Birdman

43

The door was opened by a woman who was indeed wearing bifocals. She had cropped grey hair and large hands and was sensibly dressed in a Fair Isle cardigan, tweed skirt over solid, English hips and brown leather walking shoes. When Caffery flashed his warrant card and explained they were interested in the upstairs neighbour she gave them a gentle, tilted smile and opened the door.

'A cup of tea, I think, gentlemen.'

They went into the hallway, Essex hanging back, still not sure if he trusted this woman. Caffery stood for a moment, staring at the blank doorway at the top of the stairs. He ran a finger over the banister, pressed it to his white cuff. Nothing.

'I don't know their names,' the woman said from inside her flat. 'The couple up there.'

'The couple?' Jack turned back. 'Did you say the couple?'

So there is a girlfriend.

'That is who you're interested in, isn't it?'

She held open the door and led them into a small hallway which had been sectioned out of a high-ceilinged room using plasterboard. When he saw the airbrush fantasy posters on the walls, a silver-breasted Gigeresque woman, maned biker heroes, gleaming winged bikes and dragons, Essex caught Caffery's sleeve.

'Check this gaff out,' he hissed as they followed the woman into the front room. Here the ceiling was hung with Indian shawls, mirrored and tasselled, a lava lamp stood side by side with a teak Afghan water pipe.

'I know them to speak to.' She picked up an orange hessian cushion from the sofa and slapped it. 'My son would know their names, but he's off on his holidays.' She paused, the cushion dangling in her hand, and the three of them regarded each other in puzzled silence. Suddenly she laughed.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I haven't explained myself.' She dropped the cushion and wiped her hands on her skirt. 'Do forgive me.' She offered her hand to Caffery. 'The name's Mimi Cook. I spend so much time shuffling around here trying to keep the place clean sometimes I forget it isn't my flat.'

'Cook?' Essex murmured, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might walk in behind him.

'That's right. This is my boy's flat. I'm his personal busybody.'

'Mrs Cook.' Caffery stepped forward and shook her hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'Likewise, I'm sure. Now.' She put both hands on Essex's shoulders and gently moved him from the doorway so she could get past. 'Some tea and then we can get down to business.'

While she clanked around in the kitchen, Caffery and Essex got to work, Essex skimming over the book titles, raising his eyebrows at a Fifties edition of One Hundred Days of Sodom and a slim volume of Klossowski's Sade Mon Prochain tucked amongst the Kerouacs and Colin Wilsons, while Caffery, conscious of his worn-out reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, ran his finger over the surfaces, searched the assortment of pots and ashtrays on the mantelpiece. He found a stack of outdated travel cards secured in a rubber band, Cook's freckled face staring up at him, and next to it a small framed black-and-white picture. It showed Mrs Cook, decades younger, dressed in a seersucker bathing suit, dark hair backcombed. She was sitting on a tartan rug spread over a pebbled beach, squinting at the camera. On her knee sat a white-haired little boy in bathing trunks, his arms straight down at his sides. Incongruously, the toddler was wearing dark glasses, the large frames sticking out on either side of his head giving him the appearance of a small beetle. When Mrs Cook came in with a tray piled with cups, Caffery picked up the frame and said, 'Your son, Mrs Cook?'

'Yes.'

'There's something wrong with his vision?'

'Oh yes. Achromatopsia. You won't have heard of it and why should you?' She smoothed the heavy skirt over her hips and sat down on the sofa to pour the tea. 'Put simply, he can't tolerate sunlight. You'd imagine Thailand would be the last place, wouldn't you? But that's my Thomas. He's got a sixth sense for anything that's bad for him.'

'Achromo—?' Essex blushed charmingly. 'I'm not hot with long words.'

'Achromatopsia.' Mrs Cook smiled patiently. 'Congenital. His eyes haven't got any cones. Or is it rods? I can never remember. Anyway, the world's in black and white for him, just like a cat. It's very unfair. It means he's registered disabled.'

'Partially sighted?'

'Not that it means much, except he can't drive and…' She smiled apologetically. 'And that I've cosseted him more than the other two. Now.' She handed Caffery a tea cup. 'You wanted to talk about the people upstairs? Is it him you're interested in? Thomas's father always says that the normal-looking ones are the worst.'

