Birdman

'Jack, this is the Pepys estate. It wouldn't be the first time a dodgy-looking package was dragged across this forecourt in the middle of the night, be assured of that.'

'You saw those PMs.' He lowered his voice. 'Don't pretend you didn't notice the smell. Even three days into death they smell, Steve, they stink. You know. It's a smell you never forget, a smell you can't wash out.'

'He might've got another place.'

'Sure,' Jack nodded, sucking breath in through his nostrils. 'Mmm, sure. And you just hang on to that, OK. Just hang on to that hope.'

At that Maddox's face changed. The blue of a vein pulsed in his temple and when he spoke his voice was low, almost inaudible. 'I had the governor on this morning: he's heard we've got a profiling buff on the team. So now I'm in the business of covering up for you.'

'The DCS prefers fluke sighting and circumstantial evidence?' He shook his head. 'Steve, face it, F team have probably knocked on the door of every racist in east Greenwich, and everyone is going to be ecstatic at the chance to shop some miserable local drug dealer. Get him hauled in, out of their hair for a few days. DI Diamond just loves it, it's in his veins, and I'm wondering, Steve, if he's doing it because he knows he can, because—' He shoved his hands in his pockets and met Maddox's grey eyes with his dark blue ones: full on, defiant. 'Because you're letting him.'

'You're still on three-month trial with us, Jack. Don't forget that.'

'I haven't forgotten.'

'I'll see you back at Shrivemoor. Wish Veronica luck for the chemo.'

'Steve, wait—'

But he was walking away and Caffery had to shout above the roar of the low-loader.

'Superintendent Maddox!' His voice bounced between the high-rise flats. The children in the doorway poked their heads out, startled by the noise. 'I'm going to prove you've got the wrong person in the frame, Superintendent Maddox — I'm going to prove he isn't even black!'

But Maddox continued to walk. The low-loader changed gear and Gemini's GTI, covered in a white tarpaulin, set out to be paraded like an Indian wedding barat through the streets of Deptford.

* * *

The pub was empty. An Alsatian, asleep next to a Calorgas fire, head on its paws, opened one eye to watch Caffery walk to the bar. Betty, the barmaid, dressed in a low-necked nylon lace blouse, a pair of large-framed glasses on a chain round her neck, didn't bother greeting him. She put her cigarette out and simply stood there, varnished nails resting lightly on the beer taps, waiting for him to speak.

Caffery held his card up. 'Old Bill.'

'Yeah, I remember. You want a drink or not?'

'Go on, then. A—' No single malt in this pub. 'A Bells.' He felt in his pockets for change. 'How's business?'

'Look at the place. The reporters have come out of the woodwork, scared half the punters away.'

'Have you talked to them?'

Betty snorted and her dangly turquoise earrings shivered. 'I wouldn't take their dirty money. I'm telling you, I wish none of this had ever happened.'

'We all wish that.' Caffery peeled his feet from the sticky carpet and sat on the stool. 'Betty, do you remember the young man we interviewed in here?'

'The coloured lad? The one who scarpered?'

'Yes.'

'That's Gemini. They give their kids such funny names, them lot, don't they? 'Ere.' She beckoned him with her veiny hand. There was no-one else in the pub, but it seemed to satisfy her when Caffery bent in close enough for her to whisper. 'That Gemini' — she closed her hand around his wrist — 'the papers are saying them girls were users, you know — drugs.'

'Yes.'

'Well, they have to get it somewhere, don't they?' She tapped her nose conspiratorially. 'And that's all I'm saying.' She wiped a tumbler with a J-Cloth, pushed it under the optic and set it in front of him. 'He pretends he's just cabbying for them, but I'm not blind, I know it gives them a chance to do their little, you know, transactions.'

'Does Joni know him?'

'Of course.' Betty squinted at him and Caffery got the full treat of her eyelids, flashing like the underside of a kingfisher. 'She always gets a lift from Gemini. Her and Pinky, if she don't bring her bike.'

'Her and who?'

'They called her Pinky when she was working.'

'Rebecca,' he murmured, oddly embarrassed on her behalf.

'That's her. She's an artist now. She'll sit in that corner in the saloon bar, with her paints, serious as anything, and not say a word all afternoon.'

Suddenly the Alsatian sat up and growled. Caffery looked round in time to see the door close and the shadow of a man retreat beyond the frosted glass.

'Come in, love, it's open,' Betty called, throwing the cloth over her shoulder and coming out from behind the bar. She opened the door and stood for a moment, chewing her nails, gazing into the street, before giving up and letting it swing closed. 'One of the regulars. Must of saw you and thought you was the newspapers.' She picked up his glass, wiped the bar and replaced it on a clean mat. 'That or he knew you were the Bill.'

The dog sat down next to the heater and scratched its ear with a grizzled hind paw, eyes squinty with pleasure.

* * *

When Caffery left the streets were empty. The pavements had dried but the trees were still dripping and earthworms slid from between the gaps in the flagging. Suddenly he was aware of a shadow on the paving slabs keeping pace with his, and the soft squeak of bike gears. He turned.

'Afternoon, Inspector.'

Rebecca stopped the bike and put one long leg on the kerb to balance herself. She wore brown shorts, a loose oatmeal sweater and her long hair was caught in a ponytail. A leather portfolio was secured over the back wheel by worn canvas straps.

Jack put his hands in his pockets. 'Is this a coincidence?'

'Not really.' The lilac tree above them dripped onto her sweater, leaving small dark spots. 'I keep coming back to the pub, you know, wondering — I saw you leaving.'

'I see.' He saw she had something to tell him. 'You've remembered something?'

'Well, yes.' Her mouth twisted apologetically. 'But it's probably nothing. Probably a waste of your time.' Strong white nails worked at the tiny stitches of the canvas straps. He'd forgotten how pretty she was.

'Nothing's nothing.'

'OK—' She spoke warily, ready to be laughed at. 'I remembered something about Petra.'

'What?'

'Sometimes when I fall asleep, you know that bit just before you go under completely, the part where all your dreams from the night before come back?'

'Yes.' Caffery knew too well. It was the place he often met Ewan and Penderecki.

'I'm sure it's not important, but last night I was half dreaming and I remembered Petra telling me she was allergic to make-up. She never wore it. You can see it in my paintings. She was always pale.' The sun broke through the cloud cover and cast the sharp shadow of Rebecca's eyelids over green-gold irises. 'That photo in your briefcase, she looked like — like a doll. I've seen dead things before, and they look realer than she did.'

'I'm sorry you saw that.'

'Don't be.'

'Rebecca?'

'Yes?' She tilted her head and looked at him. A drop of rain fell out of the tree onto her cheek. 'What is it?'

'Why didn't you tell me about Gemini?'

'What about him?'

'He left with Shellene that day. Why didn't you say?'

She folded her arms under her small breasts and looked at her toes. 'Why do you think I didn't say?'