'It doesn't retail in the south and there's only one developer in London using that batch — Korner-Mackelson's — I spoke to their chirpy secretary — they've a site down near Belmarsh, one in Canning Town and one in Lewisham.'
'Lewisham?' He glanced up at the traffic lights. 'OK. Where in Lewisham?'
'Greenwich border — Brazil Street. Off Blackheath Hill. An old school building. They're developing it into lofts.'
The lights were changing. Caffery cancelled the left signal and swerved in front of a car. Someone leaned on a horn. 'Marilyn? You there?'
'As always.'
'Tell Maddox for me, will you, tell him I'm running late. I'm about half an hour away — and, Marilyn? Apologize, OK?'
Today Greenwich reminded her of Paris, with the blue-striped awnings pulled down. Cars splashed the legs of pedestrians, shopkeepers stood looking out of the windows, faces lit by the odd, green, tropical light. She cycled fast, as if her sour anxiety could be pumped out like sweat.
In Lewisham the traffic was heavy. She found Brazil Street, easily, the construction workers, sheltering under the scaffolding on the old schoolhouse, waved and whistled at her, riding through the rain in her T-shirt and shorts. She propped her bike in number 34A's carport, next to Bliss's Peugeot. The rain was pattering on the corrugated plastic roof as she rang the bell.
'Yes?' He blinked nervously when he opened his front door and found her standing there. 'Yes? What do you want?'
'Joni.' She wiped the rain from her face and looked past him into the flat. A solitary green balloon floated like a ghost in the passage behind him. 'Is she here? I want to talk to J—'
'Yes. I heard you. W-what makes you think she's here? Eh?'
'I don't know — sometimes she ends up here — when she's had a drink.'
'Mmm…'
'Look—' She shook her head, exasperated. 'Malcolm, it's important. Do you know where she's gone?'
'Now, Pinky.' His tongue worked under the fat lips as if he was chewing something. He pulled his cardigan tight, covering the distended stomach. 'You know full well Joni's got no time for me.'
'OK.' She held up her hands and turned away. His self-pity irritated her. 'OK, I'm sorry. If you see her, tell her to call me. It's important.'
She was kicking down the bicycle pedal when she sensed that Bliss was still watching her from the doorway.
She looked up. 'Yes?'
'I—' He glanced apprehensively out into the street. 'I didn't say she wasn't here. I didn't say that.'
Rebecca frowned. 'Sorry?'
'You misinterpreted what I said.' Bliss stepped back from the door and gestured down the hallway. 'She's still asleep. Come in and I'll tell her you're here.'
Rebecca slowly pushed the bike back against the wall.
My God, Malcolm, you are the crown prince of weirdos. You really are.
She walked back to the door, shaking her head.
Brazil Street was a leafy, residential road, lined with dripping plum trees. The semi-detached Victorian houses boasted driveways and long, shrub-loaded front gardens. Most of them looked prosperous, garages added, drenched in Virginia creeper and honeysuckle, high-quality second-hand cars parked in front. Caffery left the Jaguar at the top of the street and, tenting his jacket above his head, followed the complex diagram of clay skid-steer tyre tracks to the Korner-Mackelson gates.
Inside the gates two yellow cement mixers stood like guardian lions, either side of the driveway — beyond them a JCB, unmanned, rain streaking the mud on its flanks. The site extended a hundred yards beyond, to the corner of the red-brick schoolhouse, where it doglegged and continued almost a third of a mile along the end of the gardens.
He wrapped his fingers around the railings and stared at the labourers huddled under the scaffolding, smoking and drinking coffee from Thermos flasks, waiting for the rain to stop. Just being here, close, maybe touching, the hidden vital circuitry that led to Birdman, made his pulse speed. With the evidence from FSS it would be easy to get an order to open the company personnel files, Marilyn could crossmatch them, see what HOLMES hit — but in this moment, standing here in the rain, Caffery was the closest anyone had been: nose to nose.
The temptation, as always, was to take it into his own hands, act now: not to wait and do it by the rule book. But he knew the line he was treading. He pushed himself away from the fence, went directly to the Jaguar — socks and shirt damp — unlocked the car door, crawled inside, put the key in the ignition, then suddenly, in one fast movement, flung the door back open and jumped out into the street.
He went straight to a green Polo parked behind the Jaguar, and stood for a moment, staring at the windscreen. Then he straightened, turned, looking at other cars nearby, jogging over to stare intently at each one: a Volvo, a Corsa, an old Land Rover.
They had all been parked here for much longer than the few short minutes the Jaguar had. On each the rain had etched an intricate mosaic. Cement dust. Floated here from the building site and stamped on the paint-work by the weather.
Jack ran a finger along the Polo's door rim, examined it for a moment, his mind racing — then turned and stared back down Brazil Street.
Inside it was dank, the floors sticky. Almost as if he'd had the heating turned up on this, a humid, early summer day. Bliss stood in the hallway, hands splayed, blocking her entrance to the back of the flat.
'No — in here, in here. In the kitchen.' He opened the door.
'It's OK. I only want to speak to Joni.' She made a move to pass him. 'I'm not staying.'
But once again he spread his arms. 'Yes, yes — just in here — just go in, go in.'
Rebecca sighed. Jesus. Shook her head and went in. The kitchen was hot, smelled of sour milk. Condensation ran down the window, welling up under a scattering of dead flies on the sill, making them bob and float. Three chairs crowded around a small table — on top of it dirty dishes, a cup of tea, bowls: all covered in a fine ashy dust. More flies buzzed against the ceiling.
Bliss picked up one of the chairs and began fussing with it, poking his finger into the ripped PVC. 'No good, is it — a torn seat. Can't have you sitting on it all torn.' Dropping the chair he rummaged in a kitchen drawer. Here we are.' He turned, holding a roll of brown packing tape, picking at it with dirty fingernails, trying to find the beginning. 'I always have trouble with these.' He held the roll out to her. 'Maybe you could — you know. Fingernails.'
Rebecca let out an exasperated breath. 'Give me it.' She snatched it from him, unpicked the end of the tape with her crumbly nails, peeled away an inch and thrust it back at him. 'Now — Joni?'
'OK! OK!' He quickly pressed the tape across the tear in the seat, stuffed the roll in his trouser pocket and pushed the chair towards her. 'I'm going. I'm going!' Hands up in surrender he hurried out of the room. She saw his crunched little head pass the frosted glass hatch above the sink and was considering following him into the hallway, geeing him up a bit, when his strange fat-lipped face reappeared at the hatch, his hands scrambling at the glass, making her jump.
'Do you — uh — do you mind?' He opened the glass a few inches, pushed his face into the gap and nodded at the table. 'Do you mind? I made a mug of tea for her. It's over there. I forgot.'
'Is she awake?'
'Yes, yes. But she'll want tea. The tea, please.'
She rolled her eyes. Just spare me this, Malcolm, for God's sake. And gave him the mug.
He snatched it. 'Thank you. And just those biscuits, I'm sorry, just those biscuits if you don't mind.' He wiped his hands across his head. 'Joni's a fussy little madam.'