’t mean-’

‘I know what you mean,’ Luther says. ‘Wait here. Keep an eye on things.’

She watches him swagger towards the morose grey columns. She wonders if this display is in inverse proportion to his confidence; the shakier the man, the bigger the walk.

Luther passes a skeletal, rusting children’s playground. No kids playing. A skinny dog trots in a delirious circle. Broken glass on the happy, cracked mosaic.

He chin-nods to a group of hoodies who loiter like crows on the stationary roundabout. Then he ducks his head and enters the permanent twilight of Milton House.

Luther takes the stairs three at a time. They stink.

He’s breathless and ill-tempered when he bangs on Steve Bixby’s door. ‘Steve. DCI Luther. Open up.’

No answer.

He beats on the door. It jolts in its frame. Luther can feel the resistance of heavy-duty deadbolts and mortice locks.

He backs off a step, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

The door to the adjacent flat opens. A woman, a girl really, stares at him. Pasty face. Kappa.

It was on an estate just like this that Luther met his first thirty-year-old grandmother.

He nods at Bixby’s door. ‘He in?’

‘You’re waking the baby.’

‘Do you know where he might have gone?’

‘Do I look like Derren Brown?’

‘How much do you know about him?’ Luther says. ‘The man who lives next door to you and your babies?’

That’s enough for Bixby, who’s listening on the other side of the door.

He calls out, ‘All right!’

Luther waits while Bixby goes through the rigmarole of getting the door unlocked and opened.

He stands in the doorway, the dog at his heels. ‘What now?’

Luther plants a hand on Bixby’s sternum and shoves. Bixby pinwheels backwards. Falls on his bony arse.

Luther steps in. The air in the flat is rank with Bixby, dog and frying.

The dog backs away. It angles itself into the corner and lowers at him, daring him to make a move.

Luther turns.

The neighbour stands in the open doorway, mobile phone in hand. She’s filming him.

‘You can’t do that,’ she says. ‘He’s got human rights.’

Luther grabs her wrist, twists it, seizes the phone, pockets it, shoves her out of the flat and slams the door.

She presses her face to the window. Mashes her nose against it. Sees Bixby on the ground.

Luther pulls the curtains.

‘ Oi! Give me my phone. Thieving cunt.’

Luther lifts Bixby to his feet. Rams him into the jerry-built wall.

Dog ornaments topple to the dank carpet.

The old pit bull watches from the corner. Its shanks tremble. It’s pissed itself.

Luther puts his face to Bixby’s. ‘You’re a liar, Steve. You said you didn’t know Henry Madsen very well. You cooked up some story about some fictional dead mate, Finian Ward, putting you in contact. But that was bullshit. Because you do, don’t you? You know him.’

Bixby swallows. Glances at the window. The neighbour’s still out there, banging on the glass, crying out obscenities and threats.

Luther squeezes Bixby’s jaw. Turns his head until they’re eye to eye. ‘Which makes you an accessory after the fact.’

‘To what?’

‘To all the things he’s done since we last spoke.’

‘She’s right,’ says Bixby, nodding at the window. ‘This is assault.’

Luther laughs. Then he slaps Bixby in the chops. Once. Gently. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

He slaps Bixby again. Not so gently. Bixby’s eyes water.

‘Where is he? Where’s Henry?’

The dog advances and retreats. Makes snapping feints at Luther’s legs. He turns to it. It runs away in a transport of panic.

Luther twists Bixby’s ear. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t. Fucking. Know.’

Luther weighs it up. Then he lets Bixby go.

He reaches out. Grabs the toothless dog.

It twists in his hands, trying to bite. It gums the fabric of his parka. It’s still strong, all sinew and muscle. And it’s heavy.

Luther closes one fist around its collar and one fist around its hind legs. The dog yelps and strains, tries to twist free.

Luther marches to the door. Struggles to open it.

He shoves the neighbour out of the way. Then he dangles the dog over the concrete balcony.

The neighbour stares at him. Her mouth is open.

Bixby hurries to the door.

The neighbour is shouting for Luther to let him go, that he’s only a dog. That he didn’t hurt no one.

Luther ignores her. He grins at Bixby.

‘Where is he?’

An agitation passes among the hoodies in the playground. Howie follows it to source. She looks up.

From where she’s sitting, it looks very much like DCI Luther is dangling a dog off a high balcony and threatening to drop it.

The gaggle of hoodies call out, make the hand gestures and half-dance moves that remind Howie of rap videos. Except the kids are white and the jeans hang low off their skinny arses. It just looks wrong.

‘Hurry up,’ Luther says. ‘I can’t hold it much longer.’

Bixby jiggles on the spot like he needs to piss. He wrings his hands. He says, ‘Please.’

Drawn by the neighbour’s protest, a small, inquisitive crowd is beginning to assemble on the concrete walkway.

‘Police,’ he says. ‘This dog is dangerous. Until the animal control officers get here, I need you to clear this walkway.’

It’s a lie. It’ll look good on YouTube. The crowd doesn’t believe him.

‘Please,’ says Bixby. ‘Please.’

Someone says, ‘Let the poor fucking animal go.’

Then they’re all saying it.

Luther just dangles the dog over the edge and holds Bixby’s gaze as the sullen, fractious crowd begins to swell, fed by communicating stairwells and walkways.

‘Please clear the walkway until an Animal Control Unit arrives,’ Luther says. ‘Thank you.’

The dog is too terrified to struggle. It just gazes unhappily at the concrete far below.

‘He’s getting really heavy, Steve. My arms are hurting. My hands are shaking.’

‘Please,’ Bixby says.

‘I can’t hold him,’ Luther says. ‘I can feel my hands slipping.’

‘All right,’ says Bixby. ‘All right. Come in. Just don’t hurt him.’

