Birdman

by Mo Hayder

  When he knew he wasn’t going to sleep again, he showered, dressed and without waking Veronica drove through early-morning London to B team’s HQ.

  B team, sometimes called Shrivemoor after the street they were based in, shared a functional red-brick building with Four Area’s Territorial Support Group. The exterior was anonymous, but the traffic fatalities statistics displayed in an unlit box outside had given the public the impression that this was a functioning police station. Eventually a sign had appeared outside the garage entrance warning people not to walk in here with their everyday problems. Go to a normal police station, there’s one just down the road, it said.

  By the time Caffery arrived the sun had climbed over the terraced Thirties houses, schoolchildren were being ushered into Volvos. He parked the Jaguar—something else Veronica wanted him to trade for a newer, shinier version.

  ‘You could sell that and get something really nice.’

  ‘I don’t want something really nice. I want the car I’ve got.’

  ‘Then at least let me clean it.’

  He swiped his entrance card and climbed the stairs, past the TSG’s fifteen armoured Ford Sherpas parked in their own spilled oil. In AMIP’s rooms the fluorescent lights were on—four database indexers, all women, all civilians, sat at their desks, tapping away.

  He found Maddox in the office, fresh from breakfast with the chief superintendent. Over Earl Grey and bran muffins at Chislehurst golf club, the DCS had set out a game plan.

  ‘He’s slapped a moratorium on the press.’ Maddox seemed weary; Jack could see he hadn’t slept. ‘Any female officers or civilians who find the case distressing can apply for transfer, and—’ He straightened a pencil so that it lined up exactly with the other objects on his desk. His lips were colourless. ‘And he’s giving us reinforcements—the whole of F team bumped over here from Eltham.’

  ‘Two teams on a case?’

  ‘Yup. The governor’s worried about this one. Really worried. Doesn’t like Krishnamurthi’s diminishing time periods. And—’

  ‘Yes?’

  Maddox sighed. ‘The hair Krishnamurthi pulled off that girl? The black hair.’

  ‘He found blond hairs too. With toms trace evidence is misleading.’

  ‘Right, Jack, right. But the CS’s got Stephen Lawrence fever—all he can see are human rights groups in the shadows, razor blades in his mail.’ Someone knocked and Maddox reached for the door with a grim look on his face. ‘He distinctly does not want our target to be black.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Paul Essex, with his usual air of good-natured dishevelment: tie unknotted, sleeves rolled up to reveal his huge red forearms, stood in the doorway holding up an orange docket. ‘NIB.’

  ‘Prints?’

  ‘Yup.’ He swiped thinning fair hair back from his big, flushed forehead. ‘Victim five was kind enough to get herself on the prostitute register. One Shellene Craw.’

  Caffery opened the docket. ‘These were indexed on the tom register.’ He looked up at Maddox. ‘Funny they never found their way to missing persons, isn’t it?’

  ‘Meaning someone chez Craw has a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘Namely one, uh, Harrison.’ He handed him the docket. ‘Barry Harrison. Stepney Green.’

  ‘Fancy putting him top of your shopping list today?’ Maddox said.

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And Essex, mate, I believe you’re family liaison officer this case. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are, sir. Specially selected for my tenderness.’

  ‘Then you’d better go with Caffery. Someone might need your tender shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘Will do. And, sir, this came.’ He passed a length of computer feed paper to Caffery. ‘From the Yard. The operation name—Operation Alcatraz.’

  Caffery took the paper, frowning. ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Get onto them and have it changed. It’s not appropriate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Bird Man. The Bird Man of Alcatraz. Haven’t you seen the PM prelims?’

  ‘I only just got here.’

  Maddox sighed. ‘Our offender left us a little gift on the victims.’

  ‘Inside the victims.’ Caffery corrected, folding his arms. ‘Inside the rib cage, sewn in next to the heart.’

  Essex’s face changed. ‘Nasty.’ He looked from face to face, waiting for the follow-up. Maddox cleared his throat and looked at Caffery. Neither spoke.

