Birdman

'Jack — please—'

He shook her violently. 'I said is that clear?'

'YES, yes!' Suddenly she started sobbing. 'Now g-get your hands off me, OK? Just get your fucking hands off me.'

'Out of my house.' He released her, his mouth curled in disgust, wrenching the front door open. 'Go on. Get out of my house, now.'

'OK, OK.' She hurried down the steps muttering under her breath, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't following. 'I'm going, OK?'

Caffery went into the living room, picked up the tea chest and carried it back to the front door. Veronica stood on the garden path shakily stabbing out a number on her mobile phone. When the door opened she stepped back in momentary fear. Then she saw what he was holding and her face changed.

'Oh, no,' she wailed. 'They cost a fortune.'

But he passed her — out into the street, launching the tea chest into the air. It pinwheeled gracefully, spurting lead crystal glasses and green tissue, bounced once on the bonnet of the Tigra, splintered the windscreen and came to a shattering halt in the centre of the road.

'I mean it, Veronica,' he murmured in her ear as he passed her on his way back up the path. 'I will kill you.' He slammed the front door, bolted it and went into the kitchen to find the Glenmorangie.

37

The alarm went off at 7 a.m. and he lay there on his side, looking at the shadows of leaves on the walls. After an eternity he rolled onto his back, covered his eyes and started to breathe.

Too far. This time it had gone too far.

Over the years there had been others like Veronica; other relationships come unstuck within months. But, even where there had been bitterness, the revenge had never whipped back so violently. Never wounded him before.

Are you supposed to be learning something from this? Is this a 'life lesson'?

He pressed his temples and thought of Rebecca, pushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes. He wondered if he would get that wrong too — wondered how long it would take for him to junk it. Six months, maybe. Or a year if he worked at it. And then he'd be back here again. Alone. Childless. He thought of his parents, optimistic, hopefuclass="underline" starting the lives of their two sons — right here in this bright summer bedroom.

'Jack, Jack,' he muttered. 'Get a grip.' He hauled himself up onto his elbows, blinking in the new light, and pulled the phone onto the bed. Rebecca answered quickly, sleepily.

'Did I wake you?'

'Yes.'

'It's Detect— Rebecca, it's me, Jack.'

'I know.' A dull tone.

'I'm sorry about last night.'

'That's OK.'

'I was wondering—'

'Yes.'

'Maybe tonight. A drink. Or a meal?'

'No.' A pause. 'No. I don't think so.' She hung up.

That'll teach you, Jack, he thought, and rolled out of bed.

* * *

Maddox, fresh-faced in a short-sleeved shirt, met him in the hallway at Shrivemoor, a cup of coffee in his hand.

'Jack. What's up? Not that wee pervert again?'

'It's nothing.'

'You look like shit.'

'Thanks.'

'How was the traffic?'

'Not bad. Why?'

From his pocket he produced the keys to the team car and jingled them. 'Cos you're going to turn right around and head back.'

'What's happened?'

'We think we've got Peace Jackson. Woman found her in a wheelie bin fifteen minutes ago.'

* * *

Royal Hill, connecting Greenwich to Lewisham, winds upwards as if it had fully intended mounting as high as Blackheath but had at some time lost heart; after a quarter of a mile it turns left and sinks back down to meet South Street. By the time they arrived and parked the car a crowd had already gathered. From the top windows neighbours peered out with arms folded, net curtains hooked up out of the way. The coroner's appointed undertakers, two boxy men in dark embroidered waistcoats and black ties, stood waiting next to their black Ford Transit. A PC was taping off the small front garden, and on the tiny concrete path, unmarked except by the wide berth it was given by the officers, stood the wheelie bin, the lid gaping open. DI Basset stood at the gate, his head down, in deep conversation with Quinn. When he noticed Maddox signing in with the PC he came forward, hand extended.

'DI Basset.' Maddox shook his hand. 'What've we got?'

'Looks like one of your Harteveld's, sir. Female, naked, partially wrapped in three plastic binliners. Quinn's had a peer in there and I can assure you we've got good reason for calling you. She's got some nice little tell-tale stitches on her breasts, her sternum's been opened. We can't see her head, she's nose down, but she's Afro-Caribbean, if that's any help.'

'Yup. We've got someone in mind.'

'Her legs are curled into her chest so it means she's lost her rigor.'

'Ah, charming.' Maddox wrinkled his nose and looked at the sky. 'When are we going to deal with some nice fresh corpses?' He accepted the face mask and latex gloves Logan was holding out and turned. 'Jack. Why don't you have a word with the woman who found her? Logan and I'll deal with things out here.'

* * *

Inside the two-bedroom terraced house Caffery found the woman in the kitchen with the WPC. They were staring at the electric kettle in silence. When he came in they jumped, startled.

'I'm sorry, the door was open.'

The WPC frowned. 'Who are you?'

Caffery fumbled for his warrant card. 'AMIP. DI Caffery.'

She reddened. 'Sorry, sir.' She nodded at the kettle. 'Ms Velinor and I were making some tea. Would you like some?'

'Thank you.'

The woman smiled wanly at him. She was attractive, a stern, carved, Egyptian face, dark hair pulled back in a band. She wore an expensive tailored business suit. Her briefcase stood on the table, next to it a scatter of magazines: three Management Todays, a stack of Saville & Holdsworth psychometric tests and a Guardian folded over, Harteveld's photograph staring at the ceiling. Filling the window beyond, four marigold-yellow bath towels hung on the washing line. 'You want to ask me some questions,' she said. 'Just let me drink some tea. I've been sick, I'm afraid.'

'Take your time.' He helped them collect milk and sugar and take everything to the small table. They settled next to the window, Ms Velinor sipped her tea and slowly her colour returned, the edges of her face softened.

'That's better.'

Caffery pulled his notebook out. 'Take me through it, slowly, at your own pace. You were on your way to work and putting the rubbish out?'

She nodded and put her cup in the saucer. 'I thought someone had dumped something awful there as a prank. My partner's white, I'm — well, you can see I'm mixed race, and people are still funny about it, you know. Two weeks ago the front door was graffitied. I thought it was the beginning of a campaign. You hear about all sorts of awful things they put through letter-boxes, don't you? I thought it was something like that.'

'So you opened it.'

'I had to see what it was. It — she — smelled so awful. I was prepared for something—' She pressed the bridge of her nose and screwed her face up. 'But not that. I hadn't expected that.'

'How long do you think it's been there?'

'I don't know. I've no idea.'

'How long do you imagine?'

'I imagined since last night. But that can't be right, can it, because Harteveld's been dead, what? Since yesterday morning?' She stared at the Guardian with serious brown eyes. 'That — that girl outside, she is something to do with him, isn't she?'