Birdman

'Did you get anywhere with that cement?'

'The diffractogram's gone off to Maryland. We could know by the morning.'

— then pulled out the personnel fax that Bliss had sent from St Dunstan's last week, scanned it, hoping something would catch the light, glint at him, and when nothing did sat with his head in his hands until it grew dark outside, the offices were almost empty, and Maddox looked in on him, jacket on, briefcase in his hand –

'This is all very noble but, a bit of realism, eh? I know I cracked the whip this morning but I didn't mean kill yourself.'

'Yeah, OK OK.'

'You get some sleep, you hear?'

'I will.'

He called Dr Amedure again.

'Give them some breathing space, Inspector Caffery. I promise I'll call you first thing in the morning. We're closing shop now.'

So he sat in the deserted offices, the building hollow and quiet around him, smoking out of the window and watching the world come home at the end of a long day. The watery sun dropped behind neat houses, a new poster was going up on the billboard opposite. He had been so swift to put Cook in the frame — so confident of his instincts — finding he had been wrong pressed hard on his nerves. Maddox was right — he should go home, but he was too conscious of Birdman's presence — powerful and almost close enough to touch: a big game fish weaving around his legs.

Over the road the Maiden Signs worker unrolled and pasted, unrolled and pasted, moved the rigging a few feet along and started the process again. The words Estée Lauder appeared at the foot of the billboard: above them the gleaming camber of the model's neck. He watched absently, thinking of the hair that had been tangled up in Jackson's. They were assuming it had belonged to another victim — to someone Birdman had not yet finished with, or someone not yet found. Caffery pressed the bridge of his nose lightly, trying to think.

Another explanation?

The colour and cut matched the wig hairs so exactly that even Krishnamurthi hadn't noticed the difference. Maybe the hair belonged not to another victim but to the person Birdman was recreating. Maybe that person had been in Birdman's house. Or been close enough for him to take a trophy from her.

You were so focused on Cook that you didn't even stop to consider it.

And something — something…

Caffery looked up at the high-gloss face opposite and suddenly he knew.

The metabolite of marijuana in the single blond hair. The aluminium spike on the FSS spectrograph. Joni spraying the room with deodorant, the smell of it always in the flat.

It wasn't seamless — Joni didn't wholly fit the picture: fleshy and tall — that wasn't how he'd pictured Birdman's Galatea. Even so, as he switched off the lamp and found his keys, leaving the fax and papers scattered over the desk, excitement was balling like a fist under his solar plexus.

* * *

At 2 p.m. the Clitoris had drifted off, taking with her the paints, the drawing board, her snotty attitude — leaving Joni alone to do her second spot in the pub. Bliss knew this girl's mind so well. He knew that once Joni was hooked up to a free drink supply she didn't shake free that easily. The other punters drifted away, headachy into the afternoon, leaving him alone with her, to plug her up with Liebfraumilch.

At 3.30 she was sick on the stairs up to the ladies — when he brought her back to his flat she was sick again, twice, in the bath.

He pretended he wasn't angry. He cleaned it up, rinsed it away and let her sleep off the lunchtime binge curled up like a big baby — blonde and pink, wearing just knickers and a T-shirt — in the spare bedroom so she didn't wake up, see his collection of pictures and make a fuss. Even the construction work on the old schoolhouse failed to disturb her.

How many times had he patiently let Joni do this, he wondered as he sat in the living room picking at a spot on his chin — let her use him as a casual detox base? And never had the sense to do anything about it. How many times had he scrubbed and tidied — cleared the corridor and the bathroom and the living room of his pictures while she slept — put them safely in a cardboard box, spraying sweet scent around the rooms? Only to have her wake up, pull the Walkman over her ears and stumble off on her way. Ignoring him. Treating him like shit.

And how things had changed now. His life had been rewritten. As if he'd looked up one day to find the sun was a different colour.

He got up from the sofa and made a pot of tea in the kitchen, piling a plate high with Bakewell tarts. In the bedroom he placed the tray gently on the pillow next to Joni's head. She stirred and put a hand to her face.

'Wake up. There's some tea for you.'

She pinched her head forward on her neck and peered out with bloodshot eyes. When she saw him she groaned and dropped her head back on the pillow. 'Oh no.'

'Have some tea.'

'No. I've got to go home.' She propped herself up on her elbows and looked blearily around her. 'God, Malcolm, I'm sorry but I never meant to end up here.'

'Have a Bakewell tart first.' His tongue was thick, the 'T's were muffled.

'No, that's OK.'

'I insist.'

'No, really.'

'I insist!'

Joni's eyes widened.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, wiping a dash of saliva from his lips. 'I want you to have something to eat. You need the strength. Look at you' — tongue between his teeth he reached out and palpated her stomach — 'all skin and bones.'

It was meant to be a tender gesture, but Joni reacted badly, shooting back against the wall. 'Get off!'

'But, Joni.'

'Leave me alone, Malcolm.'

'Just let me touch—'

'How many times do I have to tell you? NO!' She scrambled backwards and dropped off the edge of the bed, landing on her feet, but Bliss lunged forward and caught her by the T-shirt. She swung round and grabbed his hands, trying to prise his fingers away with her sharp little nails.

'Get off me.'

'Joni.'

'Get the fuck—' She pulled his hands up to her mouth and bit, scraping a tear in his thumb knuckle. 'Get the fuck away from me.'

'Don't do this, Joni.' His fingers were covered with a mixture of saliva and blood. He bent at the waist, screwed his eyes up and held tight: Joni lost her balance and fell, smashing her shoulder hard against the skirting board.

He let go and stood back, gaping.

They stared at each other, speechless, shocked that it had crossed into violence. Joni was on her back, the T-shirt riding up over her stomach, the shape of her pubis clearly outlined in the pale pink knickers. She looked like a doll, stunned that she'd been broken so easily. For a moment she seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Bliss stepped forward, his hand out to her. 'Joni.'

'Get — away — from me. Get the fuck — away from me.'

'But I love you.'

'Bullshit.' She clamped a hand over the injured shoulder and winced.

'Just spend my birthday with me. Tomorrow. That's all I ask. You owe me that, for leaving like you did.'

'I didn't leave you. We didn't have anything, you fucking lunatic. You weren't my boyfriend.'

Bliss gaped at her. 'I was in love with you.'

'In love? We almost had sex one night, almost, years and years ago, and that was only because I was too frigging drunk to stand up. If I'd been sober I wouldn't have come near you.'

'Don't say that.'

'You're rilly pathetic.'

'I gave up everything for you.' He stood with his head down, his arms limp at his sides. 'I gave up my dream of being a doctor.'