Birdman

by Mo Hayder

‘The wig,’ Caffery whispered, nodding at the Polaroid.

  Essex came and stood behind him, giving a whistle through his teeth. ‘You were right, Jack. You were spot on right.’

  On the far wall they came face to face with a Polaroid of Susan Lister, naked and blood-streaked, bound and gagged, her eyes blackened and swollen.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  Blurred arcs across the photograph, across her face. A white shape in the bottom corner. Caffery understood. Bliss had photographed himself ejaculating over Susan Lister’s broken face.

  In the kitchen they found fresh blood on the draining board. Smashed plates on the floor. They inspected the freezer, the array of surgical tools in one of the drawers. In the second bedroom Caffery put his hand on Essex’s arm. ‘Look.’

  Above the bed a fine spray of blood fanned across the wall like an ornamental headboard. The sheets were bloodstained, and in the centre of the mattress a yellowing towel curled around two jellied shapes. ‘What are they?’ Essex approached, cautious. ‘They’re like—’

  ‘I know what they are.’ Caffery stood and looked at the two implants, the little plug on the underside of one congealed with drying blood and fat. ‘Joni. He cut them out of her.’

  The world was dry by the time the blue Peugeot reached Wildacre Cottage. The bungalow lay at the end of an easement which bisected a field of corn, long and mellow and flat, like a blonde girl’s wet hair. It was secluded—there was no danger of being observed as he dragged the women, pillowcases over their heads, into the dark bungalow and propped them up in the hallway, against the frosted glass panel at the side of the door.

  When the Clitoris had started screaming Bliss’s nerves got the better of him. He knew he had to risk the journey. Loading them had been relatively easy—one in the well beneath the back seat and the other into the boot. Covered with anoraks and an old sleeping bag. Though he was agitated, glancing up the street, expecting the police any minute—in practice, on this watery midweek lunchtime, there had been few people interested in stopping to watch an unremarkable-looking man load his car.

  The shelter of the carport had helped. That and the fact that both women had been beaten into unconsciousness with the battery end of the power saw.

  He went back to the car and took four Sainsbury’s carrier bags from the boot, carrying them into the house, the screen door clattering behind him. He muttered to the two women as he unpacked the bags, filled bowls with M&Ms and wine gums, hung paper-chains in the windows and blew up pastel-coloured balloons. Telling them this was his birthday, explaining to them his plans for the day. Neither one could hear him but he mumbled on anyway, scratching at his face.

  When Essex came out of the flat the rain had stopped. He went into the garden where the cranes of the building site were outlined against the clearing sky and found Jack standing in the middle of the lawn staring at something in the long grass.

  ‘Jack?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Jack? What’s up?’

  Caffery looked round, his eyes blank. Silently he gestured to what lay on the ground.

  ‘What is it?’ Essex approached. At Jack’s feet, in the wet grass, a bicycle. Painted white and grey. On its side as if it had been thrown there. ‘A bicycle?’

  ‘Rebecca’s,’ Caffery said quietly. ‘It’s Rebecca’s.’

  He called her flat on the way back to the car. The answerphone picked up. He left a message and called Shrivemoor.

  Marilyn answered. ‘Jack, good. I’ve just had Amedure on. That hair—it’s a match. She wants you to—’

  ‘Marilyn, listen to me. Tell Steve we’re onto something—I need the TSG with us. And a forensic search—Quinn, Logan. We’re in Brazil Street, PL.’

  ‘OK, OK—hang on.’ He heard her murmuring to someone. Then Maddox on the line.

  ‘Jack? Where are you?’

  ‘Lewisham. Brazil Street.’

  ‘What number Brazil Street?’

  ‘Thirty-four A.’

  Maddox was silent for a moment. In the back ground someone was shouting excitedly. Maddox cleared his throat. ‘Jack, we’ve got a hit on that address. We’ve seen it before. Harteveld’s phone bill. He dialled someone at Thirty-four A Brazil Street twice the morning after Craw went missing and twice the week he topped himself. Logan and Betts are on their way over now.’

