Tooth and Nail - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 6

Churchill

Rebus woke to his radio-alarm at seven, sat up in bed and rang Lisa. No reply. Maybe something was wrong.

Over breakfast, he skimmed the newspapers. Two of the quality titles- carried bold front, page stories recounting the capture of the Wolfman, but they were couched in speculative prose: Police are believed … it is thought that Police may have already captured the, evil cutthroat killer. Only the tabloids carried pictures of Rebus at his little press conference. Even they, despite the shouting headlines, were being cagey; probably they didn't believe it themselves. That didn't matter. What mattered was that somewhere the Wolfman might be reading about his capture.

His. There was that word again. Rebus couldn't help, but think of the Wolfman as a man, yet part of him was wary of narrowing the possible identity in this way. There was still nothing to indicate that it could not be a woman. He needed to keep an open mind. And did the sex of the beast really matter? Actually yes, probably it did. What was the use of women waiting hours just so that they could travel home from a pub or party in a mini-cab driven by another woman, if the killer they were so afraid of turned out to be a woman? All over London people were taking protective measures. Housing estates were patrolled by neighbourhood vigilantes. One group had already beaten up a completely innocent stranger who'd wandered onto the estate because he was lost — and needed directions. His crime? The estate was white, and the stranger was coloured. Flight had told Rebus how prevalent racism was in London, 'especially the south-east corner. Go into some of those estates with a tan and you'll end up being nutted.' Rebus had encountered it already, thanks to Lamb's own particular brand of xenophobia.

Of course, there wasn't nearly so much racism in Scotland. There was no need: the Scots had bigotry instead.

He finished the papers and went to HQ It was early yet, a little after half past eight. A few of the murder team were busy at their desks, but the smaller offices were empty. The office Rebus had taken over was stuffy, and he opened the windows. The day was mild, a slight, breeze wafting in. He could hear the distant sound of a computer printer, of telephones starting to ring. Outside, the traffic flowed in slow motion, a dull rumbling, nothing more. Without realising he was doing it, Rebus rested his head on his arms. This close to the desk, he could smell wood and varnish, mixed with pencil-lead. It reminded him of primary school. A knock, echoing somewhere, jarred his sleep. Then a cough, not a necessary cough, a diplomatic cough.

'Excuse me, sir.'

Rebus lifted his head sharply from the desk. A. WPC was standing, her head around the, door, looking at him. He had been sleeping with his mouth open. There was a trail of saliva on the side of his mouth, and a tiny pool of the stuff on the surface of the desk.

'Yes,' he said, still muzzy. 'What is it?'

A sympathetic smile. They weren't all like Lamb, he had to remember that. On, a case like this, you, became a team, came to feel as close to the others as you would to your best friend. Closer than that even, sometimes.

'Someone to see you, sir. Well, she wants to speak to someone about the murders. and you're about the only one here.'

Rebus looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. He hadn't been asleep long then. Good. He felt he could confide in this WPC. 'How do I look?' he asked.

'Well,' she said, 'one side of your face is red from where you've been lying on it, but otherwise you'll do.' Then the smile again. A, good deed in a naughty world.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Okay, send her in, please.'

'Right you are.' The head disappeared, but only momentarily. 'Can I get you a coffee or something?' 'Coffee would hit the spot,' said Rebus. 'Thanks.' 'Milk? Sugar?'

'Just milk.'

The head disappeared. The door closed. Rebus tried to look busy: it wasn't difficult. There was a mound of fresh paperwork to be gone through. Lab reports and the like. Results (negative) from door-to-door on the Jean Cooper murder from the interviews with everyone who'd been in the pub with her that Sunday night. He picked up the first sheet and held it in front of him. There was a knock on the door, so soft that he only just caught it.

'Come in,' he called.

The door opened slowly. A woman was standing there, looking around her as though her timidity might be about to turn to fright. She was in her late twenties, with closely cropped brown hair, but other than that she defied description. She was more a collection of 'hots' than anything else: not tall, but, not exactly short; not slim, but by no means overweight, and her face lacked anything approaching a personality.

'Hello,' Rebus said, half-rising to his feet. He indicated a chair on the other side of the desk, and watched as, with breathtaking slowness, she closed the door, testing it afterwards to make sure it was going to stay shut. Only then did she turn to, look at him — or at least towards him; for she had a way of focusing just to the side of his face, so that her eyes never met his.

'Hello,' she said. She seemed ready to stand throughout proceedings. Rebus, who had seated himself again, gestured once more with his hand

'Please. Sit down.'

At last, she poised herself above the chair and lowered herself into it. Rebus had the feeling; that he was the boss at some job interview, and that she wanted the job so much she'd worked herself into a good and proper state about it.

'You wanted to speak to someone,' he said, in what he hoped were soft and sympathetic tones.

'Yes,' she said.

Well, it was a start. 'My name is Inspector Rebus. And yours is …?’

