The Calling

CHAPTER 29

Luther and Howie drive to Finchley.

On Royal Drive, they pass the site of the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, now converted into high-end apartments. The Asylum used to be home to Aaron Kosminski. Luther’s pretty much convinced that Kosminski was Jack the Ripper.

Jeremy and Jan Madsen live in a gabled, semi-detached Edwardian house in a Finchley cul-de-sac.

Jan Madsen comes to the door. She’s an imposing presence: chiselled jaw, strong cheekbones. Greying pre-Raphaelite hair. She’s seventy-two, a retired pharmacist. She gives Luther a regal once-over and says, ‘Is it about my son?’

Luther nods. Tucks his badge into his pocket.

She invites them in. Brisk with anxiety.

The house is clean. In the living room are knick-knacks and family photographs, a TV that was top of the line when it was acquired, twenty-five years ago. Fruit in a blue and white ceramic bowl; the coral skeleton of recently eaten grapes. An old HP computer is plugged into the wall, screen black. Two credit cards on the table. A cup of milky tea on a coaster next to it. Evidence of cats, although no cats are to be seen.

Jan faces Luther and Howie, her son a spectre between them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Howie smiles agreeably. ‘No, thank you.’

‘There’s plenty in the pot.’

‘Honestly. But thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Thank you, we’re good.’

‘Water? Something to eat?’

Howie smiles. ‘Really. We’re fine.’

Jan invites them to sit.

Luther and Howie perch on the edge of a Laura Ashley sofa.

Jan sits in a matching armchair. Wrings her gardener’s hands, knotty with arthritis.

Anxious people are compelled to fill silence. So Luther and Howie sit and wait.

‘It’s vile,’ she says. ‘The things he’s done. It’s vile. He wasn’t brought up like that.’

‘I can see that,’ Luther says. ‘You have a very lovely house. Have you lived here long?’

‘Since 1965.’ Said with pride and a touch of something like embarrassment.

‘And is your husband-’

‘Upstairs,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. Fibromyalgia. And all this…’

Luther nods and, with a small gesture, directs Howie to go upstairs and check on the husband.

Howie half stands, addresses Jan Madsen. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. Second door on your right, top of the stairs.’

Howie thanks her, then leaves the room and heads upstairs, into the smell of Mr Sheen furniture polish.

She raps gently on the bedroom door. Hears a whispered, ‘ Come in?’

Howie opens the door. Jeremy Madsen lies in bed. A tall, raw-boned man, balding and heavily liver-spotted. His wife’s senior by perhaps a decade.

She takes in the room, the cluttered dressing table and the solemn wardrobes. Leather slippers arranged next to the bed.

Howie introduces herself, shows her badge, and whispers, ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

Jeremy sits up. He has a slight palsy. He squints through one eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers in return. ‘Migraine. Very bad.’

‘You’ve had a shock,’ says Howie.

‘I can answer your questions,’ he whispers.

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m sure your wife can give us everything we need. Please.’

Jeremy nods. The movement causes his face to twist in pain.

Howie says, ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ His liver-spotted hand shakes like a diabetic’s. ‘I just need to — if you wouldn’t mind?’

‘No, of course not’

Howie takes Jeremy’s shoulder, bony through the soft pyjamas. She helps him lie back down.

She hovers at the edge of the bed as he turns into a foetal position.

Embarrassed, Howie slips from the room and heads downstairs.

In the living room, Luther leans forward, still perched on the edge of the floral sofa. ‘Has Henry been in contact?’

Jan Madsen nods. ‘He did call, yes.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour ago.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. There was just noise on the line.’

‘Then how did you know it was him?’

‘I’d been waiting.’ She almost spits it. ‘He always did come to us when he was in trouble.’

She plucks at her knee, can’t meet Luther’s eye.

‘What did he want?’

‘Money. What else?’

Howie enters the room and quietly sits.

