DAISY WAS STARTING TO FEEL LIKE THE KIND OF COP YOU only ever see in movies: tough, hard-bitten, and perfectly ready to buck the system; the kind of cop who wants to know whether or not you feel lucky or if you’re interested in making his day, and particularly the kind of cop who says “I’m getting too old for this shit.” She was twenty-six years old, and she wanted to tell people she was too old for this shit. She was quite aware of how ridiculous this was, thank you very much.
At this moment, she was standing in Detective Superintendent Camberwell’s office and saying, “Yes, sir. Saint Andrews.”
“Went there on my holidays some years back, with the former Mrs. Camberwell. Very pleasant place. Rum cake.”
“That sounds like the place, sir. The closed-circuit footage from Gatwick is definitely him. Traveling under the name of Bronstein. Roger Bronstein flies to Miami, changes planes, and takes a connection to Saint Andrews.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” said Camberwell. “That buggers us good and proper, doesn’t it? No extradition treaty.”
“There must be something we can do.”
“Mm. We can freeze his remaining accounts and grab his assets, and we will, and that’ll be as much use to us as a water-soluble umbrella, because he’ll have lots of cash sitting in places we can’t find it or touch it.”
Daisy said, “But that’s cheating.”
He looked up at her as if he wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking at. “It’s not a playground game of tag. If they kept the rules, they’d be on our side. If he comes back, then we arrest him.” He squashed a little Plasticine man into a Plasticine ball and began to mash it out into a flat sheet, pinching it between finger and thumb. “In the old days,” he said, “they could claim sanctuary in a church. If you stayed in the church the law couldn’t touch you. Even if you killed a man. Of course, it limited your social life. Right.”
He looked at her as if he expected her to leave now. She said, “He killed Maeve Livingstone. He’s been cheating his clients blind for years.”
“And?”
“We should be bringing him to justice.”
“Don’t let it get to you,” he said.
Daisy thought, I’m getting too old for this shit. She kept her mouth shut, and the words simply went round and round inside her head.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he repeated. He folded the Plasticine sheet into a rough cube, then squeezed it viciously between finger and thumb. “I don’t let any of it get to me. Think of it as if you were a traffic warden. Grahame Coats is just a car that parked on the double yellow lines but drove off before you were able to give him a ticket. Yes?”
“Sure,” said Daisy. “Of course. Sorry.”
“Right,” he said.
She went back to her desk, went to the Police internal Web site, and examined her options for several hours. Finally, she went home. Carol was sitting in front of Coronation Street, eating a microwavable chicken korma.
“I’m taking a break,” said Daisy. “I’m going on holiday.”
“You don’t have any holiday time left,” pointed out Carol reasonably.
“Too bad,” said Daisy. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“Oh. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to catch a crook,” said Daisy.
FAT CHARLIE LIKED CARIBBEAIR. THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN AN INTERNATIONAL airline, but they felt like a local bus company. The flight attendant called him “darlin‘” and told him jus’ to sit anywhere that struck his fancy.
He stretched out across three seats and went to sleep. In Fat Charlie’s dream he was walking beneath copper skies and the world was silent and still. He was walking toward a bird, vaster than cities, its eyes aflame, its beak agape, and Fat Charlie walked into the beak and down the creature’s throat.
Then, in the way of dreams, he was in a room, its walls covered with soft feathers and with eyes, round like the eyes of owls, which did not blink.
Spider was in the center of the room, his legs and arms extended. He was held up by chains made of bone, like the bones of a chicken’s neck, and they ran from each corner of the room, and held him tightly, like a fly in a web.
Oh, said Spider. It’s you.
Yes, said Fat Charlie in his dream.
The bone chains pulled and tugged at Spider’s flesh, and Fat Charlie could see the pain in his face.
Well, said Fat Charlie. I suppose it could be worse.
I don’t think this is it, said his brother. I think she has plans for me. Plans for us. I just don’t know what they are.
They’re only birds, said Fat Charlie. How bad could it be?
Ever heard of Prometheus?
Er…
Gave fire to man. Was punished by the gods by being chained to a rock. Every day an eagle would come down and tear out his liver.
Didn’t he ever run out of liver?
He grew a new one every day. It’s a god thing.
There was a pause. The two brothers stared at each other.
I’ll sort it out, said Fat Charlie. I’ll fix it.
Just like you fixed the rest of your life, I suppose? Spider grinned, without mirth.
I’m sorry.
No. I’m sorry. Spider sighed. So look, have you got a plan?
A plan?
I’ll take that as a no. Just do whatever you have to do. Get me out of here.
Are you in Hell?
I don’t know where I am. If it’s anywhere, this is the Hell of Birds. You have to get me out.
How?