'Jan Crawford.'

'Okay, Jan. Now, how can I help you?'

She swallowed, gazing at the window behind Rebus's left ear. 'It's the killings,' she said. 'They call — him the Wolfman.'

Rebus was undecided. Maybe she was, a crank, but she didn't seem like one. She just seemed jumpy. Perhaps she had good reason.

'That's right,' he cajoled. 'The papers call him that.'

'Yes, they do.' She had become suddenly excitable, the words spilling from her. 'And they said last night on the radio, this morning in the paper …' She pulled ' a newspaper clipping from her bag. It was the photograph of Rebus and Lisa Frazer. 'This is you, isn't it?'

Rebus nodded.

'Then you'll know. I mean, you must. The paper says he's done it again, they're saying you've caught him, or maybe you've caught him, nobody's sure.' She paused, breathing heavily. All the time her eyes were on the window.. Rebus kept his mouth shut, letting her calm down. Her eyes were filling, becoming glossy with tears. As she spoke, one droplet squirmed out from the corner of an eye, and crept down towards her lips, her chin. 'Nobody's sure whether you've caught him, but I could be sure. At least, I think I can be sure. I didn't get, I mean, I've been scared so long now, and I haven't said anything. I didn't want anybody to know, my mum and dad to know. I just wanted to shut it out, but that's stupid, isn't it?’ when he could do it again if he's not caught. So I decided to, I mean, maybe I can …' She made to stand up, thought better of it, and squeezed her hands together instead.

'Can what, Miss Crawford?'

'Identify him,' she said, her voice almost a whisper. now. She searched in the sleeve of her blouse, found a tissue, and blew-her nose. The tear dripped onto one knee. 'Identify him,' she repeated, 'if he's here, if you've caught him.'

Rebus was staring hard at her now, and at last his eyes found hers. Her brown eyes, covered with a film of liquid. He'd seen cranks before, plenty of them. Maybe she was, and maybe she wasn't.

'What do you mean, Jan?'

She sniffed again, turned her eyes to the window, swallowed. 'He almost got me,' she said. 'I was the first, before all the others. He almost got me. I was almost the first.'

And then she lifted her head. At first Rebus couldn't understand why. But then he saw. Under her right ear, running in a crescent shape towards her white throat, there was a dark pink scar, no more than an inch long.

The kind of scar you made with a knife.

The first intended kill of the Wolfman.

'What do you think?'

They faced one another across the desk. Four inches of fresh paperwork had appeared in the in-tray, threatening to overbalance the pile and send it slewing down across the floor. Rebus was eating a cheese and onion sandwich from Gino's. Comfort food. One of the nice things about being a bachelor was that you could eat, without, fear of regrets, onions, Branston pickle, huge sausage, egg and tomato sauce sandwiches, curried beans on toast and all the other delicacies favoured by the male.

'What do you think then?'

Flight sipped from a can of cola; giving slight closed-mouth burps between times. He had listened to Rebus's story and had met with Jan Crawford. She had now been taken to an interview room to be fed tea and sympathy by a WPC while a detective took her statement. Flight and Rebus both hoped she would not have to deal with Lamb.

'Well?'

Flight rubbed a knuckle against his right eye. 'I don't know, John. This case has gone ga-ga. You're off telling porkies to the press, your picture's all over the front pages, we've got our first — maybe not our last — copycat killing, then you come up with some idea of flea markets and false teeth. And now this.' He opened his arms wide, pleading for help to put his world back into some semblance of order. 'It's all a bit much.'

Rebus bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly. 'But it fits the pattern, doesn't it? From what I've read about serial killers, the first attempt is often botched. They're not quite ready, ' they haven't planned well enough. Somebody screams, they panic. He didn't have his technique honed. He didn't go for the mouth, so she was able to scream. Then he found that human skin and muscle is tougher than it looks. He'd probably seen too many horror films, thought it was like cutting through butter. So he scraped her, but not enough to do serious damage. Maybe the knife wasn't sharp enough, who knows. The point is, he got scared and he ran.'

Flight merely shrugged. 'And she didn't come forward,' he said. 'That's what bothers me.'

'She's come forward now. Tell me this, George. How many rape victims do we actually see? I heard tell somebody reckons it's; less than one in three. Jan Crawford is a timid little woman, scared half to death. All she wanted to do was forget about it, but she couldn't. Her conscience wouldn't let her. Her conscience brought her to us.'

'I still don't like it, John. Don't ask me why.'

Rebus finished the sandwich and made a show of wiping his hands.together. 'Your copper's instinct?' he suggested, just a little sarcastically.

'Maybe,' said. Flight, appearing to miss, or at least to ignore, Rebus's tone. 'There's just something about her.'

'Trust me. I've talked to her. I've been through it all with her. And, George, I believe her. I think it was him. Twelfth of December last year. That was, his first time.'

