the incident room to distribute the statement in the team's pigeonholes and for a few minutes Caffery was alone. He stood, holding the bottle, looking at his eyes reflected in the window, superimposed over the Croydon skyscrapers. What if Rebecca was right? What if people saw the naked teeth of a killer every time they looked at him?
A little thing growing—it'll keep growing and growing and if you're stuck on a case that's pushing all your buttons, then, bam! You'll do it again.
He half filled a mug with scotch, knocked it back and stared at his face, green tie unknotted and hanging loose around his neck.
It might go as far as it did last time
—
She was wrong, he decided. She was making it up to get him away from the house. When Souness came back he turned and looked at her. “Danni?”
“Mmmm?”
“What do you think that was all about, before? You know, Peach giving me the old treatment about my eyes.”
“Och—Christ knows.” She shrugged and bent over the workstation, closing down the computer for the night. “Ye know how they get—he's probably got post-traumatic stress. Probably felt more comfortable talking to a woman, even an ugly old dyke like me.” She straightened, pulled on her jacket, looked at him and smiled, clapping him on the back. “There's nothing wrong with your eyes, Jack, believe me. Ask any of the lassies in the team if there's anything wrong with your eyes and you'll get the answer.” She coughed and straightened her back, running her palms down her lapels. “Except me, of course. I don't count.”
7
H E CALLED REBECCA . The whole weight of the day was on him. “Let's just go home, cook something and go to bed.…” But she was exuberant. She was inBrixton—she was at a private view at the Air Gallery on Coldharbour Lane—and she wanted him to pick her up. OK, she agreed, they'd do some shopping in twenty-four-hour Tesco's, get some wild rice, some lamb, a bottle of something red and cook at home. But he could tell he was souring it for her. He could tell she wanted to stay at the party.
As he parked on Effra Road a herd of bright young things passed, bussed in by the score from West London and the home counties, moving through the street on their long, alien legs, heads back, faces lit like God's own converts as they moved through the darkness toward the lights in Brixton Central. Just as if they didn't know what had happened half a mile away in Brockwell Park. Just as if they had never heard of Rory Peach. He pocketed his keys and crossed Windrush Square into Coldharbour Lane, heading for the chief source of light, a great living column of heat and color: the Air Gallery, lifting up into the night, a huge industrial space of textured concrete and galvanized steel. As he got nearer he could see at the foot of the building, in the entrance, Rebecca, sipping a cocktail and looking at her watch.
He could remember a time when she would wait for him calmly, hands behind her back, the left foot restinglightly on the right. Now she stood with feet planted wide, dressed in a short leather jerkin, bubble-gum-pink combat trousers, and, of course, her new accessory: her strange unhealthy energy, unraveling out into the night around her like a veil.
“Jack.” She wormed a long brown arm under his jacket and pulled him nearer, standing on tiptoe for a kiss. Her nose was warm and her breath was sweet and orangy like Cointreau. He realized she was drunk. “I've just been speaking to someone from
The Times,
and Marc Quinn's in there—you know, the one with the frozen-blood head. He's in there and Ron Mu—”
“Great—shall we go?”
“And I told the guy from
The Times
I was doing more of my vaginas—”
“I'm sure he's well pleased about that.” He tried to take the cocktail from her but she grinned and shook the glass at him, a lovely crushed-strawberry color, rattling the ice.
“
Diabolo
,” she sang, curling her fingers at him. “It's a
Diiiii-aaabolo
.
A little thing growing—it'll keep growing and growing and if you're stuck on a case that's pushing all your buttons, then, bam! You'll do it again.
He half filled a mug with scotch, knocked it back and stared at his face, green tie unknotted and hanging loose around his neck.
It might go as far as it did last time
—
She was wrong, he decided. She was making it up to get him away from the house. When Souness came back he turned and looked at her. “Danni?”
“Mmmm?”
“What do you think that was all about, before? You know, Peach giving me the old treatment about my eyes.”
“Och—Christ knows.” She shrugged and bent over the workstation, closing down the computer for the night. “Ye know how they get—he's probably got post-traumatic stress. Probably felt more comfortable talking to a woman, even an ugly old dyke like me.” She straightened, pulled on her jacket, looked at him and smiled, clapping him on the back. “There's nothing wrong with your eyes, Jack, believe me. Ask any of the lassies in the team if there's anything wrong with your eyes and you'll get the answer.” She coughed and straightened her back, running her palms down her lapels. “Except me, of course. I don't count.”
7
H E CALLED REBECCA . The whole weight of the day was on him. “Let's just go home, cook something and go to bed.…” But she was exuberant. She was inBrixton—she was at a private view at the Air Gallery on Coldharbour Lane—and she wanted him to pick her up. OK, she agreed, they'd do some shopping in twenty-four-hour Tesco's, get some wild rice, some lamb, a bottle of something red and cook at home. But he could tell he was souring it for her. He could tell she wanted to stay at the party.
As he parked on Effra Road a herd of bright young things passed, bussed in by the score from West London and the home counties, moving through the street on their long, alien legs, heads back, faces lit like God's own converts as they moved through the darkness toward the lights in Brixton Central. Just as if they didn't know what had happened half a mile away in Brockwell Park. Just as if they had never heard of Rory Peach. He pocketed his keys and crossed Windrush Square into Coldharbour Lane, heading for the chief source of light, a great living column of heat and color: the Air Gallery, lifting up into the night, a huge industrial space of textured concrete and galvanized steel. As he got nearer he could see at the foot of the building, in the entrance, Rebecca, sipping a cocktail and looking at her watch.
He could remember a time when she would wait for him calmly, hands behind her back, the left foot restinglightly on the right. Now she stood with feet planted wide, dressed in a short leather jerkin, bubble-gum-pink combat trousers, and, of course, her new accessory: her strange unhealthy energy, unraveling out into the night around her like a veil.
“Jack.” She wormed a long brown arm under his jacket and pulled him nearer, standing on tiptoe for a kiss. Her nose was warm and her breath was sweet and orangy like Cointreau. He realized she was drunk. “I've just been speaking to someone from
The Times,
and Marc Quinn's in there—you know, the one with the frozen-blood head. He's in there and Ron Mu—”
“Great—shall we go?”
“And I told the guy from
The Times
I was doing more of my vaginas—”
“I'm sure he's well pleased about that.” He tried to take the cocktail from her but she grinned and shook the glass at him, a lovely crushed-strawberry color, rattling the ice.
“
Diabolo
,” she sang, curling her fingers at him. “It's a
Diiiii-aaabolo
.
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