Birdman

25

While Diamond, swollen with confidence, the self-appointed conductor of the mission to pull Gemini in, drove victoriously to Deptford, Caffery and Essex's route split off to St Dunstan's in Greenwich. It was a good bright day, and, on the streets where chestnut trees hung over the park wall, women in floral prints walked with prams, occasionally stopping to wait patiently, hand out, for a fat-legged toddler to catch up. Cars lined the streets — they found a parking space almost half a mile away.

'I wonder what he's doing on a day like today,' Essex said, looking at the sky as they parked. 'Birdman. I wonder if he's thinking about the next one.'

'Thinking about a woman with blond hair.'

'The clone. Someone he knows?'

'Or someone he thinks he knows.' Caffery opened the windows a crack, locked the car and pulled on his jacket.

'So we're looking for someone who drives, knows their way round anatomy, and has the hots for a blonde with small tits.'

'Poetic.'

'Ta.' They separated to allow a female jogger in a black-and-white Nike sweatshirt past. Essex turned and watched her, the zinc-blond ponytail bobbing in the sun. 'Maybe he's already got the next one.' He looked at Caffery. 'Maybe's he's doing it with her now.'

Caffery pictured this possibility as they walked in silence towards the hospital. Neither spoke for a while. It was Essex who broke the mood, stopping suddenly, to rock back on his heels and give a long low wolf whistle.

'Whoo-eee. Checkidout.'

Near the hospital gates, in a residents' parking bay, glinting in the sun, sat a green Cobra convertible, wire wheels, cream upholstery, walnut steering-wheel. Essex approached it reverently, the same glazed expression he'd worn at Joni and Rebecca's on his face. 'Oh baby, mamma mia, excuse me while I ejaculate.'

Caffery rolled his eyes to the sky and sighed. 'For God's sake — if you must, then make it discreet. And quick, Detective Sergeant Essex. This fair city is counting on you.'

Wendy the librarian, in her customary twinset, blushed when she saw Caffery. She had the room ready.

'You nearly lost it, though — one of the committees sits today. I thought for a moment they were going to want this room — I expect you had trouble parking, didn't you?'

The blinds were drawn, and, placed thoughtfully on the desk, a writing pad which he wouldn't use and two polystyrene cups of steaming tea with evaporated milk. Essex discreetly smuggled the tea out, tipped it in the urinals and got coffee and Twix bars from the canteen. Then he wandered away with the list to herd some interviewees in.

It was 12.30 p.m. and Caffery had interviewed three occupational therapists and an ophthalmology department technician, when the door opened and Cook came in. His shaggy coppery hair was curled up in a hairnet, and he had removed his scrubs to reveal a rainbow-striped nylon tank top, a canvas marijuana leaf appliquéd on the chest. He wore overlarge dark glasses which he only removed when the door was closed. Caffery was once again struck by the sore, wet eyes.

'We've met.' Caffery extended his hand.

'Thomas Cook.'

'Easy name to remember.'

'This is about those girls, isn't it?' He ignored Caffery's hand and pulled a chair back without waiting to be asked. 'Since I saw you here last time I've been expecting a visit.'

Caffery steepled his fingers. 'You know about it?'

'It's been all over the papers and Krishnamurthi was on the shout. They're saying it was a Jack the Ripper copycat.' He had a soft, nasal, womanly voice. 'From that I guess this guy cut them. Am I right?'

'Do you know Krishnamurthi?'

'I'm a techie. I helped him on a few PMs before he went big time with the Home Office.'

'You're a mortuary assistant?'

'I wanted to be a doctor.' His face was expressionless. 'This job was bottom of the spectrum, but it pays the bills.'

'Mr Cook. I'm clearing up routine inquiries. As I hope my DS explained, you are under no obligation. You are talking to me of your own free will, I take it?'

'That's why I'm here.'

'You live—' Caffery put his glasses on and checked the address on the list. 'Where? Lewisham?'

'The Greenwich side. Near the Ravensbourne.'

'Do you know a pub on the Trafalgar Road? The Dog and Bell?'

'I don't drink.'

'You don't know it?'

He crossed his pale, hairless hands on the table in front of him. 'I don't drink.'

Caffery took his glasses off. 'Do you know it?'

'Yes, I know it. No, I don't go in it.'

'Thank you.' He put his glasses back on. 'Have you ever seen this woman?'

He pushed the shot of Shellene over the table.

'Is this the one whose face was crushed by a JCB?'

'You've heard a lot.'

'People whisper.' He tilted his head and peered at the photo. 'No, I don't recognize her.'

Caffery slid the photos of Petra, Kayleigh and Michelle across. Cook put a finger on Kayleigh's smiling face and dragged it closer.