‘Henry called,’ Luther says. ‘An hour ago. Didn’t speak.’

Howie immediately stands. ‘I’ll get a trace on the call.’

Luther reaches up, takes her arm. Shakes his head. ‘He’ll be long gone. I’ll text through a request to trace.’

Howie hesitates, unsure, then rejoins him on the sofa. Their thighs are touching.

Luther raises his hip, digs out his phone. Begins awkwardly to thumb out a message. Frowning as he concentrates, he says, ‘You’re aware that Henry is a suspect in a very serious crime?’

Jan nods. Looks away. Toys with her bare wedding-ring finger. Luther looks at the pale band where the wedding ring had been, then at those swollen, arthritic knuckles.

‘I have to ask,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you call the police when he rang?’

‘To say what? My estranged son called, didn’t say anything and then hung up? I’d have been wasting your time.’

For a moment, Luther discontinues his meticulous, hunt-and-peck texting. ‘Mrs Madsen. Nobody’s blaming you for this.’

She nods, pretending to believe him. Tugs at her wedding-ring finger.

‘Are you and Henry in contact?’ Howie says. ‘Generally speaking?’

‘We haven’t heard a peep in twenty years.’

Luther lowers his voice. ‘We understand that Henry was adopted?’

Jan snorts at her lap; an expression of ancient, incalculable bitterness. ‘Do you have children?’

‘No,’ Luther says.

‘Well, we tried,’ says Jan. ‘Jeremy and I. We tried and tried. No IVF in those days. This is the early seventies.’

‘And how old was Henry when you adopted him?’

‘Two. Just turned two. He was a helpless little thing. You wouldn’t treat a dog the way his mother treated him. The poor little thing, he’d been beaten, starved and God knows what. Locked him in a cupboard when her gentleman callers paid a visit. She hit him. Called him all sorts of things. Effing this, effing that.’ That bitter laugh. ‘God, we were so nervous. But people had told us, You’ll fall in love at first sight, or Once you see him it’ll all just slot into place. But walking into that room, seeing that little boy with his dirty knees and his hair all sticking up. I looked at him and my first thought was: I don’t like the look of you.

‘And I detested myself for it. Absolutely detested myself. I was riddled with guilt from the minute we got him home. After that, I think I was in denial.’

In the slightly hesitant use of the term, Luther hears years of anguish and self-recrimination.

‘If you don’t feel the kind of love you think you should be feeling,’ she says, ‘they pick up on it. They do. Children are so perceptive.’

‘There’s something called Adoptive Child Syndrome,’ Luther tells her. ‘About ten per cent of adopted children show some kind of behavioural disorder. It’s nobody’s fault.’

‘We didn’t have syndromes back then,’ she says. ‘In our day it was all about nurture. And the truth is, I didn’t feel maternal towards him.’ She’s watching her hands. She begins to tug on them, knuckle by knuckle. ‘I did feel protective,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him. And I felt sorry for him. But I didn’t love him. Not like that. Not for a long time. And by then, by the time I’d come to love him as my own child, as a mother’s supposed to, well. It was too late.’

‘How old was he when the trouble started?’

‘Seven, I suppose. Jeremy and I went for an anniversary dinner. Just this little Bistro they used to have on the High Road. We left him with a babysitter for the first time. He set fire to his bed.’

Luther winces.

‘And it just got worse from there. We tried everything. Psychiatrists. Psychologists. Whatever we thought might possibly work, we tried it.’

She coughs into her fist and sits back. Drained, to be reliving it all.

Luther says, ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.’

Luther heads to the kitchen. On the way, he nods to Howie. Points to his phone.

Howie frowns: What?

Luther steps into the kitchen, texting. He finds the glasses in a high cupboard and draws off a glass of water.

On the window behind the sink is a small jar of petroleum jelly. The lid is loose.

Luther looks at it as he finishes the text. He addresses it to Rose Teller, Ian Reed, Benny Deadhead and Isobel Howie.

