CAFFERY LEFT THE MEETING without speaking to Maddox. He didn't like the change in the air. He didn't believe that the killer was black: he believed, just from Krishnamurthi's findings, that Birdman's trail would be picked up somewhere between the Trafalgar Road pub and a local hospital. Not a doctor and probably not an unskilled ancillary worker-but someone connected to the medical profession, possibly from the skilled or professional ranks. Maybe a technician or administrator. Even a nurse.
He parked outside the junk shop and was about to put money in the Pay and Display when a door slammed and Rebecca trotted out to the car. She was wearing a short cotton shift dress in pale pink and her long cinnamon hair fell in a straight line to her waist. She jumped into the backseat and the battered old Jaguar was suddenly filled with her perfume.
He swiveled around. "You okay about this?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know," he said truthfully, and put the car into gear. "I don't know."
They drove the two short blocks to the mortuary in silence, Caffery watching her in the rearview mirror. She stared out of the window, her shoulders relaxed, one hand in her lap, her long glossy legs pushed negligently out, as the shadows of lampposts and houses flickered across her face. Rebecca's cooperation was a fragile oddity, and he wasn't sure he knew how to preserve it.
"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" he said as they walked through the memorial garden toward reception.
"About what Joni does? What I did?" She didn't turn to him. She held her head erect with an odd, First Lady solemnity. "Are you going to ask me how I ended up doing that?"
"No." He patted his pockets, feeling for his tobacco. "I was going to ask you why you share with Joni."
"Shouldn't I?"
"You're very different people."
"Because she's from a lower class, you mean?"
"No. I-" He stopped. Maybe that was what he meant. "She seems much younger than you."
"We're in love. Isn't that clear?"
Caffery smiled and shook his head. "I don't think so."
"But that's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? It's the first thing most men want to know: are we screwing each other?"
"Yes," he nodded. "I'm human, it was the first thing I asked myself. But I'm thinking of something else. You've got your painting; you've got a purpose. Joni's just-"
"Drifting?"
"Yes."
"And because she takes drugs?"
"I don't think you do."
"I do if I feel like it." She flashed him a smile. "I'm an artist, Mr. Caffery, I'm expected to be dissolute. And Joni will find her purpose soon. It took me long enough."
"You're going to hang around and wait?"
She thought about this for a moment, her head tilted on one side. "Well, yes," she said slowly, pushing her hair back. "I owe her, I guess…" She paused, thinking how to phrase it. "It sounds dumb, thinking about it, a dumb reason for sticking by someone, but Joni-" She caught his look and broke off, smiling. "No. I'm making this too easy for you."
"Oh, come on."
"I've just told you, I'm making it too easy." She paused outside reception and turned to him. "Anyway, now you have to tell me something."
"Go on, then."
"Am I ever going to be able to forget what I see today?"
"It gets different people different ways."
"How does it get you?"
"You want to know?"
"That's why I asked."
Caffery glanced through the smoked-glass doors into the air-conditioned reception area. "I think that ending up here, accounted for, is one step better than disappearing forever. They might never have been found."
At that Rebecca looked at him thoughtfully for a long time, her mouth in a soft, straight line, until he could stand the scrutiny no longer.
"Enough," he said, holding the door open for her. "Shall we go in?"
In the viewing booth the purple curtains rustled, proof of the presence of a mortician busying himself over Spacek's body. Rebecca stood with her head twisted away, her fingers lightly resting on the glass.
"It smells like a hospital," Rebecca said. "Is she going to smell?"
"You won't get that close."
"Okay," she said tightly. "I'm ready."
The electric curtains slowly peeled back. Petra Spacek's eyes and mouth were closed. The stitching, where Krishnamurthi had pulled her scalp back over her skull and sewn it closed, was muffled in purple satin. The body had been prepared for this viewing-small cotton pads lay under the eyelids to plump out the flat eyeballs-but Caffery realized too late how bruised and distorted Spacek's face was. He had forgotten in the carnage of the first postmortem how it had been eroded away during the months in the crusher's yard. Now he was embarrassed.
"Rebecca, look, maybe this is a bad idea-"
But she had turned to see. Her eyes scanned the face for less than five seconds. She made a small noise in the back of her throat and turned away.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes." She said it to the wall.
"I shouldn't have brought you here. She's not recognizable."
"She is."
"You think it's her?"