  ‘It’s him, Steve—’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Photos, surgical gear, scalpels. The name is Malcolm Bliss. He’s running scared. A blue Peugeot. He’s got someone with him.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Maddox sounded weary.

  ‘I think he’s heading out to the country somewhere. I’ll have an address in about ten. I want Territorial Support with us.’

  ‘OK—Marilyn’ll get onto CCIR—so a briefing at Greenwich in—what, thirty minutes?’

  ‘Make it twenty.’

  ... 50

  Caffery and Essex were surprised to find Lola Velinor, her handsome black hair tied in a bun, discreet pearls worn over navy-blue linen, sitting in the office at St Dunstan’s. Now they understood that Peace’s body had not been left in her front garden by accident.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were in personnel.’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘Who’s senior?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And Bliss?’

  ‘Malcolm? Malcolm’s my assistant. He’s on leave.’

  ‘He knew Harteveld.’

  She cocked her head and frowned. ‘Yes. I told you that when you interviewed me. So?’

  Essex sat at her desk and leaned forward, speaking in soft tones, his head tilted confidentially. But Caffery was impatient.

  ‘Don’t give her a fucking life story, Paul. We need an address.’

  Lola Velinor looked up at him, the planes of her Byzantine face slanted upwards, her long eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t have to give you anything, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong—Section seventeen, Article nineteen, I can seize records now if I choose—’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Essex held up his hand. ‘Jack, let’s do this calmly.’

  Lola Velinor closed her lips and inclined her head gracefully. Silently she rose and took them into the darkest recess of the office to where Wendy, posted back to personnel, sat as quiet as a mouse, sipping tea, dwarfed by filing cabinets.

  ‘Inspector Caffery!’ Wendy stood. ‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of—’

  ‘Wendy.’ Lola Velinor’s angular jaw worked subtly under the skin. ‘Give Inspector Caffery all Malcolm’s details.’

  ‘Malcolm?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Oh.’ She turned to the nearest filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. Her tiny fox face closed and a flush crept up from the base of her neck. ‘Here.’ She opened the file. ‘Thirty-four A Brazil Street, that’s Lewisham. And then there’s his mother’s old place, she died last year, left him a cottage in Kent: Wildacre Cottage. There’s the address, the phone number if you need it.’

  Essex wrote the details down and Wendy blinked at him from behind her thick glasses.

  ‘He used to unzip himself under the desk,’ she blurted, sitting down suddenly. ‘If you know what I mean, and rub himself when he was talking to women. They couldn’t see on the other side of the desk. But I could.’ She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her mouth for a moment. Her hand was trembling. ‘Is that why he’s in trouble?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Essex said. ‘Something like that.’

  The butt of the power tool had created a small subdural haematoma at the back of Rebecca’s head. Blood leaked into it very slowly—giving her moments of drowsiness, some pain if she moved her chin downwards. But her thought processes were unimpaired—the moment she woke she knew exactly what was happening.

  She lay still at first, eyes closed—constructing a picture of herself and exactly what Bliss had done. He had removed her shorts, her underwear and using—s
he guessed—the same packing tape, had bound her legs together from her toes to mid-thigh. He had left her T-shirt on and positioned her on the floor, on her side, her hands pressed against her stomach. When she wiggled them she realized the fingers were bound too, each one taped to its neighbour.

  And Bliss was here. About five yards in front of her face. Slightly to her right. She could hear him and smell him. He was muttering to himself, spinning out a sentence, sing-song, ridiculous.

  Insane. He is insane, Becky. And you are going to die.

  A string of imprecations, see-sawing, lilting, comforting, persuading; a one-sided conversation, Bliss following his own perverse loop of logic.

  She bent her attention forward, reaching out under his ramblings—searching through the layers of sound to sense the dimensions and temperatures of the room. They weren’t in the flat any more. She knew that from the change in air, from the acoustics. It was quiet here. Only birdsong outside. No trains, no cars, no inner city rumbling. As peaceful as a childhood bedroom. So the suburbs, then? Or the country? They could be miles from any other houses; and no-one knew she was here—

  The rambling stopped. Rebecca held her breath and listened hard. When she was sure Bliss had left the room, she opened her eyes and let her breath out.

