‘No, thank you.’
‘Drink your coffee.’
‘When I’m ready.’
The last thing Caffery was going to do was eat or drink anything in this place. No other incapacitants had come up on the tox results because Gerber was a doctor and had access to the liquid form of temazepam. He could have slipped it to the women in a drink – they wouldn’t have noticed. Knowing it would come up on toxicology, and that using a liquid temazepam that Lucy hadn’t been prescribed might point to murder and maybe to someone in the medical profession, he’d fed them pills later to account for the tranquillizer in the blood result.
‘Is there something wrong with your coffee?’
‘You tell me, Mr Gerber. Is there something wrong with it?’
Gerber went still. He turned swiftly to Caffery. Something off centre had crept into his eyes. The spots on his smock were still dark. If they were water, Caffery thought, they’d be dry by now. ‘S-sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Is that a riddle?’
‘No. It’s a straightforward question. Is there something in my coffee? Liquid benzos, for example.’
‘What?’ Gerber put his hand to his forehead. ‘Goodness – this is confusing. You’re confusing me.’
‘I haven’t just arrived, Georges. I’ve been here for a long time. Enough time to go into your room. See what you’ve been up to.’
Gerber dropped the biscuits. They scattered on the table, some on the floor. He stood with his hands limp at his sides, making no attempt to pick the biscuits up. ‘There’s an explanation,’ he said woodenly. ‘I can explain everything you’ve seen.’
‘I can explain too. Lucy Mahoney caught you, didn’t she? She saw what you were doing. Saw what you’d taken from her. Or did she remember being photographed? Was that it?’
‘This is a fantasy you’re having. Some sort of fantasy. If you let me explain I’ll-’
‘She was blackmailing you. And then what happened? My guess is she asked for too much. She wanted to buy herself a house – her demands got too big. There was no way out for you. You’re a thief. For years, by the looks of things, you’ve been stealing skin, like a serial killer who takes a part of his victims. These women have been your victims.’
‘Victims?’ He raised his eyes to Caffery. ‘That’s a harsh word. I didn’t hurt one of them. They left my surgery better than they came in.’
‘They are victims. They didn’t consent.’
‘The skin – it’s part of my life’s work. I s-study skin. I’m trying to build synthetic skin.’
‘Building synthetic skin?’ Caffery laughed. ‘Oh, good one, Dr Frankenstein.’
‘It’s the truth. Have another look in that room. You’ll see the boxes. From other manufacturers.’
‘I’m not stupid, Mr Gerber. From the limited knowledge I have, I’d say what you’re doing is nothing about building synthetic skin or whatever bullshit you’re asking me to swallow. I’d say it’s nothing to do with that and everything to do with sex.’
Gerber’s face went blank for a moment. He blinked.
‘I’d say that, whatever it looks like on the surface, this sort of behaviour always has a sexual motivation. Where’s your problem, Georges? You can’t get it up? Or did your mother make you give her bedbaths when you were six?’
Gerber blinked again. Once, twice. Three times in succession.
‘You photographed those women naked. God only knows what else you did to them while they were still half under. And you kept trophies to remind you. I looked at those – those specimens – and I couldn’t help asking myself: If I tested them would I find traces of your semen on them?’
Gerber stopped blinking. His left hand opened and closed as if he wanted to touch something. He came towards the table where he’d put the cup of coffee. ‘No wonder you’re not drinking your coffee. The table’s too far away.’
‘It’s fine where it is.’
‘Here.’ He bent to pick it up. ‘Let me just move it along.’
‘I said it’s fine where it-’
A spasm hit the back of Caffery’s calf and bolted up his body. He rolled away, a shout coming out of his mouth, scrambling across the sofa, fumbling for the back of his leg. He got clumsily to his feet, knocking over a chair, and turned, panting, to see Gerber, half bent over next to the table, his head at a slight angle, watching him. There was a weapon in his hand. It looked like a small pick or an awl – the sort of thing you’d use to work leather. A piece of material clung to it, from Caffery’s trousers, and long loops of blood lay across the cushions where he’d just scrambled over the sofa.
‘Why didn’t you drink my coffee, you fucking shithead?’
‘Hey,’ Caffery panted, reaching down to hold his leg, finding ripped fabric and something else – shredded calf muscle. ‘You are so fucked you just don’t have a clue.’
With his free hand he grabbed the chair and took a limping step forward, swinging it at Gerber, who sidestepped, nimble as a dancer, and landed the heel of the awl across Caffery’s temple. The pain pushed something black into his head. He fell forward, grabbing at things as he went, seeing the legs of the sofa fly up to meet him.
What’s happened to the sofa? he thought dimly, as he hit the floor. Why is the sofa on the fucking ceiling?
61
The bank kept Flea waiting. It was almost two o’clock when she left for Ruth’s, the money stashed in a banded petty-cash envelope in the glove compartment. The weather was patchy, the sun playing tag behind the clouds, but it was warm and she opened the windows in the Clio. The dusty, new-bloom scent of the hedgerow filled the car.
One of the units from Taunton was parked at the junction with the A36, a Lexus and an old Peugeot next to it. She pulled down the sun-visor, drove past calmly, eyes ahead. She was on the sick today and not supposed to be here. Wellard was acting sergeant – he had his instructions: no matter what the inspector told them he was to keep the team to the north of the search area and leave the south until last. Until after five. By which time she’d have the photograph. And have found a way to get Ruth out of the house.
Round the next corner an oncoming motorcycle flashed his lights, jerked his thumb back down the road and sawed his hand across his neck. The sign that there was a hazard, an accident. She slowed as she came round the corner and saw it about quarter of a mile up the road. A traffic car was parked sideways blocking half of the road, a PC in a fluorescent hi-vis jacket in front of it.
Her foot came off the gas and the Clio cruised forward a bit, slowing gradually until it came to a halt. Beyond the traffic BMW she saw her own unit’s Sprinter van parked nose to tail with the coroner’s. Shit. What the hell were they doing here? Wellard had promised.
Her car dawdled for a moment, the PC’s eyes on her face. Before she could gather herself and do a U-turn away, a face appeared from behind the Sprinter, looking at her in mild curiosity. It was Wellard. Eyebrows raised to see her there.
She was had. No getting away. She pulled the car to the side of the road.
‘Hi.’ Wellard put his elbow on the roof and smiled through the window at her. ‘Job-pissed, are we, Sarge? Coming in even though you’re on the sick?’
She turned off the engine and kept her eyes on the steering-wheel. ‘I thought I told you not to come over here until the end of the day.’
‘This job came up. The officer in charge wanted someone quickly. The inspector was cool about it – I didn’t think you’d-’
‘OK. OK.’ She looked past him. Behind the screens a car was parked in the secret little alcove she’d once parked in to walk up to Ruth’s. She could just see its roof. ‘The CSI’s here. What is it?’