by Mo Hayder
‘Sure I’m sure.’
Essex sighed wearily and looked out of the window. ‘What is the world coming to?’
It was still light when Caffery got home, and he found Veronica on a recliner on the patio, sullen and silent, watching the shadows lengthen in the garden. She wore an apricot mohair cardigan draped around her shoulders and there was a half-empty bottle of Muscadet next to the recliner.
‘Evening,’ he said lightly. He wanted to ask her what she was doing in his house again, but the stiff angle of her head warned him she’d like to draw him into an argument. He passed and went to the end of the garden, linking his hands into the wire fence, facing away from her.
From across the railway cutting a thin plume of smoke rose into the pink sky. Caffery pressed his face against the wire. Penderecki.
Sometimes, in the evenings, Caffery would watch Penderecki in his garden, moving around, smoking and absently scratching between his buttocks like an old gorilla preparing for sleep. The garden was little more than a patch of grey earth between the house and the railway cutting, scattered with old engines, a fridge and a rusting axle from a trailer. The land on that side of the cutting had once been a brick field and gardeners in the row of Fifties houses still turned up half London Stocks on their hoes.
Hard soil to dig. Caffery didn’t think Ewan was buried there.
Penderecki, his back to Caffery, wore his customary nicotine-brown vest. One hand rested on a rake—next to him the battered incinerator coughed smoke into the air. Seventeen years ago Penderecki had discovered Caffery’s habit of collecting things, going through his rubbish, taking everything that might provide clues about Ewan. And this had become ritual: burning his household refuse, and, to ensure that Caffery knew about it, doing it in plain view, in the back garden.
As Caffery watched, Penderecki cleared his throat, hawked out phlegm onto the earth and became perfectly still, one hand on the incinerator lid, responding with his acute sensitivity to Jack’s presence. The knowing pose, the womanly hips, the grey hair slicked down over a bright pink scalp; Caffery felt the stirrings of ancient anger unravelling from him, as if Penderecki could reel it in across the hundred yards of evening air which separated them.
Penderecki turned slowly to face him and smiled.
Blood rushed to Caffery’s face. He pushed himself away from the fence, angry at being caught, and strode back down the garden.
From the patio Veronica regarded him steadily.
‘What?’ He stopped. ‘What are you staring at?’
In reply she breathed out loudly through her nose and half closed her eyes.
‘What? What is it?’
She sighed heavily.
Caffery opened his hands. ‘What?’
And then he remembered. The tests.
‘Jesus.’ He shook his head, deflated. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s back. The Hodgkin’s is back.’ The eyes narrowed, her face twisted, but no tears came.
Caffery stood quite still, staring at her. This was it, then.
‘Dr Cavendish called. The fact is I have to start the chemo again.’ She tightened the cardigan around her shoulders. ‘But, look, we’re not going to make a fuss about it. OK?’
Caffery dropped his head and stared blindly at the concrete. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ She reached over and patted him on the hand. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘We’ll cancel the party,’ he said.
‘No! No, I won’t have anyone feeling sorry for me. We’re not cancelling the party.’
... 9
By the time the morning meeting started Caffery had spoken to Virgo, an east London agency who represented 22-year-old Kayleigh Hatch, stripper, sometime prostitute, full-time drugs user. They remembered the Bugs Bunny tattoo and when Caffery heard that the last gig Kayleigh had done had been at the Dog and Bell he asked Virgo to courier over a photograph.
He taped it to the whiteboard next to the shots of Petra Spacek, Shellene Craw and Michelle Wilcox.
