Birdman

'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.

'It mightn't be her. That's what you got to tell yourself, Dor.'

'But it might, mightn't it? Oh, Jesus.' She turned dull eyes to the window. 'You'd think they'd let you smoke in here, wouldn't you?'

The glass doors opened and one of F team stepped into the cool, a half-smile on his face. DI Diamond followed, removing sunglasses, laughing. He glanced at Rebecca and let the laugh fade to a small, knowing smile as the two men crossed reception on the way to the coroner's office. When they had rounded the corner the laughter continued.

'How about this one, then, eh?' Diamond said. 'Listen, yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'OK. What's the difference between a hooker and an onion?'

'Go on, then. What?'

'C'mon, a hooker and an onion.'

'Yeah, what? I give up.'

'OK.' He paused, and from the squeak of shoe leather on lino Caffery knew Diamond had stopped and turned to the other officer. 'You can cut up a hooker without crying.'

In reception four people stared at the floor. Caffery sprang to his feet and rounded the corner.

'Hey.'

Diamond turned mildly surprised eyes to him. 'All right?'

'Use a bit of fucking decorum,' he hissed. 'You know where you are.'

'Sorry, mate.' Diamond raised a hand. 'Won't happen again.' He turned and the two men continued in the direction of the coroner's property office, softly snickering, their shoulders dipping in to each other as if Caffery's intervention made the joke even sweeter. Caffery breathed out slowly and returned to reception. The damage was done. Kayleigh's mother's face was wet with new tears.

'Oh, Doreen, oh, Dor.' The aunt buried her face in her sister's collar. 'Don't cry, Doreen.'

'But what if it's my baby in there, my baby, my little, little girl? What if it's her?'

11

Kayleigh Hatch was identified by her aunt.

'She's cut her hair, but it's her. I'm sure of it.'

And AMIP had four positive IDs out of five. The chief superintendent had decided to lift the press moratorium that evening so Maddox agreed they could risk a visit to the pub.

The rain had settled with depressing familiarity on London. It was a fresh, acidic rain, spring-bright compared to the usual greasy drizzle, but it was still rain. Seven of them, carrying raincoats, set out in two cars. Diamond drove two of F team in the Sierra. Caffery took his Jaguar, with Maddox, Essex and Logan for passengers.