  ‘Well?’ Essex opened his hands, frustrated. ‘What? What are we talking about here? What did he leave?’

  ‘A bird,’ Caffery said eventually. ‘A small bird. A cage bird, probably a finch. And that doesn’t go any further than the team. You hear?’

  ... 5

  By 10 a.m. the National Identification Bureau had another match on the prints. Victim number two was one Michelle Wilcox, a prostitute from Deptford. Her files were transferred from Bermondsey to Shrivemoor that morning as Caffery and Essex drove through the Rotherhithe tunnel to interview Shellene Craw’s boyfriend. It was a fresh, sparkling day. Even the East End rushing past the car seemed alive, the poor, grimy London trees vivid with leaves.

  ‘This Harrison character.’ Paul Essex looked out across the oaks on Stepney Green past a row of blond-bricked Georgian houses—freshly painted, the pride of their bond-salesmen owners—to Harrison’s red-brick Victorian tenement, blackened by years of pollution, forgotten by the march of gentrification. ‘I know you don’t think he’s our offender.’

  Caffery stopped the car and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Dunno.’ He wound up the window, got out of the car and was about to close the door when he hesitated and put his head back inside. ‘Our offender’s got a car, that’s certain.’

  ‘He’s got a car. Is that it?’ Essex heaved himself out of the Jaguar and slammed his door. ‘Haven’t you got a better theory than ”He’s got a car”?’

  ‘No.’ He span the car keys on his fingers and pocketed them. ‘Not yet.’

  In Harrison’s building the lift was broken, so they climbed the four flights of stairs, Caffery stopping once in a while to let Essex catch up.

  Maddox had explained Paul Essex to Caffery early on. ‘Every team’s got to have a joker. In B team we’ve got Essex. Likes geeing the lads up—swears he gets home at night and slips into a baby doll to do the hoovering. It’s bullshit, of course—go along with it, but still take him seriously. Truth is he’s solid, the cornerstone …’

  And slowly Caffery was starting to believe in the innate goodness of this drayhorse of a man. He took his cues from the way women treated Essex: like a wounded old bear—they flirted and teased him, sat on his lap and lightly slapped him for his jokes. But maybe they secretly understood that he operated from an emotional base-line deeper than their capabilities; at the age of thirty-seven DS Essex still lived alone. This awareness brought Caffery moments of guilt for the ease and lightness of his life compared to Essex’s. Even now the physical inequalities proved themselves: Caffery reached Harrison’s cool, ready, Essex dragged himself the last few steps to stand panting at the top, sweating and red-faced, pulling on his shirt collar and tugging at his trousers where they stuck to his legs. He took several minutes to recover.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yup,’ he nodded, wiping his forehead. ‘Go on.’

  Jack knocked on Harrison’s door.

  ‘What?’ The voice from inside the flat was sleepy.

  Caffery bent down to the letterbox. ‘Mr Harrison? Barry Harrison?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Caffery.’ He shot a look at Essex. They could smell marijuana. ‘We’d like a few words.’

  A hiss, and the sound of a body rolling out of bed. Then a tap running—a toilet flushed and the door opened, the safety chain neatly bisecting a face—bulbous blue eyes and a patchy beard.

  ‘Mr Harrison?�
� He flashed his card.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Can DS Essex and I come in?’

  ‘If you tell me why, yeah.’ He was thin and freckled, naked from the waist up.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Shellene Craw.’

  ‘She’s not here, mate. Hasn’t been for days.’ He started to shut the door but Caffery leaned his shoulder into it.

  ‘I want to talk about her, not to her.’

  Harrison eyed Caffery and then Essex as if deciding who’d come out best in a scrap. ‘Look, she and me, we’re finished. If she’s in trouble, I’m sorry, but we weren’t married or nothing, see, so I ain’t responsible for her.’

  ‘We won’t keep you, sir.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ The door closed and they heard the safety lock being unhooked. ‘Let’s get it over with, then. Come on, come on.’