"Yes. I mean, maybe. I don't know. Give me a moment."
"Take your time."
She drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "Okay," she muttered. She caught her hair up into a bunch and held it against her neck, using the other hand to cover her mouth. Slowly she turned back to the body. Her eyes moved over the face, taking her time now, daring herself not to look away.
"What are those marks on her forehead?"
"We don't know."
She dropped her hair and turned to him. It was intended to seem casual but Caffery sensed it was to prevent her having to look at Spacek any more. "I think it's her." She spoke in a whisper, her eyes flicking sideways, as if she were afraid Spacek might be listening.
"You think?"
"No. I'm sure it's her."
"Her face has lost a lot of definition."
Rebecca closed her eyes and shook her head. "She was thin anyway. You could always see her-her bones." She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him. For the first time he realized she was shivering. "Can we go now?"
"Come on." He put a hand on her arm, conscious of the sudden coolness of her skin. "We'll do the paperwork in reception."
He brought her water in a waxed paper cone.
"Thanks."
"I want you to sign this." He sat next to her and opened his briefcase, searching for the forms. Rebecca put a cool hand on his wrist and pointed into the Samsonite.
"What's that?"
Spacek's postmortem photographs were visible in a clear plastic envelope. Caffery closed the briefcase.
"I'm sorry you saw that."
"Was that when they brought her in? Was that what she looked like?"
"I shouldn't have allowed you to see that."
"Oh God." She crushed the paper cup. "It wasn't any worse than the nightmares I've had since you two came knocking at my door."
"We're trying to keep it brief."
"If that's an apology it's accepted."
He put the briefcase on his lap and spread the forms out on it. "Here." He uncapped a pen with his teeth and placed crosses on the forms. "I need you to sign here and here. This tells me you've viewed the body and-" He broke off. Someone had cleared their throat forcibly. A distinct shut up for a moment warning.
They both looked up.
DS Essex stood at the reception entrance, the door held open, one hand extended to usher in two women dressed almost identically in jeans and blouson leather jackets. They filed in meekly and took the seats Essex indicated without a word.
"I'm just going to make sure that everything's ready." Essex touched the hand of the older woman. "Tell your sister if you need anything. Okay?"
She nodded dully and pressed a tissue to her mouth. Her face was expressionless, blank. Her jeans were skintight, and there were little scabs on her ankles where her sandals had rubbed.
Rebecca stared stupidly at the two women, knowing, without knowing how she knew, that these were the relatives of another victim. Caffery was silent. He knew more. He knew the details. He knew that this was Kayleigh Hatch's mother and aunt.
The aunt, who had been staring out past the potted palm to the sun-filled memorial garden, shifted in her seat, sighed and placed her arm around the other woman. Soft leather creaked.
"It mightn't be her. That's what you got to tell yourself, Dor."
"But it might, mightn't it? Oh, Jesus." She turned dull eyes to the window. "You'd think they'd let you smoke in here, wouldn't you?"
The glass doors opened and one of F team stepped into the cool, a half-smile on his face. DI Diamond followed, removing sunglasses, laughing. He glanced at Rebecca and let the laugh fade to a small, knowing smile as the two men crossed reception on the way to the coroner's office. When they had rounded the corner the laughter continued.
"How about this one, then, eh?" Diamond said. "Listen, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. What's the difference between a hooker and an onion?"
"Go on, then. What?"
"C'mon, a hooker and an onion."
"Yeah, what? I give up."
"Okay." He paused, and from the squeak of shoe leather on lino Caffery knew Diamond had stopped and turned to the other officer. "You can cut up a hooker without crying."
In reception four people stared at the floor. Caffery sprang to his feet and rounded the corner.
"Hey."
Diamond turned mildly surprised eyes to him. "All right?"
"Use a bit of fucking decorum," he hissed. "You know where you are."
"Sorry, mate." Diamond raised a hand. "Won't happen again." He turned and the two men continued in the direction of the coroner's property office, softly snickering, their shoulders dipping into each other as if Caffery's intervention made the joke even sweeter. Caffery breathed out slowly and returned to reception. The damage was done. Kayleigh's mother's face was wet with new tears.
"Oh, Doreen, oh, Dor." The aunt buried her face in her sister's collar. "Don't cry, Doreen."
"But what if it's my baby in there, my baby, my little, little girl? What if it's her?"