Then he carries the glass of water through to Jan Madsen.

She takes it, gratefully. Takes a sip. Sits holding it in her lap.

‘Adopted kids,’ Luther says, sitting. ‘They sometimes get to wondering about their biological parents. Especially the birth mother.’

‘Don’t they just. God knows, Henry made an absolute Madonna of his. Concocted all these mad fantasies about her.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as, he came from bad blood.’

‘That’s how he put it? Bad blood?’

‘Bad blood. He was obsessed with the idea.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘Jeremy’s a vet. Retired now, obviously. But the only thing Henry ever showed any positive interest in was the animals. So we tried to get him involved. We bought him a little mongrel pup. Digby. We thought that might help.’

‘Did it?’

She takes another sip of water. Her hand is shaking. She says, ‘God knows. He had it for a few weeks. Then it ran away and never came home.’

Luther thinks he knows what happened to the dog. He thinks Jan Madsen probably knows, too.

He sends the text, then pockets his phone and says, ‘What did you actually tell Henry about his birth mother?’

‘That she was too young. That she loved him, but wanted to give him a better life than she could provide. But he wouldn’t believe us. And he was right. The truth is, she was a prostitute. And mentally ill. She used to self-administer electric shocks to her own head. Using a car battery.’

‘So you lied to him.’

‘What choice did we have? Lie to him or tell the truth and break his heart? Which would you have chosen?’

Howie’s phone vibrates with an incoming text.

She reaches for it.

‘Apparently it’s not uncommon,’ Jan says. ‘Troubled adoptees try to provoke rejection. They’re trying to make their adoptive parents prove their love by behaving more and more unacceptably. And that was Henry to a T. We completely lost control of him. There was animal cruelty. Shoplifting. More burglary. Sexual misconduct.’

Luther reaches for his notebook, flips it open. He pats down his pockets, looking for a pen. ‘What kind of misconduct?’

‘He exposed himself,’ says Jan Madsen. ‘To some very young girls.’

Howie checks her phone.

She sees the incoming text is from Luther’s phone:

Henry Madsen is here.

Parents house

15 Cavalry Close. Finchley.

Madsen upstairs — father poss hostage

Mia Dalton upstairs? Possible hostage

Please assist ASAP.

Howie stares at the phone for six or seven long seconds. She reads the message half a dozen times.

Her eyes flick from the message to Luther and back again. Luther gives no indication.

He just sits there, scribbling a note as Jan talks.

Scary Mary Lally leads Search Team Two to a vacant residential property on a quiet street in Muswell Hill.

The house is in the early stages of renovation. There is a skip outside. The house is full of the previous resident’s furniture. Gypsum board, plaster, paint cans and drop sheets.

In the garage in the rear of the property they find the deceased owner’s car and boxes of personal effects.

While searching the garden, the dogs become agitated.

Lally follows the dog handler into the house, where the dogs become progressively more excited.

DS Lally calls DCI Reed.

‘Mia’s definitely been here,’ she says. ‘Her smell’s all over the place. We found hair dye in the sink upstairs.’

‘So he’s dyed her hair? He’s disguising her?’

‘Looks like it, Guv.’

Reed thanks her. He says, ‘Post somebody to keep an eye on the place. Make sure he doesn’t come back.’

Reed is still on the phone to Lally when a text message arrives. It’s from Luther.

Reed skims it, then stands so abruptly he kicks his chair over. His neck spasms. He grabs it. He says, ‘Look, Mary. Something’s come up. Keep looking and let me know.’

He hangs up the desk phone and turns to face Benny.

Benny is slowly looking up from his own phone.

‘Holy shit,’ Reed says.

Clutching his neck, he runs out the door and sprints across the bullpen. He bursts into Teller’s office.

She’s already putting on her coat.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Let’s have it.’ She strides away, on her radio.

Reed follows, thumbing out a hasty reply: sit tite! on our way.