  Harrison’s living room was small and grubby, opening on one side to a balcony and on the other to a kitchen dotted with pallid spider plants, KFC boxes. The floor was scattered with cigarette papers and tobacco.

  Caffery sat, uninvited, on a blue PVC chair near the window and folded his arms.

  ‘When did you last see Shellene, Mr Harrison?’

  ‘Dunno. Coupla weeks.’

  ‘Any more specific?’

  ‘What’s she got into now?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, is that a week or a month?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’ Harrison pulled on a T-shirt and took a cigarette pack from his jeans. He stuck a Silk Cut between clenched teeth and retrieved a disposable lighter from the floor. ‘It was after my birthday.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘May tenth.’

  ‘She was living here, wasn’t she?’

  ‘You’re fucking good, you are.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I dunno, do I? She did a runner. Went out one night and never come back.’ He tensed his hand and smacked its heel across the other palm, letting it shoot away towards the window. ‘But that was Shellene for you. Left half her crap in the bedroom.’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  ‘No, I was, you know, so pissed off I chucked it—her stripping stuff and that.’

  ‘She was a stripper?’

  ‘On her good days. But with Shellene it’s always borderline hooking. Catch her fucking Arabs in Portland Place, did you?’

  ‘Did you report her missing?’

  Harrison clicked his tongue sarcastically. ‘Missing? Missing what? A conscience?’

  ‘She left her stuff here, didn’t you wonder?’

  ‘Why would I? When she moved in here it was with just her make-up, ghetto blaster, a few syringes, y’know, the usual.’

  ‘Did you wonder if something had gone wrong?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No. We were near our end anyway. It weren’t no big surprise to me when she never come back that night …’ His voice trailed off. He looked from Essex to Caffery and back again. ‘Hey,’ he said, suddenly nervous. ‘What’re you getting at here?’ When neither replied something dawned in Harrison’s eyes. He hurriedly lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘I’m not going to want to hear this, am I? Come on. You better say it quick. What is she? Dead or something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘God.’ The blood drained from his face. He dropped onto the sofa. ‘I should have guessed. I should’ve guessed the moment I saw you. A fucking overdose.’

  ‘Probably not an overdose. Probably looking at an unlawful killing.’

  Harrison stared at Caffery without blinking. Then, as if he could protect himself from the words, his hands went up to his ears. Pale pink needle tracks were visible on the white forearms.

  ‘Jesus,’ he forced out. ‘Jesus, I can’t—’ He sucked hard on the Silk Cut, his eyes watering. ‘Wait there,’ he said suddenly, leapt up and disappeared into the corridor.

  Caffery and Essex looked at each other for a moment. They could hear him shuffling round in the bedroom, drawers being opened. Essex spoke first.

  ‘Didn’t know. Did he?’

  ‘No.’

  They were silent for a moment. Someone below had woken and was firing up the stereo. Trance, the sort of thing Caffery had heard a thousand times interviewing around clubs when he was in CID. He shifted in his seat. ‘What the hell’s he doing in there?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Essex trailed off. ‘Jesus, you don’t think—’

  ‘Shit.’ Caffery jumped up and in the hallway slammed the flat of his hand against the bedroom door. ‘Don’t fucking shoot up on me, Barry,’ he shouted. ‘Can you hear me? Don’t fucking do it. I’ll have you for it.’

  The door opened and Harrison’s face appeared, immobile. ‘You can’t do me for jellies. They’re prescription. Before the ban.’ Holding the inside of his left elbow he pushed past them into the living room. Caffery followed, swearing softly.

  ‘We need to speak to you. We can’t do it if you’re ripped to the tits.’

  ‘I’m more use to you on it than off. I’ll be clearer.’

  ‘Clearer,’ Essex muttered and shook his head.

  Harrison dropped himself onto the sofa and pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around his calves in a strangely girl-like way. ‘Spent most of my time with Shellene stoned.’ He tilted his head back. For a moment Caffery thought he was going to cry. Instead he tightened his mouth and said, ‘OK. Tell me. Where was she?’

