Neil Cross - The Calling

‘I’m not practising,’ he says. ‘I’m not a morgue rat any more.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I’ve got no interest in being a political prisoner.’

‘It’s a political stance, is it, raping corpses?’

‘A corpse is an object. You can’t rape an object.’

‘And what about the families?’

‘The dead don’t belong to them.’

‘It’s all the same to you, isn’t it, Malcolm? You take what you want from the dead. Forget about the families and how they might feel. You live rent-free. All this peace and love bollocks you print on your T-shirts-’

‘It’s not bollocks.’

‘Peace and love is about mutual respect. And you’ve got no respect for anybody.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘So you’re not a morgue rat any more. What are you? I mean, I don’t think the counselling’s helped you one little bit, has it? I think you know enough to say the things they want you to say. But all the time, you were still fantasizing. Masturbating to the thought of dead girls.’

‘Of course I fantasize, Mein Herr. I’m allowed to think about what I want when I wank. This isn’t a police state. Not yet.’

‘That’s true,’ says Howie. ‘As long as no one gets hurt.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘What are your feelings about Dr Tom Lambert?’

‘What, my counsellor?’

‘Yes,’ says Howie. ‘Your counsellor.’

‘He’s a sanctimonious prick. Why?’

‘Sanctimonious in what way?’

‘A hundred years ago, fascists like him were lobbying to castrate homosexuals.’

‘Is that why you threatened to kill him?’

‘Is that what this is about?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’

‘Because I didn’t say that. He’s lying.’

‘See,’ Howie says, ‘I’m not sure that’s actually true.’

‘Did he tell you this? Because if he did, he’s a fucking liar.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘What about her?’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not true either, is it?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘We’d show you the crime-scene photos,’ says Luther, his first words since the interview began, ‘but we don’t want you getting excited.’

Malcolm’s eyes flit from Luther to Howie. ‘What crime-scene photos?’

‘So what was it?’ Luther says. ‘You’ve had enough of him? He doesn’t believe all the crap you give him during your sessions?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What about the baby?’ Luther says. ‘What does a man like you do with a baby?’

‘Honestly,’ says Malcolm, much more quickly, ‘what has he said? Because he’s a lying prick.’

‘Where’s the baby, Malcolm?’

‘What baby?’

‘Do you have any idea what prison will be like for you?’ Luther says. ‘Being a weirdo’s one thing. Hurting kids is another. They’re a sentimental lot in Wandsworth. They’ll do to you what you did to Mr Lambert.’

‘Wait. What did I do? What are we talking about?’

‘Where’s the baby?’

‘What baby?’

‘Where is it?’

‘He’s lying about the baby. It wasn’t a baby.’

There is a moment.

‘What wasn’t a baby?’

‘He’s not supposed to fucking tell you this stuff. He’s not. He’s a fucking hypocrite.’

Luther doesn’t move. Neither does Howie.

At great length, Luther says, ‘Malcolm, what wasn’t a baby?’

‘I’d never touch a baby. If he told you I did, then he’s a fucking liar. I like girls. Women.’

Outside the interview room, Howie makes a disgusted face, shakes her hands as if she’s touched something contaminated.

Luther claps her on the back, tells her well done.

Then he approaches Detective Sergeant Mary Lally: thirty, curly hair kept short and practical.

Lally’s a methodical and insightful detective, creative in interrogations. But she’s also gifted with a particular, scornful look. Sometimes Luther applies her as a secret weapon, just to sit there and employ that peerlessly judgemental stare.

They call her Scary Mary.

She looks up from her computer, sets down her phone. Gives Luther a look, like she knows what’s coming.

Luther says, ‘How d’you feel about getting out into the fresh air?’

‘Scary’ Mary Lally meets the Dog Section van outside the squat at Hill Park Crescent. She greets Jan Kulozik, a uniformed patrol handler.

A stately German Shepherd waits at the leash. Kulozik encourages Lally to kneel and greet the dog.

Then Lally pulls all personnel out of the squat, leaves them hunched and carping in the drizzle.

She follows Kulozik and the dog inside, Kulozik droning words of encouragement. The animal’s obvious joy makes Lally smile despite herself.

In the farthest, dark corner of the farthest, darkest flat, the dog becomes agitated. It scrabbles and paws at the floor under Malcolm Perry’s grey mattress.

Kulozik pulls the dog back and murmurs low encouragement, pats it, as Lally kicks the skinny mattress aside.

Her foot finds a loose floorboard. And then another. Lally scowls, then kneels and pulls aside the loose boards, exposing a small cavity.

In the cavity is a black bin liner.

She removes the bin liner.

In the bin liner is a grey woollen blanket.

Wrapped in the grey woollen blanket is a woman’s head.

Henry is surprised by how well the baby slept on the way home.

She is in the back seat of the car, wrapped in the soft blanket with satinette lining. The street lights pulse above her as Henry’s son, Patrick, drives fastidiously under the limit.

Every now and again Henry glances at her over his shoulder and feels a warm surge of fulfilment. A tired, happy grin spreads across his chops.

Patrick pulls over near the park; he wants to pick up some rabbits. So Henry slides over and gets behind the wheel.

Soon, he is chasing the headlamps through the electric gates at the end of the long gravel drive.

The house is very large. It overlooks the park. It’s worth somewhere in the region of two and a half million pounds, but Henry has far too many secrets buried in the garden to consider selling it.

He’s lived here for twelve years. Elaine, his elderly landlady, has been five feet down in the garden for eleven and a half of them. He catches himself talking to her sometimes. Doesn’t really know why.

The neighbour to his left is a banker with a young family; they moved in two years after Elaine died. As far as they’re concerned, Henry is Elaine’s son. That’s fine by Henry.

Elaine’s real son is another of the secrets buried in the garden.

The neighbours to the right are foreign, Arabs probably; he sees them rarely and has never spoken to them.

Henry parks, gets out of the car, looks around at the morning, then opens the back door and reaches inside. The baby turns her black eyes upon him.

She’s surprisingly warm. She’s scrawny and has that weird, dark purple colour, almost beetroot in places.

Henry’s hand is dirty, still carrying traces of blood, but he didn’t think to bring a pacifier. So he offers his thumb to the baby. She accepts it into her hot, gummy little mouth. Under a soft rubbery layer, the gums are surprisingly hard. The sensation is not displeasing.

He’s decided to call her Emma.

He bundles her into his arms, lifts her gently from the car seat and tucks the blanket around her, nice and tight. This is called swaddling.

‘Welcome home,’ he says. ‘Welcome home. Would you like to see your bedroom? Yes, I bet you would. I bet you would, baby girl.’

Henry is interested and strangely moved to note that although he’s speaking quietly, and although there is no danger of being overheard, he speaks to the baby in the babbling, glissando intonation known as motherese.