'Know her?'

He pushed the photograph back and looked at Caffery with his raw, colourless eyes. 'No. I'd remember her.'

'If it helped in our investigations, would you consider giving us a swab, a saliva sample, for DNA analysis?'

'No problem.'

Caffery looked at him carefully. 'No objections to that?'

'You think because I look like a hippy I live by the civil liberties bible? Well I don't: I trust science; I am a scientist. Of sorts.'

'Could you tell me what you were doing on the night of the sixteenth of April? And the night of the nineteenth of May, that's two weeks ago?'

'I wouldn't have a clue. I'll ask when I get home. She'll remember. My north, my south, my east, my west.' His expression didn't change. 'My social secretary, my memory.'

Caffery fished inside his suit for a card. 'When you remember give me a call.'

'Is that it?'

'Unless you've got something to tell me.'

'You obviously haven't got a lot to go on.'

'We've got DNA evidence.'

'Course you have.' Cook stood. He wasn't tall. His limbs were rounded and his hands were big. 'I'll be in touch.' He reached in his back pocket for his sunglasses and, pulling them on, went out into the light-filled library.

In the darkened room Caffery sniffed. Cook had left a slight sour smell. Something like a mixture of old milk and patchouli oil. He tapped the pen on the desk thoughtfully.

After a while he wrote: Cook: says he is married/lives with someone. Believe him??????? he pondered this for a moment, then scribbled underneath: No.

For lunch he and Essex had Pasta Funghi and Spitfire beer in the Ashburnham Arms. Back at the hospital for the afternoon session, the library was quieter. Essex wandered off to round up staff from radiology and Caffery took a seat near the window to check through the morning's notes. Slowly he became aware of a grey-haired figure in a white coat sitting in a booth on the far side of the periodical stacks, his head bent intently in study. There was something familiar about him.

Caffery approached.

'Afternoon.'

The man took his steel-rim glasses off and looked up mildly. 'Good afternoon.'

'I'm sorry to interrupt.'

'Not at all. Can I help?'

'Yes.' Caffery sat down and put his elbows on the desk. 'You're Dr Cavendish.'

'This is true.'

'You've moved from Guy's?'

'No, no.' He closed the book and put the glasses in his pocket. 'I'm here for a satellite clinic. Sickle cell. Unusually high incidence in south-east London.'

'We've met.'

Cavendish looked embarrassed. 'Forgive me. If there's one lacuna in my character it is the ability to recall faces. I am not an individual primarily steered by visual stimuli, a quirk that Mrs Cavendish has found to be of great benefit over the years.'

Caffery smiled. 'We met about four months ago. You were treating a friend in a follow-up Hodgkin's clinic. Gave her an ultrasound.'

'Plausible, plausible. To check the spleen.'

'We're very grateful.'

'Thank you. How is she progressing?'

'Not good. She's had a relapse. You treated her yesterday afternoon at Guy's.'

Cavendish's eyes narrowed. 'Ah yes, I see. I believe you are confusing me with Dr Bostall?'

'No — Veronica Marks. You saw her yesterday.'

'Well, yes. I know the name, but I didn't—' He broke off and crossed and uncrossed his legs under the table. 'You'll appreciate that I am bound by the ethics of my profession. At the risk of appearing offensive I will refrain from discussing individual cases.'

'But you did see her last night?'

'Hmmm.' He opened the book and put his glasses on. 'I think we'd be best advised to truncate this conversation now, Mr—?'

'Caffery.' Caffery sat down opposite him, his heart thumping. 'Dr Cavendish, I need to ask you some thing.'

'I think not. I find myself rather embarrassed.'

'Not linked to any particular case. It's just, I–I'm intrigued by some of the new diagnostic tests for Hodgkin's.'

Cavendish looked up. 'Intrigue is healthy and devoutly to be desired. Especially in the young.'

'The dye test.'

'Not related to a specific case?'

'No.'

'Gallium or lymphangio?'

'The one that goes in through the feet. The one you can see.'

'The lymphangiogram. Indicates if the cancer has spread to the lower body. My patients lead me to believe it is an uncomfortable procedure.'

'You haven't changed the test recently? You don't put a different dye in? One that fades more quickly?'

'No, no. Still linseed oil. It takes several days, sometimes weeks, to leave the system.' He ran a finger across dry lips. 'Mr Caffery, if you find you have a true interest in this I'd draw your attention to an article on vinblastine in the British Medical Journal this month. Very interesting, written by a colleague, coincidentally, but I recommend it in the true spirit of impartiality.'

'Thank you.' Caffery offered his hand. 'I think you've told me everything I need to know.'