‘This pub’s our starting point.’ He rested his elbows on the desk and looked at the assembled investigating teams. ‘We’ve got surveillance on it as of this a.m. but the DCS has made it clear that before we go in mob-handed he wants IDs on the victims. So today we’re working on that.’ He nodded at the new photo. ‘Now—Hatch. At last a name. I think this is victim number four we’re looking at. And the only one, if you think back to the PM protocol, who didn’t have the wounds to the head. Other than that, she fits the pattern: drugs use, prostitution. And, like the others, she wasn’t raped. If she had intercourse it was consensual, a condom was used.’ He paused, allowing that to sink in. ‘Hatch’s mother put her on the missing persons two weeks ago. She’s over in Brentford—so, Essex, you might like to make that an action for this morning. But notice that the only other person reported missing was Wilcox. All the others were suspiciously easy to spirit away, weren’t they? Think about that when you’re on the knock. Now, Logan.’ He addressed the exhibits officer. ‘How’s that DNA coming along?’
‘Almost worthless for much more than blood group, sir. Too degraded even for a polymerase chain.’
‘The blood group?’
‘AB neg. Not Harrison’s.’
‘Anything from toxicology?’
‘Nothing at present.’
‘So we still don’t know how he’s sedating them?’
‘Still no guesses.’
‘OK.’ He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Last night Veronica had slid effortlessly into sleep beside him, while he, restless and wide-eyed, lay awake far into the night, staring at her back, as if he might see the spectre of the cancer creeping through the soft muscles and veins. ‘OK, Logan, let us know when you hear anything.’ He put his pen down and nodded at Maddox. ‘Yes. That’s all.’
‘Right.’ Maddox leaned forward in his seat. ‘Now—I know I’m pissing in the wind here but I’m going to ask you nicely, very nicely, to make sure none of the team attach a moniker to this case. We refer to him as the ”target” or the ”offender”. None of this ”Birdman” shit I’ve been hearing. And I never want to come in here and find the blinds up, I don’t care how hot it gets: the press are holding fire, but for how long is anybody’s guess: so, just to reiterate, I can’t say it enough times: be circumspect.’
He looked around at the faces with his intense grey eyes, trying to spot a weak link. Everyone met his gaze. He nodded, satisfied.
‘Right. Bollocking over.’ He put his fountain pen in his pocket. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. Get those actions knocked out today, phone-ins every two hours and see you back here at seven. Be careful out there, and all that shit.’ He had risen from his seat and was gathering his papers when someone spoke from the back of the room.
‘Yes, sorry, sir, there’s something else.’
All heads turned. DI Diamond, neatly shaved and dressed in a dark grey Pierre Cardin suit, sat tapping his fingers on his knee. Everyone in the room leaned forward a fraction.
‘DI Diamond.’ Maddox sat down.
‘A result from the door-to-door. A sighting.’
The room became very quiet. Caffery reopened his file and put his glasses back on. This should have come up at the beginning of the meeting.
‘A sighting?’ Maddox frowned. ‘Why didn’t you—?’
‘It’s a sensitive one. Sir.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s an IC3, sir. Sits in a red car outside the crusher’s yard. Hangs around for hours, doing nothing, parked up, just his side lights on.’
‘OK.’ Maddox opened his file and uncapped his fountain pen. ‘Any follow-ups? An index?’
‘No. Possibly might be talking a D reg. I thought, you know, being an IC3, might be a sensitive subject. Then there’s this.’ He bent over and pulled a bag from under his seat. It was a plastic exhibits bag, tagged and double labe
lled. He held it up, a few earth-caked bottles rolled against each other.
‘You’ve lost me,’ Maddox said.
‘Wray & Nephew rum.’ Diamond’s face was pale, controlled, as if there was a smirk waiting in the cheek muscles. ‘These were found within a radius of five feet from the first body. More were found near the others.’ Maddox looked blank. ‘Wray & Nephew, sir. It’s as Jamaican as signing on.’
Caffery and Kryotos exchanged a look. Maddox put his pen down.
‘Not necessary or constructive, Mr Diamond.’ His face was tight. ‘And you need my permission to remove anything from the exhibits room.’
‘It’s a lead.’
‘A lead, for fuck’s sake?’ Caffery muttered.