'I thought he meant his girlfriend.' Caffery called Maddox from the car as soon as they left Cook's. 'When he said ''social secretary'' I thought he meant a girlfriend. But he meant his mother. She comes in and cleans for him three times a week. Not only that, he can't drive.'

'Says who?'

'Mum. Says he's partially sighted.'

'Do we believe her?'

'I'm on the way to St Dunstan's now to back it up, but all the signs are there. This avenue is dry.'

Everyone in personnel was at lunch apart from the trusty Mr Bliss. He met Caffery at the door, hand extended, top lip pulled down over bad teeth, his smooth face pink and shiny as if he'd given it an extra buffing at his shaving mirror that morning.

'Don't you eat lunch, Mr Bliss?'

Bliss wagged his finger at Caffery. 'Lunch is for wimps, Mr Caffery. Didn't you know that?' He gave an odd, hiccuping laugh at his own joke, and swiped his hand across his head to smooth the thin strands. 'Sorry I wasn't here this morning to take your call — I was still out there — battling away to find a parking space again — I'm sorry to report that the situation is not improving—'

'Yes,' Caffery interrupted. 'Yes — I remember, I—' He placed his hands on the back of the chair. 'Mr Bliss, I wonder if you can help me. We're still tying up a few ends.'

'Ah, the terrible business at the Dome.' He seated himself and looked up at Jack. 'Still beavering away, are you?'

'We are.'

'And how can we help?'

'You've got medical records for your staff?'

'Medical records? No. If they've taken life insurance through the pension scheme we might retain a copy of a doctor's report, but that's all.'

'But you'd know if they were disabled?'

'The hospital's equal opportunities policy means we're obliged to employ our quota. They all fill in a questionnaire when we take them on. It would be in that. But you won't find Mr H-Harteveld in there — he's not on our payroll.'

'No, I understand that. I'm thinking of Mr Cook.'

'This is the mortician you spoke to Wendy about?'

'The same.'

'She pulled his records for you this morning, they're still—' Leaning back dangerously far in his chair he turned to look at the filing cabinets in the corner. 'No.' He swivelled to look at the bank on the other wall. 'Ah yes, over there.'

Caffery watched him walk to the filing cabinet. There was something odd about Bliss today, something springy in his step suggesting a trampled-down excitement.

'There!' He returned to the desk with a folder and slapped it down triumphantly. 'Lucky I didn't file it away again. Now then, let's have a look.'

He flipped over a few pages and skimmed the paper with pale eyes, his mouth working noiselessly, occasionally wiping his hands on his jacket. His teeth, Caffery noticed, had a milky deposit at the roots.

'Ah yes — here.' He pointed to the page. ' "Any disabilities?" Cook answers "Yes''. The form says ''Please describe''.' He licked his lips. 'And Cook answers ''Achromatopsia''.' Bliss looked up at Caffery and blinked. 'That's when you're missing the cones in the retina. He won't be able to see in colour.'

'And he can't tolerate the sun.'

Bliss looked at a point above Caffery's shoulder as if he was trying to recall something. 'Are we talking about a man with rather long red hair?'

'That's the one.'

'Yes. I've seen him around. I remember the sunglasses. So he's a mortician, is he?' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and smiled at Caffery. 'You deal with so many different people in this job, it's difficult to put a name to every face.' From the back of the file he pulled two photocopied forms. 'Here's a doctor's report which confirms it. Achromatopsia. Registered partially sighted.' He looked up at Caffery. 'Ah. That seems to have worried you.'

Caffery rubbed his face wearily. 'No, no. Not worried. Just made life a little harder.' He offered Bliss his hand. 'Thank you for your help, Mr Bliss, we're sorry to put you to trouble.'

'No trouble. No trouble.' Bliss leapt up and placed his hand in Caffery's. It was warm, slightly moist to the touch. 'Don't hesitate if you have more questions. Wendy'll help you if I'm not here, I've got annual leave from tomorrow.'

'Thank you,' Caffery said dully. 'A special occasion?'

'Indeed it is.' Bliss sat down behind his desk and stretched his arms, lacing his hands together and cracking the bones. 'My birthday!'