Birdman

'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 labelled. 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.'