Birdman

  The birds swivelled again and were gone as suddenly as they had appeared, deep into the air over the hill. A feather see-sawed through the air and landed at Jack’s feet.

  ‘I thought they were going to attack us!’ Rebecca laughed, straightening her hair, giggling at her nervousness. Then she saw his face and stopped. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. He’d seen the birds close, seen mottled irises and it had made his innards twitch. He thought about Veronica, about the pile of bones, her tight, unhealthy smile when Penderecki stepped into the room, almost as if she’d planned it. Suddenly he tamped out the cigarette and stood. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘So you are going to give her attention.’

  ‘Yes.’ He rolled his sleeves down. ‘I suppose I am.’

  Veronica’s red Tigra was parked outside the house. Smug. As if it had a right to be there. It was dark now, and over the roofs, on Penderecki’s side of the railway cutting, a thin column of smoke rose. The house was in darkness. Caffery let himself in, cautious, prepared for the worst.

  ‘Veronica?’ He stood on the doormat, nervous in his own home. ‘VERONICA?’

  Silence. He switched the hall light on and stood blinking. Everything was as he had left it, the hall carpet slightly rucked, the bag of dry cleaning he’d forgotten that morning still slouched against the skirting. Through the open door of the kitchen he could make out the outline of his morning coffee cup on the table. He closed the door, hung his jacket on the banister and went into the kitchen.

  ‘Veronica?’ It was airless in here. On the windowsill one of her plants, a bougainvillaea, had flowered an obscene red during the day, and now it seemed to him that it was leaching the very oxygen from the house with its fat fleshy leaves. Hastily he opened the window, let the smoky tang of night air into the kitchen and took a quick welcome swig of Glenmorangie straight from the bottle.

  The living room was undisturbed, Veronica’s precious glasses in their tea chests still waiting to be collected. He opened the French windows and went back into the hall. It was in the dining room that he found the first evidence of her presence. The room had been cleaned thoroughly, obsessively, the scent of lavender furniture polish was still heavy in the air.

  He stood in the doorway for a long time before he noticed, propped on the mantelpiece, a black-edged card, the type used for funeral services. The message was simple.

  Fuck you, Jack.

  Love Veronica

  ‘Thank you, Veronica.’ He put the card in his pocket, opened the bay windows and went back into the hallway. The only noise was the grandfather clock ticking, and the lazy mechanic buzz of a dying fly. Upstairs, then. She must be upstairs.

  ‘I’m here, Veronica.’ He stopped halfway to the landing, looking up at the closed bedroom doors. ‘Veronica.’ Silence. He mounted the last few steps and paused, his hand on the bedroom door.

  He was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. If she had overdosed and was lying on his bed he would spend another sleepless night. Casualty. Stomach pumps. Psychiatric evaluation. Her granite-grey family sitting silently, letting him know he was responsible without saying a word.

  Or he could, he could—the thought made him shiver—simply turn around and walk out of the door. Call Rebecca, apologize for leaving, meet her for a drink, spend the night trying to coax her into bed while Veronica silently slipped over the edge, alone.

  He stood, pulse racing, while the possibility exhausted itself. Then took a long, deep breath and slowly, very slowly, opened the bedroom door.

  ‘Shit.’

  She’d made the bed and dusted in here too. But there were no startling death images, no arterial spray on the wall, no empty pill bottles. No Veronica.

  He quickly checked the cupboards. Everything was as it should be, towels folded neatly in candy-striped piles, bedside clock ticking quietly. Ewan’s bedroom, then. He went back onto the landing and found the door to Ewan’s room open. Veronica stood a pace inside, staring at him.

  ‘Veronica.’

  They regarded each other for a moment, pulses pounding. She was wearing a white silk blouse and white linen slacks. A scarf printed with tiny gold buckles was secured at the neck by a diamond pin. Her face was white and controlled. There was nothing about her to suggest she had tried to harm herself.

  ‘Why are you in my house?’

  ‘I came to collect Mummy’s glasses. Is that allowed?’

  ‘Take them and get out.’

  ‘Civility.’ She sucked in a breath through her teeth and arched her eyebrows. ‘Know that word, Jack? Civility.’

  ‘I’m not here to argue—’ He stopped. He had focused further into the rest of the room, the empty shelves, the box files on the floor—open, every one cracked wide, emptied.

  For a moment he stood, taking this in, silent and unmoving, only the congested thudding of his heart for company—Shit, she knows exactly where to push me—then stepped forward, ignoring her standing calmly next to him, and crouched amongst the debris, his hands shaking. As he picked through the files—lifting them, upturning and shaking, running trembling fingers through their white spaces—he knew he would find little. He knew how thoroughly a coiled heart like Veronica’s does its work.

  ‘Well?’ he said eventually, sitting back on his heels, breathing hard. ‘Well? What’ve you done? Where’ve you put it all?’