Diamond stared at him, suddenly cold. ‘And you’ve got a better idea?’
‘Several—’
‘OK,’ Maddox interrupted, tapping his pen impatiently. ‘We’ll add this as a slant to all interviews. If a name comes up, find out subtly what colour they are. And I do mean subtly.’ He capped his pen. ‘We’ll apply for a second surveillance on the yard. Even if this isn’t the target we still need to speak to him. And, Diamond—’
‘Yeah?’
‘Cut the racist crap.’ He stood up. ‘OK?’
... 10
Caffery left the meeting without speaking to Maddox. He didn’t like the change in the air. He didn’t believe that the killer was black: he believed, just from Krishnamurthi’s findings, that Birdman’s trail would be picked up somewhere between the Trafalgar Road pub and a local hospital. Not a doctor and probably not an unskilled ancillary worker—but someone connected to the medical profession, possibly from the skilled or professional ranks. Maybe a technician or administrator. Even a nurse.
He parked outside the junk shop and was about to put money in the Pay and Display when a door slammed and Rebecca trotted out to the car. She was wearing a short cotton shift dress in pale pink and her long cinnamon hair fell in a straight line to her waist. She jumped into the back seat and the battered old Jaguar was suddenly filled with her perfume.
He swivelled round. ‘You OK about this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully and put the car into gear. ‘I don’t know.’
They drove the two short blocks to the mortuary in silence, Caffery watching her in the rear-view mirror. She stared out of the window, her shoulders relaxed, one hand in her lap, her long glossy legs pushed negligently out, as the shadows of lampposts and houses flickered across her face. Rebecca’s cooperation was a fragile oddity, he wasn’t sure he knew how to preserve it.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’ he said as they walked through the memorial garden towards reception.
‘About what Joni does? What I did?’ She didn’t turn to him. She held her head erect with an odd, First Lady solemnity. ‘Are you going to ask me how I ended up doing that?’
‘No.’ He patted his pockets, feeling for his tobacco. ‘I was going to ask you why you share with Joni.’
‘Shouldn’t I?’
‘You’re very different people.’
‘Because she’s from a lower class, you mean?’
‘No. I—’ He stopped. Maybe that was what he meant. ‘She seems much younger than you.’
‘We’re in love. Isn’t that clear?’
Caffery smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘But that’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? It’s the first thing most men want to know: are we screwing each other.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’m human, it was the first thing I asked myself. But I’m thinking of something else. You’ve got your painting; you’ve got a purpose, Joni’s just—’
‘Drifting?’
‘Yes.’
‘And because she takes drugs?’
‘I don’t think you do.’
‘I do if I feel like it.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘I’m an artist, Mr Caffery, I’m expected to be dissolute. And Joni will find her purpose soon. It took me long enough.’
‘You’re going to hang around and wait?’
She thought about this for a moment, her head tilted on one side. ‘Well, yes,’ she said slowly, pushing her hair back. ‘I owe her, I guess …’ She paused, thinking how to phrase it. ‘It sounds dumb, thinking about it, a dumb reason for sticking by someone, but Joni—’ She caught his look and broke off, smiling. ‘No. I’m making this too easy for you.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’ve just told you, I’m making it too easy.’ She paused outside reception and turned to him. ‘Anyway, now you have to tell me something.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Am I ever going to be able to forget what I see today?’
‘It gets different people different ways.’
‘How does it get you?’
‘You want to know?’
‘That’s why I asked.’
Caffery glanced through the smoked-glass doors into the air-conditioned reception area. ‘I think that ending up here, accounted for, is one step better than disappearing for ever. They might never have been found.’
At that Rebecca looked at him thoughtfully for a long time, her mouth in a soft, straight line, until he could stand the scrutiny no longer.
‘Enough,’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘Shall we go in?’
In the viewing booth the purple curtains rustled, proof of the presence of a mortician busying himself over Spacek’s body. Rebecca stood with her head twisted away, her fingers lightly resting on the glass.
