Birdman

He was staring intently at a photograph of a woman's face, tapping it with his finger. She had the small, smooth face of a doll. White-blond hair. Over made-up. Blue eyeshadow and plum-shined lips. He pressed his hands on the photo, covering her features, his two big thumbs neatly over the mouth as if he'd like to get them past her teeth, her tongue, her tonsils.

Then suddenly he turned. 'Well?'

Susan flinched. He'd known she was watching. Without even looking at her he could tell she was watching.

'Well?' He stepped towards her. Above the mask his eyes were round, restless.

'My name's Susan.' She spoke quickly, not a stammer. Don't show you're scared. 'My father is a magistrate. He's very powerful.'

'A magistrate!' The voice was light, amused. 'Is that meant to worry me?'

'No — I — oh God, what do you want from me?'

'What do you think? What do you think I want?'

Pray that he only rapes you, Susan, pray it won't be more.

'Please don't hurt me.' She curled up, sobbing, trying in vain to fold her tethered arms around her breasts, like a trussed, delimbed turkey. 'Please don't.'

'Isn't it uncomfortable with paps that big?' Damp hands reached over and gripped her breasts, trying to contain the struggling. 'How do you sit at a table with those in front of you? Don't they get in the way?'

Susan recoiled. She had felt the touch reach down into her stomach. Her groin. A betrayal. 'Please no, please—'

He stood and a gobbet of granular brown phlegm landed inches from her face. 'You know what I have to do. Don't you?'

She shook her head, tears falling into her hair.

'Answer me.'

'Don't hurt me—'

'I SAID YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE TO DO, DON'T YOU, WITH YOUR BIG FUCKING TITS!' He kicked her in the side and suddenly his voice became calm. 'And shut up that crying. You'll upset Mrs Frobisher.'

Susan gasped and rolled onto her front, still sobbing. He straddled her, her shoulders gripped tightly between his fat knees and yanked her head back by the hair. 'Now look.'

He leaned over and opened the toolbox.

She could see Wilkinson's scissors, tweezers, a tapering sable-tipped brush, curved palettes of iridescent make-up, turquoise, peach, fuchsia, red.

'This one, I think.' The click of metal, the snap of latex gloves being pulled on, something being removed from the toolbox — my God, what's that? A scalpel? He reached down and held her right breast. 'Now.' A drop of sweat fell from his forehead into her hair. 'Are we ready?'

* * *

At 3 p.m. DS Logan and DS Fiona Quinn arrived at the small flat on the Lewisham-Greenwich border. Accompanied by a uniformed officer they approached with serious expressions and warrant cards at the ready. They didn't expect an answer. Quinn spoke into her Sony Professionaclass="underline"

'It is three-fourteen p.m., seven Halesowen Road, note for the search register that the flat is unoccupied, no-one here to allow us entry, no neighbours, so under the Premises Code—' She held the pause button down and stepped back to allow the officer to step forward. 'We are using force to enter in pursuance of a section eight search warrant H/00— Bugger. Hold it.' In her pocket her mobile was ringing. She switched off the Professional, dug inside her overalls for the phone. It was Caffery — asking her to landline him. She did, from a phone box.

'How does it look?'

'If you'd let me get in I could tell you.'

'Look out for cement dust — maybe an outbuilding — a garage. That's where he's kept the bodies.'

'Will do. Now can I get on with it?'

'Of course, of course. I'm sorry.'

40

At Shrivemoor the investigating teams didn't care that the search — the last formality — wasn't complete. They sensed they were near the end. Maddox gave them a speech warning them not to relax, reminding them they still needed air-tight matching of samples, but he had to raise his voice to be heard. Kryotos had opened the blinds and the afternoon sun streamed into the room for the first time in days. The photos of the dead girls were turned to face the whiteboards and Betts and Essex slipped out to pick up beers while seats were pulled up to the windows, shoes kicked off, corkscrews retrieved from the bottom of desk drawers. Maddox shook his head, bemused. 'All right, but don't forget we're back to normal tomorrow.'

F team rinsed coffee cups, bringing them in for the beer. The indexers, seeing there was to be no more work today, pushed their chairs back from the desks and allowed Betts to slosh wine into paper cups. Caffery, just back from the mortuary, loosened his tie and opened a Pils while Essex, happy as a puppy, stripped off his shirt, knotted his tie around his naked neck, and found a spot where the late sun came into the room to recline with his feet on the desk. He swivelled round to look at F team, who had gathered at the top of the T-shaped desk, a beer can in front of each man. 'We'll get shot of you lot; on your shanks's back to Eltham.'

'At least you can go back to reading Woman's Realm without shame,' one said. 'Away from our 'orrible judgemental little eyes.'

'And back to wearing my favourite frock again,' Essex said wistfully. 'The peach one.'

'You'll be among people who understand you.'

'You'll feel more comfortable.'

'More confident.'

'Nicer to be with.'

'Nicer to look at—'

Caffery leaned back in his chair, staring off down the corridor. The door next to his office was open: F team's office, Diamond's headquarters. The corridor was dark; from the opened door a striped oblong of sun lay across the floor. From time to time a shadow muddied it. DI Diamond was in there, moving back and forward — packing his belongings to go back to Eltham.

The laughter continued. Essex had Kryotos on his lap — 'With the help of the lovely Marilyn I'm going to show you how to accessorize in this difficult day and age when we all understand the importance of thrift…'

Caffery stood, unnoticed. Unsnapping another can of Pils he quietly left the incident room.

* * *

DI Diamond was packing things into a yellow crate, occasionally brushing his hair back from his forehead where it flopped down free of the usual hair gel. From the little pots of cacti, the family photograph on the desk, Caffery realized that Diamond had expected to be here longer than two weeks. He stood silently in the doorway and watched as the DI blew the dust off the plants and unhooked the Michelin calendar from the wall. It was five minutes before he finished. He gave the desk a last wipe, emptied a pot of paper clips into the bin and straightened up.

'Yes?'

Caffery stepped inside. 'I brought you a beer.' He placed it on the desk and gestured at a photograph lying on the top of the folders in the crate, two small boys, smart in their blue school ties. 'They look like you. You must be proud.'

'Thanks.' Diamond gave him a long look with his powder-blue eyes. A faint sweat had broken out around his mouth and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He placed the photo face down, carefully pushed the beer back across the desk, turned away from Caffery and pulled Sellotape over the crate. 'But I don't drink on duty.'

* * *

When Susan woke he was gone. She was in a bedroom — he had tied her to the bed — groggy and disorientated, red and black, the pulse hard in her face and breasts. Her eyes had swollen so that the upper lids chafed against the lower lids, as if her eyelashes had been turned inside out.