The Calling

CHAPTER 4

Until yesterday, Anthony Needham was Tom Lambert’s partner in a small, two-man counselling practice near Clissold Park.

Needham’s in his thirties, in wine-coloured shirt, tailored, and grey trousers, neatly gelled hair. He’s tanned, fit and sporting. Expensive watch. He doesn’t conform in any way to Luther’s notion of a therapist. He makes Luther feel grubby and unhealthy.

The room is designed to be agreeable: three comfy chairs arranged in a semi-circle, low bookshelves. A desk, bare but for a laptop and some framed photographs of Needham taking part in an Ironman Triathlon — scowling in muddy agony, running with a mountain bike slung over his shoulder.

Needham opens the window; it’s stiff and doesn’t come easily. Sounds of the city insinuate themselves in here with them, the smell of traffic and the smell of winter.

Luther crosses his legs and clasps his hands in his lap; something he does to constrain nervous energy. Howie observes Needham with silent gravity. She has her notebook in front of her and a pen in her hand.

Needham opens the lowest drawer in his desk, takes out a flattened, mummified pack of cigarettes. He roots around until he finds a disposable lighter. Then he perches on the windowsill, lights a cigarette and takes a puff.

He discreetly dry retches, leans on the windowsill with the cigarette held between two fingers.

He grinds out the cigarette after that one puff, comes back queasy and moist-eyed. He sits in the third comfy chair, hands laced in his lap.

Luther lets him work it through. Turns over a page of his own notebook, pretends to consult an earlier entry.

‘Holy Christ,’ says Needham at length. He’s Australian.

‘I’m sorry,’ Luther says. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in. But I’m afraid these first few hours are critical.’

Needham gets himself together. Luther likes him for it.

Needham swallows, then unlaces his fingers and gestures, meaning: ask away.

‘Well,’ Luther says. ‘You deal with some very troubled young people here. Violent people, presumably.’

‘You do know this is covered by doctor-patient privilege?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Then I don’t know what you want me to tell you.’

‘Non-specifically — do you know if Mr Lambert was concerned about any of his patients?’

‘No more than usual.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Like you say. We deal with a lot of disturbed young people.’

‘Can I be honest with you, here? This wasn’t a random attack. This was a very violent, very personal crime.’

Needham shifts in his chair. ‘All I can tell you is, Tom had some raised levels of anxiety about some of his patients.’

‘What kind of anxieties?’

‘Would counselling actually help them? Could he actually stop them victimizing? Would one of them lose his temper once too often?’

‘That happens? They lose their temper in here?’

‘These are angry young men. Introspection isn’t in their nature, but we encourage them to confront difficult personal issues. It can be hard.’

‘Issues like violence?’

‘And usually the history of abuse that led to it.’

‘A lot of kids are abused,’ Luther says. ‘That doesn’t give them licence to hurt other people.’

‘Nobody said it did.’ Needham has the infinitely patient air of a man who’s answered this indictment a thousand times. ‘Life’s about choices. We try to give them tools to make better choices.’

Luther refers to his notes to break the eye contact. ‘So, no specific worries? No threats, no funny phone calls?’

‘None that he discussed with me.’

‘He wasn’t drinking a little more? Maybe self-medicating some other way? Sleeping pills? Cigarettes?’

‘Nope. None of that.’

Howie steps in. ‘What about young women?’

Needham turns to her. ‘Not Tom.’

‘I mean, do you treat young women at this practice?’

‘You think a woman did this?’

‘It’s possible,’ Luther says.

‘Tom’s a strong man. He’s very fit. A woman. It just…’

Silence falls. The clock ticks. ‘We do treat women,’ Needham says. ‘But I don’t know. It seems strange. Why a woman?’

‘We’re just trying to cover all the possibilities.’ Luther tucks his notepad into a pocket. ‘Just one more thing. Do you know anyone who may have a key to the Lamberts’ house?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry. Their cleaner, presumably. But that’s all I’ve got.’

Luther thanks him and stands. Howie is half a beat behind him.

Needham leads them out. At the door, he says, ‘Are you going to catch this man?’

‘We’re doing all we can.’

‘Well, sorry to be rude, but that sounds like generic police speak to me.’

Luther hesitates, lets Howie take the lead.

She says, ‘Mr Needham, do you have any reason to be worried for your own safety?’

‘Objectively, no more than usual I suppose. But I do have a wife and children, y’know. I’m only human.’

‘Then you can help us. Let us see Tom Lambert’s patient records.’

‘Obviously I can’t do that.’

‘We know,’ Howie says. ‘Absolutely. But do you really think it’s ethical to gamble with your children’s safety?’

Needham gives her a measured look.

Howie returns it.

Quietly, Luther says, ‘Whoever did this, they let themselves into the house while Tom and Sarah were sleeping. They cut off Tom’s genitals and choked him with them. They cut open Sarah’s belly and they took her baby. The baby may still be alive. We both know what Mr and Mrs Lambert went through to conceive that child. If you want to help them, Dr Needham, then help me find it — before whoever took it does whatever they’re planning to do.’

Needham glances at his hand, still clasping the door handle. It takes him a moment of concentration to make the hand let go. Then he wipes it on his shirt. He says, ‘Like I said, I suppose the cleaner must have a key. She must, surely?’

‘It stands to reason,’ Luther says. ‘Did Mr Lambert keep details of people who may have access to the house? Cleaners, builders, that kind of thing?’

‘He did,’ Needham says. ‘Tom’s very diligent when it comes to record keeping.’

‘Where did he keep these records?’

‘On his work computer.’

‘Do you have Mr Lambert’s password and log-in details?’

‘I do. But you do understand, I’d be trusting you not to access his patient database or his work diary. Those items are subject to doctor-patient confidentiality.’

‘Absolutely,’ Luther says.

‘Then I don’t see a problem.’

Needham leads them to Tom Lambert’s office, similar to his own. Tom uses an older IBM ThinkPad. His chairs are comfy dark leather. Needham sits at Tom’s computer, logs on, then pointedly checks his watch. ‘I need to make some calls, cancel Tom’s appointments and so on. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes?’

‘That’s plenty of time,’ Luther says.

‘Excellent,’ Needham says.

There’s a moment. Then Needham backs out of the room like a servant, leaving Howie and Luther alone with Tom Lambert’s computer.

Luther says, ‘Okay. Get on with it.’

Howie shrugs off her jacket and hangs it over the back of Tom Lambert’s chair.

She gets on with it.

They leave without seeing Needham again. They nod goodbye to the receptionist, who sits at the desk wearing the raw, blank expression of the recently bereaved.

Luther makes a note to have her interviewed. But not today.

As Howie negotiates the traffic, chewing her lower lip and cursing under her breath, Luther consults Tom Lambert’s diary and patient records.

Finally, he calls Teller.

She says, ‘What’ve you got?’

‘A few possibles,’ he says. ‘People worth having a look at. But right now, one name’s leaping out: Malcolm Perry. Made a number of death threats to Lambert over the course of a year, eighteen months.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Lambert was trying to help him with his paraphilia.’

‘What paraphilia we talking about?’

‘Sex with corpses.’

‘Nice. So he was angry enough to threaten Mr Lambert. Was he angry enough to follow through?’

‘According to Lambert’s notes, Perry’s the reason they started setting the burglar alarm every night.’

‘What a world,’ Teller says, down the line. ‘So where do we find this charmer?’