‘It smells like a hospital,’ Rebecca said. ‘Is she going to smell?’
‘You won’t get that close.’
‘OK,’ she said tightly. ‘I’m ready.’
The electric curtains slowly peeled back. Petra Spacek’s eyes and mouth were closed. The stitching, where Krishnamurthi had pulled her scalp back over her skull and sewn it closed, was muffled in purple satin. The body had been prepared for this viewing, small cotton pads lay under the eyelids to plump out the flat eyeballs, but Caffery realized too late how bruised and distorted Spacek’s face was; he had forgotten in the carnage of the first post-mortem how it had been eroded away during the months in the crusher’s yard. Now he was embarrassed.
‘Rebecca, look, maybe this is a bad idea—’
But she had turned to see. Her eyes scanned the face for less than five seconds. She made a small noise in the back of her throat and turned away.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ She said it to the wall.
‘I shouldn’t have brought you here. She’s not recognizable.’
‘She is.’
‘You think it’s her?’
‘Yes. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. Give me a moment.’
‘Take your time.’
She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. ‘OK,’ she muttered. She caught her hair up into a bunch and held it against her neck, using the other hand to cover her mouth. Slowly she turned back to the body. Her eyes moved over the face, taking her time now, daring herself not to look away.
‘What are those marks on her forehead?’
‘We don’t know.’
She dropped her hair and turned to him. It was intended to seem casual but Caffery sensed it was to prevent her having to look at Spacek any more. ‘I think it’s her.’ She spoke in a whisper, her eyes flicking sideways, as if she was afraid Spacek might be listening.
‘You think?’
‘No. I’m sure it’s her.’
‘Her face has lost a lot of definition.’
Rebecca closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘She was thin anyway. You could always see her—her bones.’ She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him. For the first time he realized she was shivering. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Come on.’ He put a hand on her arm, conscious of the sudden coolness of her skin. ‘We’ll do the paperwork in reception.’
He brought her
water in a waxed paper cone.
‘Thanks.’
‘I want you to sign this.’ He sat next to her and opened his briefcase, searching for the forms. Rebecca put a cool hand on his wrist and pointed into the Samsonite.
‘What’s that?’
Spacek’s post-mortem photographs were visible in a clear plastic envelope. Caffery closed the briefcase.
‘I’m sorry you saw that.’
‘Was that when they brought her in? Was that what she looked like?’
‘I shouldn’t have allowed you to see that.’
‘Oh God.’ She crushed the paper cup. ‘It wasn’t any worse than the nightmares I’ve had since you two came knocking at my door.’
‘We’re trying to keep it brief.’
‘If that’s an apology it’s accepted.’
He put the briefcase on his lap and spread the forms out on it. ‘Here.’ He uncapped a pen with his teeth and placed crosses on the forms. ‘I need you to sign here and here. This tells me you’ve viewed the body and—’ He broke off. Someone had cleared their throat forcibly. A distinct shut up for a moment warning.
They both looked up.
DS Essex stood at the reception entrance, the door held open, one hand extended to usher in two women dressed almost identically in jeans and blouson leather jackets. They filed in meekly and took the seats Essex indicated without a word.
‘I’m just going to make sure that everything’s ready.’ Essex touched the hand of the older woman. ‘Tell your sister if you need anything. OK?’
She nodded dully and pressed a tissue to her mouth. Her face was expressionless, blank. Her jeans were skin tight, and there were little scabs on her ankles where her sandals had rubbed.
Rebecca stared stupidly at the two women, knowing, without knowing how she knew, that these were the relatives of another victim. Caffery was silent. He knew more. He knew the details. He knew that these were Kayleigh Hatch’s mother and aunt.
The aunt, who had been staring out past the potted palm to the sun-filled memorial garden, shifted in her seat, sighed and placed her arm around the other woman. Soft leather creaked.