Birdman

* * *

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 — she 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.