Howie pockets her phone and waits for Luther’s next move.

He glances over his notebook and says, ‘So when was the last time you actually saw Henry?’

‘When he came out of prison.’

‘This is when he was, what? Twenty-one, twenty-two?’

‘Yes. He came to see us.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘That he hated us. That he never wanted to see us again. And,’ she looks Luther in the eye, ‘that he was going to start his own family. A big family. Five sons. Five daughters. They were going to live on a farm. Raise animals. Pedigree animals. Rare breeds. He was going to love them all. The animals and the children. He was going to give them all the love in the world. But as far as he was concerned, Jeremy and I were dead.’

‘And he hasn’t been in contact since?’

She shakes her head, frowning. ‘There are times the phone goes and nobody’s there. And I wonder. And sometimes when I’m locking up at night, you forget to close the curtains. You glance outside and you do think — there’s someone out there, in the darkness at the end of the garden. Do you think that may have been him?’

‘No,’ Luther lies. Then he rips the top sheet off his notebook and passes it to her.

Is he here?

She reads it. Her eyes well. She looks into Luther’s eyes and nods.

Luther is very calm. He mouths the words: Keep talking. He passes her another note.

Young girl with him?

Jan shakes her head vigorously, gestures for his notepad.

NO! HE BURIED LITTLE GIRL

Luther mouths the word, Buried?

‘He was a very troubled young man,’ Luther says, passing her the notepad. ‘None of this was your fault.’

Jan scribbles on the notepad.

Little girl on phone, not Henry.

She hands him the notepad.

Luther writes:

Mia?!!

Passes her the notepad. She reads it. Nods. Yes, Mia.

Then she writes:

Mia read out a message

Henry will bury her.

Enough air for 2 hours.

Henry will give us Mia… if we give him money.

Her eyes go to the computer, and Luther understands. The Madsens were in the middle of transferring money to Henry’s bank account when Luther and Howie showed up.

If we call police or Henry arrested, Jan writes, Mia dies. No-one ever finds her.

Luther takes the note, scans it, passes it to Howie.

He stands, pockets his notebook.

Jan Madsen begins to cry.

‘DS Howie,’ Luther says, ‘why don’t you take Mrs Madsen into the garden for some fresh air? Mrs Madsen, I’m sorry this has been so difficult.’

Then he walks into the hallway.

He looks up the stairs.

He says, ‘So did you hear all that, Henry?’

Multiple police units vector in on the address in Finchley. Among them are three Armed Response Vehicles. A Jankel armoured Guardian Tactical Intervention Vehicle, which is a large 4x4 with bullet-proof windscreen and blast-proof flooring. It contains eight CO19 Specialist Firearms Officers in dark blue Nomex fire-resistant overalls and Kevlar body armour, assault vests with stun grenades, tear-gas canisters, SF-10 respirator and C100 ceramic helmets.

The Air Support Unit dispatches India 97 and India 98 from Lippits Hill.

Reed sits in the back seat of a marked BMW area car, one of a convoy of four racing under blues and twos.

He flexes his jaw. Clenches and unclenches his fist. London goes past.

Nine million people.

Search Team One searches the basement of a condemned block of flats in Walthamstow.

They find signs of a blood-stained pit, the smell of shit and sweat and alcohol.

The electric lights crackle overhead.

There is no sign of Mia Dalton or Henry Madsen.

Luther stands on the stairs.

‘I know you told your mum to get rid of us,’ he says. ‘And she did a good job. She tried really hard. She answered our questions very honestly. But she’s not wearing her wedding ring, is she? It doesn’t look to me like she’s taken it off for forty years. And there’s a jar of Vaseline in the kitchen, next to the tap, as if she’d just taken the ring off. It’s a nice ring. I saw it in the photos. Probably worth a bob or two, eh?’

He waits out a long silence.

‘So listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve called it in. We’ve got a load of coppers on their way. So it’s all done. Either we get a very, very messy siege and you end up dead. Or you come with me.’

