Birdman

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.

It was Essex who noticed sunlight glinting on a car windscreen beyond them.

'What the—?'

The team Sierra pulled in neatly ahead of the Jaguar. Diamond got out, unsnapping his jacket and pulling cigarettes from his pocket.

'Hey.' Maddox opened the door. 'What're you doing here? I told you to stay at HQ.'

'Am I in the way?'

Caffery jumped out of the car and slammed his hand on the Sierra's bonnet. 'He asked you a question. He asked you what the fuck you think you're doing here?'

'Detective Inspector Jack Caffery.' Diamond ran his hand down his tie and shook the creases out of his shirt as he came round the car, smiling broadly in the patchy sunlight. 'You're — what? Stressed? Something personal in this for you?'

'More than a week ago RG phoned in a tip on Bliss, and you, Detective Inspector Mel Diamond, you dumped it—'

'Oh come on,' Diamond interrupted. 'I think you're letting your imagination run a bit wild, don't you?'

'Not my imagination. Fact. Now take the team car up to the top of this road and park it side on.'

'Eh?'

'Stop any traffic.'

'Hang on, hang on—'

'You'll stand down when I come and get you.'

'Hang on a second here, I'm not a fucking uniform, you know. And you're not my superior, you nasty little prick.' He looked at Maddox. 'Well? Aren't you going to do something?'

'You heard him.' Maddox pulled on his jacket and turned away. 'Take the car and get out of my sight.'

* * *

The Air Support Unit arrived in their black and yellow twin-engined B0105 helicopter, circled the bungalow, flattening the grass, bringing the hot smell of aviation fuel. When it reached the furthest point on its rotation, DI Diamond, standing at the head of the lane under an old oak, could hear the hum of insects again, the crack of the Sierra's engine cooling. He was feeling in his pocket for a cigarette when something caught his eye.

A small man in a stained vest and trousers, a dirty carrier bag dangling from his wrist, had appeared on the lane as if by magic.

'Good afternoon.' He fidgeted his hands in his pockets and smiled quickly, showing small, orange-smeared teeth.

''Ternoon.'

'There's quite a police presence, I see. Anything we should be worried about?'

Diamond shrugged. 'No. No.' He turned to light the cigarette. Straightened and blew the smoke out in a fast thin stream. 'Won't take long.' He picked a piece of tobacco from his lips and, when he saw the little man was still staring at him, said: 'If you'd like to move along now, sir. Back up to the main road. There's a perimeter team from here down to the estuary so keep to this side as you go.'

* * *

Bliss pottered away, scratching his forehead and muttering to himself. He rounded the bend in the lane and mounted the grass-covered bank, lifting his feet clear of the mud and nettles. Perspiration, more a product of anger than exertion, collected in the crevices of his body.

When the phone — he'd forgotten it even existed — began to ring in the hallway, he knew instantly that the bitch wasn't lying. He did what he had to do to her quickly and neatly. The phone stopped but he continued: dressing and quietly leaving the bungalow before the police arrived. His ears were ringing, his head ached, but he pressed on through the dripping forest, getting himself as far away from the bungalow as he could before he found a damp, grass-covered fosse to crouch in. The rain had stopped and the salt in the air stung his nostrils. He lay on the ground and listened to the police assemble themselves.

Now, only a hundred yards from the Sierra, he hesitated, looked at the sky and sniffed. Up here on the bank, behind the row of tough little hawthorn bushes, he saw he was quite hidden from the lane. It was a simple matter of continuing and taking a bus from the main road. But he knew it was over for him — with Joni's death something had spilled over inside. If he was finished then what he wanted was to leave his bloody print on this planet. He wanted to engage.

He thought of the silent creation in flesh that he'd left in the bungalow. He closed his eyes and smiled. Yes. That was a good start.

Humming distractedly and scratching at his neck, he turned and headed back up the road, until he saw the roof of the grey Sierra to his left. The sun was out, but a few spots of rain fell as he drew level with the car. He slowed, pausing behind a tall, ivy-hung oak. Something of interest had occurred to him. Thoughtfully he chewed his lip, reaching inside the carrier bag to rub the saw blade with the tips of two stubby pink fingers. Below him, from next to the Sierra, rose a thin line of cigarette smoke.

* * *

In his black sweater and Kevlar vest, Sergeant O'Shea of the Territorial Support Group, the TSG, was as out of place as a jungle predator in this pretty country lane. His team stood, grim-faced, pelvises forward, arms crossed, hands pressed into armpits, watching him pace amongst them.

'Local uniform have done a drive by, and as of thirteen hundred hours there's been a blue Peugeot in the driveway; we've been trying to establish contact for ten minutes but no-one's answering that phone, so our mental health consultant agrees: didn't want it to come to this, but we're looking at a tactical end. We don't know what weapon the target's in possession of; no firearms intelligence — more likely to be blades of some sort, so be aware: necks, hands. Vulnerable. Keep those visors down and stick to the arrest protocol for separating target from weapon. Entry team, I think, looking at it, a staggered MO.'

Caffery stood a few feet up the lane, smoking, peering through the hedgerow down at the bungalow. No cars passed, only the helicopter clattered overhead. From time to time he was sure he could hear the telephone ringing.