The Grasshopper hovered, then landed without a bump. He let Fallada climb out first. Caine advanced to meet them; he saw Bukovsky and Ash behind him. Twenty yards away, they had erected canvas screens.
Caine said: “Sorry to bother you, sir. But it won’t take more than five minutes.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
Bukovsky said: “It’s her, all right. But they need you to identify her. You were the last to see her.”
They led him behind the screens. The body was covered with a blanket. He could see the legs were spread apart, the arms outflung.
Caine pulled back the blanket, shining the torch. For a moment, he was doubtful. The left eye was blackened; the lips were swollen and bruised. Then he saw the shape of the chin, the teeth, the high cheekbones. “Yes, that’s her.”
“You’ve no doubt?”
“None whatever.”
Fallada pulled back the rest of the blanket. She was naked except for a green nylon smock and an overcoat; both were open. The body was smeared with blood from the neckline to the knees. In the light of the torch, he could see teethmarks in the flesh. One nipple was missing. Rubber shoes lay within a few feet of the body. When Fallada touched the head, it rolled sideways.
Caine said: “She found the clothes in a cleaner’s cupboard.”
Fallada asked: “How long has she been dead?”
“About nine hours, we think.”
“In other words, she was murdered about an hour after escaping from the Space Research building. What an incredible thing to happen. Do we know if there’s a sex maniac on the loose in this area?”
“We’ve no record of one. The last murder of this type was in Maidstone a year ago.”
Carlsen straightened up from his knees. His trousers were wet. He asked Fallada: “But why do you think he bit her?”
Fallada shrugged and shook his head. “It’s a familiar sexual perversion. It’s known as vampirism.”
He woke up in darkness. The luminous dial of his watch showed two-thirty. A.M. or P.M.? He reached out and flicked down the switch of the soundproofing mechanism; immediately, he could hear the laughter of his children. That answered that question; it was afternoon. He pressed the switch that controlled the blinds; they slipped upwards, flooding the room with sunlight. He lay still for another five minutes, disciplined to move. Jelka came in with a tray.
“Here’s some coffee. How are you feeling?”
He yawned. “I’ll tell you when I wake up.” He struggled into a sitting position. “I slept well.”
“You certainly did.”
Seeking the significance of her words, he looked again at his watch, and noticed the day: Thursday. He said: “My God, how long have I been asleep?”
“I make it. . . nearly thirty-three hours.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because you looked worn out.”
The two children came in and climbed on the bed. They were both girls and both blonde. Jeanette, the four-year-old, got into bed and asked for a story. Jelka said, “Daddy wants to drink his coffee.” She led them firmly out.
He stared out of the window, and wondered whether the grass was really greener or whether it was some trick of his eyes. He tasted the coffee and experienced a flood of sensual delight. For the first time since he returned to earth, he felt no residue of tiredness. Outside, the gardens and houses of the Twickenham Garden Suburb looked peaceful and beautiful in the sunlight. Now, as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he knew there could be no doubt about it: he was feeling more alive. Everything seemed more vivid and exciting than he had known it since childhood.
Jelka came back as he was drinking his second cup. He asked, “What’s the news?”
“None.”
“None? Didn’t they mention what had happened on the television news?”
“Only that the aliens had all died.”
“That’s as well. No sense in causing a panic. Any messages for me?”
“Nothing very important. Who’s Hans Fallada?”
“He’s a criminologist. Don’t you remember? He used to appear on the series about famous murder cases.”
“Ah, yes. Well, he rang you. He wants you to call him back. He says it’s urgent.”
“What’s his number?”
When he was dressed, he rang Fallada. A secretary answered. “He’s at Scotland Yard at the moment, sir. But he left a message to ask you to come here as soon as possible.”
“Where are you?”
“The top floor of the Ismeer Building. But we’ll send a Grasshopper for you. When will you be ready to leave?”
“A quarter of an hour?”
He ate his scrambled eggs sitting in the garden, in the shade. Even there, the heat was uncomfortable. The sky was a clear, deep blue, like water. It made him want to strip off his clothes and plunge into it.
He was drinking iced orange juice when the Grasshopper arrived. There was a policewoman at the controls. As he waved goodbye to Jelka and the children, Jelka called: “Don’t go too near the edge.”
She was referring, to the roof of the Ismeer Building. Occupying a square quarter-mile in the City of London, this was the highest building in the world. It had been built in the days of overcrowding, by a Middle East consortium. Their solution to the problem of lack of office space in London was to build a skyscraper a mile high, with five hundred floors. They had intended to build a similar skyscraper in every capital city of the world, but devolution planning had made the idea obsolete. The Ismeer Building remained unique: the greatest concentration of offices in the world. Now the Grasshopper was climbing steeply upwards through the smokeless air and the sides of the building already loomed above them. Carlsen was suddenly reminded of the Stranger, and his heart contracted.
He asked the policewoman: “Where are we going?”
“The Psychosexual Institute, sir.” She seemed surprised that he didn’t know.
“Is that run by the police?”
“No, it’s independent. But there’s a great deal of cooperation.”
As he stepped out onto the roof, he was surprised by the coolness. Above him, the sky looked as distant and blue as it had from the ground. He walked to the parapet; this was surmounted by a steel fence. From where he was standing, he could follow the curves of the Thames, down through Lambeth and Putney to Mortlake and Richmond. If Jelka used the astronomical telescope, she could probably see him standing there.
The policewoman said: “I expect this is Mr Fallada.”
Another Grasshopper was hovering above the roof; it dropped silently, landing as gently as a moth within six inches of the other vehicle. Fallada climbed out and waved to him.
“Good, it was kind of you to come so promptly. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine, thank you. Never better in my life.”
“Good. Because I need some help from you. I need it urgently. Come on down.”
He led the way down a flight of stairs. “Excuse me one moment. I must speak to my assistant.” He pushed open a door labelled Lab C. They were met by a smell of chemicals and iodoform. Carlsen was startled to find himself looking at the naked body of a middle-aged man; it lay on a metal trolley near the door. A white-coated assistant was bent over a microscope. Fallada said: “I’m back now. Sometime over the next half-hour, the Yard will be sending another body. I want you to drop everything to work on it. Call me as soon as it arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closed the door. “This way, Mr Carlsen.” He led the way into an office on the other side of the corridor; the card on the door read: “H. Fallada, Director.”
Carlsen said: “Who was the man?”
“My assistant, Norman Grey.”
“No, I mean the dead man.”
“Oh, some idiot who hanged himself. He may be the Bexley rapist. We have to find out.” He opened the drink cupboard. “Is it too early to offer you a whisky?”
“No, I think I’d like one.”
“Please sit down.” Carlsen took the reclining chair near the immense bow window; it moulded itself to his body. From up here, the world looked sunlit and uncomplicated. He could see clear to the Thames estuary and Southend. It was difficult to believe in violence and evil.
On the metal bookcase a few yards away, Fallada’s face stared at him from the jacket of a book called A Primer of Sexual Criminology. The thick lips and drooping eyelids gave it a curiously sinister appearance in photographs; in fact, there was something humorous, almost clownish, about Fallada’s face. Behind the thick lenses, the eyes looked as if he was enjoying some secret joke. “Your health.” The ice clinked as he drank. Fallada sat on the edge of the desk. He said: “I have just been examining a body.”
“Yes?”
“A dead girl. She was found on a railway line near Putney Bridge.” He reached into his pocket, and handed Carlsen a folded paper.