Birdman

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.

Quinn bent close to the face. Her eyes narrowed, she looked up at Maddox and pulled the mask down.

'I think there's a mole above the upper lip.'

Maddox nodded, his face tightening minutely. 'Jackson. That's Jackson.'