Howie takes Jan by the elbow. She leads her to the adjoining door and through the long, narrow kitchen.

Jan is shaking so badly she’s finding it difficult to walk.

Luther pauses on the second stair. ‘All right, Henry. I’m coming up.’

He produces his ASP extendable baton, keeps it collapsed in his fist.

He takes the stairs slowly, one by one.

There are fifteen steps.

Howie helps Jan past the cupboard units, the fridge, an old-fashioned larder, a chest freezer in the corner.

‘That poor little girl,’ Jan says. ‘That poor little darling. What’s going to happen?’

‘We’ll find her,’ Howie says.

She reaches the kitchen door.

It’s an old-fashioned door with a heavy mortice lock; the kind that requires a large metal key.

The door is locked.

Luther reaches the top of the stairs and edges along the landing.

He opens the first bedroom door. It’s a sewing room.

He stands framed in darkness. Street lamps filter through pale curtains, give the room an orange glow.

There’s no one here.

He turns to the master-bedroom door.

It’s slightly ajar.

He steps inside.

Jeremy Madsen lies on the bed.

Howie tries the handle. Turns in frustration to Jan Madsen. ‘Where’s the key?’

She sees the look in Jan’s eyes.

Panic.

Howie follows the line of Jan’s gaze.

Jan is looking at the two old, black deadbolts fitted to the door — one at head-height, the other near the ground.

She wonders for a moment about their significance.

Then she notices that each deadbolt is in the open position, as if someone had been trying to leave by the back door.

But has failed because the door is locked and needs a key to open it.

And then Howie knows.

She turns, pushing Jan behind her, reaching for her pepper spray as Henry Madsen steps out of the broom cupboard.

She sees his face for the first time, the twisted thing in his eyes and then she looks at the long screwdriver in his fist, yellow handle, ten-inch, flat-head Howie yells, ‘Down on the ground! Down on the ground, now!’

As Madsen jams the screwdriver between her ribs, just under her breast, and twists it.

Luther hears Howie bellowing and Jan Madsen screaming and sees the animal terror in the eyes of Jeremy Madsen.

He turns and runs.

He’s at the top of the stairs when Henry Madsen reaches the front door.

Madsen glances over his shoulder, sees Luther.

He mishandles the lock. His hands are wet with blood.

Luther vaults the stairs as Henry Madsen opens the door.

Luther throws out a hand, slams it shut.

Then he punches his shoulder into Henry Madsen.

Madsen slams into the solid wood door.

Luther takes Madsen by the lapels. Smashes him into the door, into the wall. Into the door again.

He looks up, holding a collapsed Madsen in his hands.

Jeremy Madsen stands at the top of the stairs, cadaverous with shock.

‘Move,’ Luther says. ‘Back to your room.’

‘My wife-’

‘Move!’ Luther screams, and Jeremy retreats like a spectre to his sickbed.

Henry Madsen grins, and with a movement of the tongue, produces a razor blade. He grips it in his front teeth and slashes at Luther.

Luther steps back.

Madsen runs for the kitchen.

Luther a moment behind him.

Madsen slips in blood that has pooled on the tiles. His legs go out from under him.

He scrambles to his feet.

Luther tackles him to the floor again.

Madsen slashes at him with the blade between his teeth.

Luther grabs Madsen’s wrist, twists it, jams it up between his shoulders.

Madsen cries out. Drops the razor blade.

He lies face down.

Luther places his knee into Madsen’s back. Then he stands, keeping Madsen’s arm in a wristlock, and kicks him three times in the ribs.

He drags Madsen across the blood-smeared floor and cuffs him to the oven-door handle. It’s an old oven. The handle is heavy, a little greasy underneath.

Madsen lies with legs askew.

Luther hurries to Jan Madsen. She’s curled by the back door. A yellow-handled screwdriver protrudes from her eye socket.

