Birdman

Rebecca's kitchen.

He backed up and leaned against the car, away from the streetlights, pulling his mobile from inside his jacket. He could hear Rebecca's phone ringing from over the roofs.

'Hello?' But the line clicked for a beat and he realized he was talking to an answerphone.

Joni's voice: 'Sorry you've gone to all the trouble and expense of calling, when we haven't the decency to be in for your call.'

Caffery swore under his breath. 'Look, I know someone's there. This is Jack, DI Caffery. Answer the phone.' He waited. Nothing. He sighed. 'Look, Rebecca, Joni, if you're listening I want you to be careful, this thing isn't over yet. Just — just keep your windows and door locked, OK? And, Rebecca—' He paused. 'Give me a ring. When you have the time.'

He hung up and stood in the dark looking at the window. A few moments later the light in the kitchen went off and a figure came to the window and closed it. Caffery couldn't see who it was. He put his mobile in his pocket and got back inside the Jaguar.

42

With the help of half a bottle of Glenmorangie he managed three hours of intense sleep before he was jolted awake by a thought:

Susan Lister hadn't been opened.

He sighed and rolled onto his back, his hands over his eyes. No bird sewn deep inside. No bird.

Why? Why didn't you give us the symbol this time?

It's not meant as a symbol.

Jack flinched. He hiked himself up on his elbows and blinked, his heart thumping. The answer could have been spoken by someone in the room.

Not a symbol? Then what?

Susan Lister was living. No bird. And for the six sad pieces of carrion in the morgue? A live, struggling bird. Struggling so hard that it ripped tissue from the bone beneath. Harteveld's work seeming to stretch out from beyond death.

The moonlight shifted, cold on his skin, and Caffery lay back, breathing carefully, listening to his heart. He thought he knew what the bird meant. And he thought he knew exactly how it fitted into the puzzle. Now he knew where he was going.

* * *

F team — some of whom had already moved their belongings — had been contacted and were due back at Shrivemoor in time for the morning's meeting. Caffery met Maddox, Essex and Kryotos an hour in advance. They were all tired, dispirited. Caffery stood for a few minutes in the centre of the incident room holding his glasses, thinking, locking his ideas into place, while Maddox sat in the corner, head propped in his hands, staring across at him. Kryotos was in the kitchen, making coffee. They could hear the sound of spoons rattling in the cups all the way down the corridor. She hummed as she brought the coffee into the incident room — as if she thought noise might alleviate the depression in the air.

Maddox sighed. 'Right.' He ran his hands down his face and looked up at Essex and Kryotos. 'You both know what happened last night.'

'Yeah.'

'And a hair turned up on Jackson that we can't file. We have to read that as another victim — so, I don't care how tired everyone is, think "shit" and "shovel" on this.' He looked up. 'Jack? You ready?'

'Yeah.'

'Go on—' He waved his hand in the air. 'Go on. Tell them what you told me.'

'Yeah — OK.' He hesitated a moment more, still staring at the floor. Then his face cleared. He put his glasses on and turned to them.

'It's Birdman,' he said simply.

Essex and Marilyn exchanged glances.

'A copycat?' Essex said.

'No. I mean this is Birdman. The press never got enough for a copycat. Harteveld was the killer. Birdman is the mutilator. Harteveld is dead, Birdman's still working.'

Marilyn stopped spooning sugar into her coffee and stared at him — Essex was frowning, twisting his coffee cup into a circular groove on the blue and silver Met mouse mat. Maddox propped his chin in his hand and studied their reactions. Then he swivelled his eyes to Caffery. 'You're going to have to convince them.'

'I can.' He opened his briefcase and handed Kryotos the notes he'd made at the FSS. 'Jane Amedure says the PM woundings on Peace Nbidi Jackson were consistent with the others — three days after death.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning Harteveld was either under surveillance when they were done or already dead. Quinn and Logan couldn't find any evidence in the Halesowen Road flat because Harteveld didn't do the mutilations. It was someone else.'

'Like a little club.' Kryotos handed the notes to Essex and resumed stirring the coffee. 'A necrophiliac's club. Usual rules: no blacks, no Jews, no spikes in the club house—'

'No, no.' Maddox held his hand up. 'Let him go on. We can have a snigger when he's given us a working scenario.'

'Right.' Caffery sat down opposite them. Opened his hands on the table. 'I think it went like this: Harteveld's a necrophiliac, no doubt about that. But he's unusual for this kind of paraphiliac because he's educated: he knows the sort of shit it could land him in, so he keeps it under wraps, doesn't act on it: if he's your average perve it could've been brewing for years. Then, seven months or so ago, something sets him off — he gets hit with his key stressor, maybe a relationship goes sour, there's a professional upheaval, we might never know exactly what, but anyway his tendency kicks in. He acts without thinking, gets his jollies, and then, when it's over, he sees the trouble he's in.'

'He's stuck with a body.'

'And spooked about disposing of it. But that's OK, because he knows someone who can help. Not another necrophile. But an opportunist. A sexual inadequate, a sadist. Someone ill enough not to care if the victim is dead or alive. It's him, not Harteveld, who's cleaning the bodies.'

'Cleaning second-hand goods,' Essex murmured.

'Quinn never found any of that soap at Harteveld's.' Maddox picked at the lid of a miniature UHT milk carton. 'What was it?'

'Wright's Coal Tar.'

'Hmmm.' He was silent for a few moments. He tipped the milk in his coffee, tapping out the last drops, and looked thoughtfully at his DI. 'Come on, then, Jack. I'm halfway there.' He threw the little carton in the bin and settled back in the chair. 'Talk us into it.'

'OK. Remember we couldn't understand how Harteveld was so balls-on accurate about picking on victims who wouldn't be missed? Now, Logan showed Gemini a photo of Harteveld and he blanked. The barmaid did too. Like he's never been in the pub. Gemini was cabbying the girls up to Croom's Hill for a meeting that had already been made. So here's what I'm thinking: what if this second offender was doing the pre-planning? Getting to know the girls, finding out who's not going to be missed, making the arrangements. That way Harteveld is never seen in the pub — he already knows who he's after because someone's marked her for him.'

'And the same offender comes in again later?'

'And he's the one, not Harteveld, who's doing the decoration — the wigs, the make-up.'

'This is the Lister offender we're discussing?' Kryotos was less dubious now. 'Striking out on his own?'

'Exactly. He's got a taste for it now.'

'It would answer a lot of questions,' Essex said. 'Like why that bird in Royal Hill never knew there was a body in her wheelie for two days. Maybe it had only been there overnight like she said. Maybe the other guy dumped it after Harteveld did his swansong.'

'Now.' Caffery leaned forward. 'Jackson had cement dust in her hair — the same dust that was on the others — at first we thought it came from the recovery site, the aggregate yard, but Jackson never went there. Lister too — the FME cleaned her up, swabbed off some grey dust. Maybe we've got another Fred West, maybe he's in the building trade or doing work on his house. But most importantly I think he's got links with St Dunstan's.'