  She shrugged as if his interest surprised her and turned casually to look at the window. Reluctantly he followed her eyes. Beyond the pale, lifting curtains phlegmy tendrils of smoke drifted across the moon.

  ‘Shit,’ he sighed. ‘Shit, yes, of course, I should have guessed.’ He got wearily to his feet and crossed the room, placing cold fingers lightly on the window frame. And there, just as he had expected, on the other side of the cutting, lit black and red by drifting embers, stood Penderecki, holding up the incinerator hood to throw in another handful, whistling to himself and smiling as if he’d been waiting and watching for Jack to come.

  ‘Oh, Veronica.’ He rested his hot forehead against the pane and expelled a long breath. ‘You should have ripped my heart out instead.’

  ‘Oh come on, Jack, don’t overreact.’

  ‘You bitch,’ he murmured. ‘You little bitch.’

  ‘What? What did you call me?’

  ‘Bitch.’ Caffery turned calmly to her. ‘I called you a fucking bitch.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’ She looked at him in disbelief. ‘You know, sometimes you make me hope that pervert did kill your brother. And slowly too.’ Her face twisted. ‘Because you deserve it, Jack. You deserve it for the way you’re killing me. You’re killing me—’ But Caffery had grabbed her roughly by the arm. Her cuff buttons exploded across the room. ‘Jack!’

  He dragged her to the door, crunching and scattering the empty files underfoot. ‘Jack!‘ She kicked at him. ‘Let go of me—Jack!’

  ‘Shut up.’ Anger made him strong and composed. He wrenched her down the stairs—enjoying her powerlessness, enjoying the futile spitting and struggling, the manicured nails ripping on the banisters. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and held her at arm’s length, regarding her calmly.

  ‘Christ.’ She wrenched her arm from him and took a step back, massaging her elbow, her eyes wide, hair dishevelled. A vein had burst in the white of her left eye, but her face was dry. He saw he had scared her. ‘Don’t touch me again, OK? Don’t—’

  ‘Just shut up and listen—’

  ‘Please—Daddy’ll take it very seriously if you come near me—’

  ‘I said shut the fuck up and listen!’ He pushed his face close to hers. ‘Now, I’m telling you once: if you ever come near me again I will kill you. I mean it—I will fucking KILL you. Is that clear?’

  ‘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, hopeful: 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?’

  ‘What made you think it was last night?’

  ‘Well …’ she said slowly, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just assumed I’d’ve known if a body was lying in my wheelie bin.’ She laughed at this small piece of absurdity. ‘But I suppose that’s not necessarily true. I mean, the lid was down tight, and if I hadn’t put the rubbish out this morning I’d’ve walked straight past it and never known.’

  ‘When was the last time you put rubbish out?’


  ‘I’ve been trying to think. The dustmen came on Monday. My partner was over on Tuesday night and we had a few drinks. It was his birthday. So there was a bag full of gift wrapping and bottles, that sort of thing. Now I thought I put that out last night. But I must have been mistaken, I must’ve put it out yesterday morning.’

  ‘Where do you work, Ms Velinor?’

  ‘St Dunstan’s hospital.’

  Caffery raised his eyebrows. ‘St Dunstan’s?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why Mr Harteveld would have chosen you to do this to?’

  ‘Chosen me?‘ She shook her head. ‘No. I mean I knew him vaguely—we’d been on the same hospital committee once or twice, he knew one of my colleagues, but I can’t imagine I stood out to him more than anyone else. He hardly knew I existed.’

  When Caffery had finished and came to the front door, the bin, covered in silver fingerprint dust, had been tipped over onto its side and laid on a large plastic body sheet across the path. At its opening squatted Logan, dressed now in a white suit and bootees. Next to him Quinn was on her hands and knees, her upper body almost entirely inside the bin. Maddox stood outside the roped-off area blinking seriously over the white mask.

  Quinn shuffled out a little and looked up at Maddox. ‘Bingo!’ she said, her voice muffled behind her mask. She waved her hand around her head. ‘She’s got the marks on her head. Let’s get her out.’

  Caffery stood on the doorstep, hands in his pockets. They were only about a third of a mile from Rebecca’s flat. She probably walked past the end of this road on her way into the town centre. Strange, life’s invisible undertangle, he thought.

  Quinn and Logan looped their hands under the corpse’s pelvis. As she came out of the bin Caffery was reminded of a birth: the skin was mottled and moist, the hair slimed in the mucousy cowl of decay, the limbs helpless next to the two professionals in white. She slithered out and landed in a wet heap on the sheet, her head lolling. The PC at the gate put his hand over his face and turned away. The features had been loosened by putrefaction, but from the doorstep the two men could see the familiar make-up on the eyes and mouth, the cobalt-blue stitching on the breasts. The ragged thoracic incision.