  The room was dim—about the size she had pictured. Sunlight traced the patterns on the closed curtains, large cabbage roses, birds, peacock plumes. Beyond swinging saloon doors, a darkened kitchen. In the foreground, less than two yards from where she lay, six pale pink Lloyd Loom chairs were pulled up neatly next to a bamboo and glass table, on which had been arranged paper plates, a bottle of cherry brandy, party hats, a half-eaten birthday cake. Overhead, whispering and shivering like a crowd of fascinated onlookers—scores of balloons. Posy pink, lavender and sun yellow, jostling for space on the ceiling, tails lifting lazily in the cool air, and Joni—what was left of Joni—propped in one of the wicker chairs. Taped upright with the packing tape, but dead.

  Dead? She must be dead—looking like that she must be—

  Bliss appeared from the kitchen, naked and obscene.

  Rebecca froze—caught with her eyes wide open. But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he crossed to Joni, humming to himself, lightly fingering his small, leaking penis, cherry red against the soft white thighs. He paused at the table, swigging from the brandy and watching Joni thoughtfully. Then he wiped his mouth, put the bottle down and in one swift move—agile in spite of his build—levered himself onto the table, knelt in front of Joni, caught the back of her head and fed himself into her mouth.

  Rebecca lay appalled, paralysed. Compelled to watch as Bliss worked, pounding at Joni’s face, driving himself harder and harder into her.

  See? He’s not human, you can’t reason with him.

  Joni retched violently under the assault: her throat convulsed, spasms shuddered across her abdomen as if her muscles were unlatched from their neural system, but still he worked on, squealing softly to himself, his eyes turned inwards with lust. When he was finished he withdrew slowly from Joni’s mouth, pausing a moment to rest her face in his soft fingers and look into her eyes. Then, nodding to himself, he gently lowered her chin onto her chest, crawled off the table and left the room.

  Rebecca didn’t move. She lay quite still for several moments.

  Then: ‘Joni?‘ she whispered.

  Silence. Joni sat in profile, naked and bruised, her head dropped forward onto her chest. On the table had been placed a slice of untouched birthday cake and a champagne flute. A small paper party napkin was spread on her lap and her hair had been cut into a fringe. Beneath it, where there should have been the natural dips and curves of eye, cheek and forehead, stretched a tender, dappled blood-bladder.

  ‘Joni?‘ Rebecca shuffled forward a few painful inches. ‘Joni?’

  Joni rolled her head sideways. For a moment she seemed not to recognize Rebecca, then her tongue flickered.

  ‘Please—‘ Her voice was thready, less than a whisper. A tear appeared in her healthy eye. ‘Please don’t watch.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Rebecca licked her lips and hiked herself up on her elbow, wincing at the pain in her head and neck. ‘It’s OK.’

  She tried to feel for the end of the tape to free her legs, but Bliss had been clever with the neat little tape mittens he’d made for her—when she tore at them with her teeth they only grew tighter. She dropped her hands, panting.

  There has to be something—come on, Becky—there’s a way out of this; everything’s there, right there waiting. Think—

  Carefully recording any object of use: next to a gas fire a silver-plated carousel holding fire tongs, poker, a miniature shovel—on the Formica surface of the kitchen, pushed up in the shadows next to the curtained window, a neat wooden knife block. And on the table? She couldn’t see properly from this angle. But knives—have to be some knives, even a fork. Could be to the table and back in twenty seconds. You’d hear him returning.

  A deep breath and she rolled onto her front, balling her face at the pain and nausea. She slammed her hands down on the floor and shuffled her lower body around. A sudden picture of herself, eyes swollen, half naked, broken and bloodied, dragging herself along the floor like a dog crippled by a car: she clenched her teeth, wouldn’t entertain the image. The table was only a yard away—she was nearly there. She dragged her legs forward and—

  A toilet flushed somewhere. A door closed.

  Rebecca froze—heart thumping, eyes wide.

  Wendy Dellaney considered herself a loyal person. She was proud of St Dunstan’s reputation. Proud to be a part of it. And furious, just furious that Malcolm Bliss had brought more shame to them. She sat at her desk, staring at Malcolm’s files shivering, sipping her tea and taking deep breaths. ‘I’ve a good mind to—’ She picked up the phone.