Howie watches the group of kids condense like a storm front. Not a crowd. Not yet. But soon.

Already the mobile phones are out. Soon Luther will be up there on Facebook and YouTube, dangling a dog fifty feet in the air.

She can see he’s shouting something. God knows what.

She rolls her eyes. Swears. Makes sure she’s got her pepper spray, ASP, radio. Gets out of the car.

‘All right,’ she says, approaching the kids. ‘All right. Break it up. Move along.’

They turn to her with pale grinning ratboy faces. Shove each other. Turn their phones on her.

She presents an air of weary detachment. Actually, she’s terrified.

One of the kids says, ‘What’s your mate doing with that dog, Miss?’

Miss, as if she were a teacher.

Howie gets a few seconds’ reprieve as his grinning mates roast him.

She looks up. Sees the crowd gathering on the balcony. Pressing closer and closer to Luther.

And the poor dog, dangling down like a bag of kitchen rubbish.

She gives up. Returns to her car, calls in backup. ‘You might want to hurry,’ she says. ‘Officer in peril.’

Then she sits at the wheel. She watches and waits.

Luther pulls in the dog. His hands are numb. The dog wriggles into him. He holds it tight. It wants him to love it. He loves it.

He cuddles the dog, pats it. He can feel its heavy heartbeat. It licks his face.

He forces its tongue away from his skin. Hugs it to his chest. It nestles there, grateful and terrified. It’s heavy, like an ingot of metal. Luther’s arms are numb. His fingers hurt.

He follows Bixby into the flat. Sets down the dog.

It scampers into the kitchen. Luther deadbolts the door. Makes sure the curtains are closed.

There is a silence outside before someone bangs on the door and cries out in some kind of protest.

Bixby looks at it all in dismay, tugging at his throat.

Distantly, the sound of approaching sirens.

Outside, the crowd gets louder. Someone kicks the door again, harder this time.

Luther grabs Bixby’s shoulder and hustles him into the kitchen. Sits him down.

The dog quivers by the fridge, regards him in abject terror.

Luther says, ‘I haven’t got much time.’ He puts his back to the flimsy kitchen door and folds his arms. ‘So hurry up.’

‘All right,’ Bixby says. ‘He did come round.’

‘When?’

‘Not long ago.’

‘A day? A week? When? ’

‘About an hour.’

‘An hour? So what did he want?’

Bixby mumbles.

‘I can’t hear you.’

Bixby mumbles again, looks away.

‘Steve,’ says Luther.

Bixby’s eyes flare with shame and fury. ‘He said he had a girl to sell me. All right?’

‘To sell you?’

‘He wanted ten grand. I said, I haven’t got ten grand. He said, okay seven grand. I said, I haven’t got it.’

‘Why does he want the money?’

‘To get out of London.’

‘And were you tempted? To buy her?’

‘What do you want me to say? Yes? Do I look totally mad to you?’

‘What did he say to you? Exactly. Exact words. What did he say?’

‘That she’s very pretty. And loving.’

‘Loving. Jesus.’

‘And she could be all mine.’

‘Did you see her? Did you actually set eyes on her?’

‘No!’

‘But she was alive?’

‘She’d have to be.’

‘How well do you know him, Steve?’

‘Not that well. I’d just see him at the fights. He was always there.’

‘Dog fights?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And that’s where he first approached you — at a dog fight.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He told you he wanted to buy a child.’

‘Not straight away. Months later. But eventually, yeah.’

‘So you were friends?’

‘No. I just saw him at the fights.’

‘And after a few months, you put him in contact with Vasile Sava. Then with Sweet Jane Carr.’

Bixby nods.

‘What about since then?’

‘Nothing really. I see him now and again at the fights. We say hello.’

‘What’s he doing at all these fights? Is he a punter, an owner, what?’

‘He’s a breeder. And he’s a vet. He works mostly for a bloke called Gary Braddon.’

‘So let me get this right. You’re not friends.’

‘No. He’s always been pretty clear that he hates people like me. People with my problem.’

‘So if he came to you, he must’ve been desperate, right?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

‘Don’t suppose. Tell me where else he can go to sell the girl?’

‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. But even if there was someone, which I doubt, they’d be mad to get involved with him right now, wouldn’t they? With him all over the telly. Nobody’s that stupid.’

Luther calls Ian Reed.

‘Ian,’ he says. ‘You need to pull in a bloke call Gary Braddon. Organizes dog fights. Put the strong arm on him. He’s a dog lover, right? These are sentimental people. If you tell him a little girl’s been kidnapped, he’ll sing in a second. Use photographs of Mia.’ He glances at Bixby. ‘Pretty ones.’

He hangs up, waits for backup to arrive.

Howie passes through the crowd at the tail end of a riot squad. She’s wearing a luminous police vest, baton in hand.

She watches from a distance as the riot squad pulls Bixby and Luther from the flat, which is being mobbed by irate residents.

A few bottles are thrown at a few shields. Half a dozen arrests are made. They’ll be charged with affray and given community service sentences.

Luther and Bixby are marched out under protection. Bixby is bundled into the back of a van along with his dog.

Luther and Howie make their way to the Volvo. Get in. A bottle smashes against the rear windshield.

Howie says, ‘And how often does this happen?’

Luther says, ‘I’ve never actually started a riot before.’

As Howie reverses out, eggs explode against the bodywork, the windows. She ducks instinctively with each impact. And then they’re on the road. Luther doesn’t say anything to her. Just calls Benny Deadhead.

‘Benny, mate. How’re we doing on Madsen’s adoptive parents?’

‘Jan and Jeremy Madsen,’ Benny says. ‘She was a pharmacist. He was a vet.’

‘Address?’

‘Finchley,’ Benny says. ‘Same house they’ve lived in for forty years.’