Howie is alive. The screwdriver has opened a hole in her chest wall. Blood froths at the lips of the wound; it means her lung has collapsed. Soon she’ll enter irreversible shock. She’s dying.

Luther fumbles in his pocket, digs out his wallet. Removes a credit card. He rips open Howie’s shirt. The bubbling wound on her pale flesh, dotted with moles, strikes him as obscene. He presses the card to the hole, the frothing blood.

He says, ‘Isobel. Isobel, can you press here?’

He guides her hand. It’s light in his grip. He waits until she’s pressing down on the credit card.

Her face is the wrong colour.

He says, ‘Keep it pressed down.’ He runs to the kitchen drawers. Opens and shuts them.

Henry looks at him from the floor, an artful little grin on his face.

Luther wants to kick it.

In the lowest kitchen drawer, Luther comes across a roll of cling film.

He grabs it, runs to Howie. Kneels. He says, ‘Come on. Sit. Just for a moment.’

He tries to help her into a sitting position. But she can’t do it. She panics. She can’t breathe. Her breath comes in ugly, sucking gasps.

Okay.

Luther lays her on the floor. Rips off a square of cling film. Presses that to the wound. Howie’s next breath sucks it in a little, sealing the hole.

Luther wraps cling film round and round Howie’s body. The cellophane is blood-smeared and slippy.

He kneels there, concentrating, telling her she’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay.

When Luther has done what he can for Howie, he returns to Madsen.

‘Henry, where’s Mia?’

Madsen gives him a defeated and bitter grin.

The life goes out of Luther.

He looks around, at the blood and the chaos. The agony of Howie’s breathing. Jan Madsen, killed by her own child.

At this kitchen in which ten thousand marital meals were cooked, ten thousand cups of tea were brewed. An entire marriage, zeroing in on this evening. Converging like ship and iceberg.

Luther sits on the bloody floor, next to Henry. He leans his back on the kitchen drawers.

The approaching sirens grow frantic.

Luther says, ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’

Madsen shrugs.

Luther looks at the kitchen clock. It’s above the door. It’s been ticking there since Margaret Thatcher was prime minister, promising to bring hope where there had been despair.

It’s 11.19 p.m.

‘How long has she got?’

‘Until about midnight.’

Luther laughs.

‘So we arrest you. And you sit there in silence, loving every minute of it. The power it gives you, eh? The control. To know this little girl is dying somewhere in the dark. And you’ll be surrounded by all these coppers who can’t do a thing about it. That must be quite a buzz. For a man like you. To know how much better you are than everyone else.’

Madsen just sits there.

Luther’s skull bursts open like an egg sac. Spiders crawl out.

He scuttles to Howie. He kisses her cheek.

He says, ‘Hang on. They’re nearly here. Can you hear them?’

She makes a noise. He’s not sure if it’s an answer or not.

He takes the car keys from her pocket and returns to Madsen. He uncuffs him.

He drags Madsen to his feet. Marches him to the door in an armlock.

Madsen struggles. ‘Where are we going??’

The sirens are closer.

Luther has to hurry.

He marches Madsen down the pavement.

He opens the car door and shoves Madsen into the front passenger footwell.

As he does so, an ambulance arrives at the end of the street.

In a few seconds, they’re going to see him.

As the ambulance pulls up, Luther gets in the Volvo and starts the engine.

In the rear-view mirror, he watches paramedics rush into the Madsen house.

Behind them, the first marked police vehicles pull up. Officers spill out.

Luther starts the engine and pulls away. He pulls out his radio. ‘This is DCI Luther,’ he says. ‘I’m on foot, in pursuit of suspect believed to be Henry Madsen…’

When he’s finished, Madsen blinks at him.

It’s pleasing to see the first signs of real fear in his eyes.

He says, ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere private.’

‘What for?’

Luther drives.

He leaves the police lights far behind, flashing blue and silent in the darkness.