  ‘South-east.’

  ‘Greenwich?’

  Caffery looked up. ‘Yeah. How d’you know?’

  Harrison dropped his arms and shook his head. ‘She was always hanging around there. Most of her work was down there. And when? When did it happen?’

  ‘We found her yesterday morning.’

  ‘Yeah but, you know—’ He coughed. ‘When did she—’

  ‘About the time you last saw her.’

  ‘Shit.’ Harrison sighed. He lit another cigarette and pulled on it, dropping his head back, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Go on then, let’s get it over with. What d’you want to know?’

  Caffery sat on the sofa arm and fished his notepad out of his jacket. ‘This is a statement, all right, so tell me now if you’re too off your face to do it.’ When Harrison didn’t reply, Caffery nodded. ‘OK, I’m taking that as a go-ahead. DS Essex here is our family liaison officer, he’ll be the one you contact whenever you deal with us. He’s going to stay with you after I’ve gone, go through the statement with you, ask you to help us contact Shellene’s family. We want details till they’re coming out of our ears: what she was wearing, what make-up she used, what underwear she had on, did she prefer EastEnders or the Street.’ He stopped. ‘And I suppose it’s a waste of time him getting you in to see a CDT counsellor? Stop you turning your veins into pebbles?’

  Harrison put his hand to his head. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Thought so.’ He sighed. ‘Now, do you know where Shellene was going that night?’

  ‘One of her pubs. She had a gig.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dunno. Ask her agent.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Who is Little Darlings.’

  ‘Little Darlings?’

  ‘Not well named, trust me on that. It’s Earl’s Court way.’

  ‘OK. And any other names? Anyone she hung out with?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Harrison stuck the Silk Cut between his teeth. ‘There was Julie Darling, agent.’ He counted the names off on his fingers. ‘And the girls—Pussy, funny how there’s always a Pussy, isn’t it? And Pinky and Tracy or Lacey or some shite, Petra and Betty and that—’ He slammed his hands down on his knees, suddenly angry. ‘That makes six, and that is the sum total of what I knew about Shellene’s life, and you tell me that you’re surprised I never reported her missing, like I knew or something, you bunch of fucking wankers—’

  ‘OK, O
K. Take it easy.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ He was exasperated. ‘I’m taking it easy. Fucking easy.’ He turned and stared out of the window. No-one spoke for a moment. Harrison gazed out at the roofs of the Mile End Road, the greenish domes of Spiegelhalter’s emporium high in the blue. A pigeon landed on the balcony and Harrison shucked his shoulders, sighed and turned to Caffery.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You better tell me now.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘You know. Did the cunt rape her?’

  The sun had put Caffery into a better mood by the time he got to Mackelson Mews, Earl’s Court. He found the agency easily: LITTLE DARLINGS on the door in peeling gold stick-on letters.

  Julie Darling was a small woman in her mid-forties, shiny dyed-black hair cut in a neat page, her nose improbably tiny on the taut face. She was dressed in a strawberry-pink velour jogging suit and matching high-heeled mule slippers and she held her head up and back as if balancing an invisible glass as she led Caffery through the cork-tiled hallway. A white Persian cat, disturbed by Jack’s presence, scampered ahead of them into an open doorway. Caffery heard a man’s voice speaking to it in the depth of the room.

  ‘My husband,’ Julie said expressionlessly. ‘I got him in Japan twenty years ago.’ She closed the door. Caffery had a brief glimpse of a huge man in a vest, seated on the edge of a bed, scratching his stomach with the lugubriousness of a walrus. The room was lit dimly by the sun coming through a crack in the curtains. ‘American air force,’ she whispered, as if that explained why he wouldn’t be joining them.

  Caffery followed her into the office: a low-ceilinged room, brilliant sunlight coming through two small leaded windows. A bee buzzed in the window boxes, and beyond them a red E-type basked in the sun. Somewhere in the mews someone was practising arpeggios on a piano.