  ‘Wendy?’ Lola Velinor’s head snapped up. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him. He’s a dirty, dirty nasty little man—’

  ‘No no no.’ Lola stood and gently removed the receiver from her fingers. ‘Don’t interfere. You don’t know how serious it is. Let the police deal with it.’

  Wendy, with her scared little pin-prick eyes, shrank back into the corner, trying to disappear inside her Nightingale print dress. Ten minutes later, when Velinor left to meet the hospital registrar, inform him of the police visit, the incident had been forgotten. Wendy waited till the door closed, then reached for the phone.

  ... 51

  Bliss stood over her. Looking at her curiously as if she were a small snail he had found crawling across his living-room floor.

  ‘Awake?’ he murmured lightly.

  ‘She’s dying.’ Rebecca tried to bend her legs up, get some leverage, but the tape dug into her flesh, cutting the blood supply. She gave up and dropped back, panting. ‘If you don’t stop you’ll kill her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bliss picked thoughtfully at the inside of his nostril. ‘Yes.’ He put his hand on his knees and bent in to get a better view of Joni, her head lolling limply against her chest. Then, nodding to himself, he straightened.

  ‘Yes,’ he said wiping his hands on his fat thighs. ‘You’re right. Now you. You want it again?’

  Shaky, in pain, she held her hand up. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘Too late. I already have.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No,’ he said pleasantly. ‘After I splattered you all over my kitchen I fucked what was left. You were unconscious.’

  Not true.

  ‘Look.’ He pressed the tip of his penis, wet and distended, between his fingers and smiled. ‘See? I’m ready. I’ll cut your tape off and then you can open your legs for me.’

  ‘They know I’m with you. I called them before I came to your flat—told them where I was going. They’re on the way.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Her voice trembled but she kept her head up. ‘First they’ll telephone and then they’ll arrive
at the door.’

  ‘I said shut up.’ He rolled his tongue around his mouth. ‘Now lie down quietly and—’

  Suddenly, shockingly, from the hallway the phone rang. Bliss twitched, his eyes reluctantly flickering to the doorway, and Rebecca saw she had him.

  He believed her.

  ‘That’s them,’ she whispered, building on this stroke of serendipity. ‘That’s them on the phone.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Go on. Answer it and see.’ She waved her hand at the door. ‘It’s them. They’ll want to negotiate with you—they’ll make you think you’re safe, but whatever happens they’ll get you, Malcolm—’ She should have seen it coming, but Bliss was the one with the predator’s heart, not she. ‘SHUT UP, CUNT!’ A foot slammed into her stomach.

  She rolled sideways, panting, struggling not to vomit. Overhead the balloons shifted, murmuring and bouncing as if they’d like a better view of her struggle. Now she could hear Bliss rummaging in the kitchen drawers, in the drawers that she had earmarked knives and scissors. She rolled her eyes to the kitchen and just had time to see—gleaming gently as if it were capable of anticipation—a single, steel butcher’s hook protruding from the ceiling, before Bliss came out carrying a length of electric flex and a roll of cling-film. He slid a scalpel up the inside of her thighs, splitting the tape.

  ‘NOW OPEN YOUR FUCKING LEGS, CUNT!’

  In spite of herself Rebecca started to whimper.

  ... 52

  Wildacre Cottage was not a cottage at all, but an ugly pre-cast concrete bungalow with a red-tiled roof and a generator tacked on the back. It lay above the Thames estuary on the rim of a pine forest in the yellow rapeseed fields due east of Dartford. Out here the air was salty, lines of yew trees, born and grown in the sea wind, fringed the fields, their branches straining inland like harpies’ hair. Two miles north, on the other side of the blue estuary, the silent horizon thickened into the sandy-coloured slab of Southend.

  Caffery stopped the Jaguar in a sheltered lane. He, Essex and Maddox swivelled in their seats, leather creaking, and watched the Territorial Support Group’s three armoured Sherpa vans pull in, followed by a fire truck and ambulance.