'Maybe not,' said Flight. 'Maybe there are others who haven't come forward.'

'Maybe. What matters is one did.'

'I still don't see what good this does us.' Flight picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and read the scribbled details. 'He was about six feet tall, white, and I think he had brown hair. He was running away with his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. Flight put down the paper. 'That narrows things down nicely, doesn't it?'

Yes, Rebus wanted to say, it does. Because now I think I'm dealing with a man, and before this I wasn't sure. But he kept that particular thought to himself. He'd given George Flight enough grief in the past few days.

'That's still, not the point,' he said instead.

.'Then what in God's name is the point?' Flight had finished the can of cola and now tossed it into a metal wastepaper- bin, where it rang against, the side, the reverberation lasting for what seemed like an age.

When all was quiet again, Rebus spoke. 'The point is the Wolfman doesn't know she didn't get a good look, at him. We've got to persuade Miss Crawford to go public. Let the TV cameras feast on her. The One Who Got Away. Then we say that she's given us a good description. If that doesn't panic the bastard, nothing will.'

'Panic! Everything you do is designed to panic him. What good does that do? What if it simply frightens, him off? What if he just stops killing and we never find him?'

'He's not the type,' Rebus said with authority. 'He'll go on killing because it's taken him over. Haven't you noticed how the murders are coming at shorter and shorter intervals? He may even have killed again since Lea Bridge, we just haven't found the body yet. He's possessed, George.' Flight looked at him as though seeking a joke, but Rebus was in deadly earnest. 'I mean it.'

Flight stood up and walked to the window. 'It might not even have been the Wolfman.'

'Maybe not,' Rebus conceded.

'What if she won't go public?'

'It doesn't matter. We still issue the news story. We still say we've got a good description.'

Flight turned from the window. 'You believe her? You don't think she's a crank?'

'It's possible, but I really don't think so: She's very plausible. She kept the details just vague enough to be convincing. It was three months ago. We can check on her if you like.'

'Yes, I'd like that very much.' The emotion had left Flight's voice. This case was draining him, of every reserve he had. 'I want to know about her background, her present, her friends, her medical records, her family:'

'I could even get Lisa Frazer to give her some psychological tests?' Rebus suggested, not altogether without tongue in cheek. Flight smiled faintly.

'No, just the checks I've mentioned. Get Lamb onto it. It'll keep him out of our hair.'

'You don't like him then?'

'Whatever gives you that idea?'

'Funny, he says you're like a father to him.'

The moment of tension was over. Rebus felt he had won another small victory. They both laughed, using their dislike of Lamb to strengthen the link between them.

'You're a good policeman, John,' Flight said. Rebus, despite himself, blushed.

'Sod off, you old fart,' he replied.

'That reminds me,' said Flight. 'I told you yesterday to go home. Have you any intention of doing so?'

'None at all,' said Rebus. There was a pause before Flight nodded.

'Good,' he said. 'That's good.' He walked to the door. 'For now.' He turned back towards Rebus. 'Just don't go rogue on me, John. This is my turf. I need to know where you are and what you're up to.' He tapped at his own head. 'I need to know what's going on up here. Okay?'

Rebus nodded. 'Fine, George. No problem.' But the fingers behind his back were crossed. He liked to work alone, and had the feeling Flight wanted to stick close to him for reasons other than traditional Cockney chumminess. Besides, if the Wolfman did turn out to be a policeman, nobody could be discounted, nobody at all.

Rebus tried Lisa again, but without success. At lunchtime, he was wandering around the station when he bumped into Joey Bennett, the constable who had stopped him on Shaftesbury Avenue that first night in London. Bennett was wary at first. Then he recognised Rebus. 'Oh, hello, sir. Was that your picture I saw in the papers?'

Rebus' nodded. 'This isn't your patch is it?' he asked.

'No, not exactly, sir. Just passing through, you might say. Dropping off a prisoner. That woman in the photo with you. She looked a bit of all — '

'Do you have your car with you?'

Bennett was wary again. 'Yes, sir.'

'And you're going back into town now?'

'To the West End, yes, sir.'

'Good. Then you won't mind giving me a lift, will you?'

'Er, no, sir: Of course not, sir.' Bennett broke into the least convincing smile Rebus had seen outside a synchronised swimming event. On their way out to the car, they passed Lamb.

'Teeth' stopped chattering yet?' he asked, but Rebus was in no mood to respond. Lamb, undaunted, tried again. 'Going somewhere?' He managed even to make this simple question sound like a threat. Rebus stopped, turned and walked up to him, so that their faces were a couple of inches apart.

'If that's all right with you, Lamb, yes, I'm going somewhere.' Then he turned away again- and followed Bennett. Lamb watched them go, half his teeth showing in a parody of a grin.

'Mind how you go!' he called. 'Shall I phone ahead and get the hotel to, pack your bags?'

Rebus's reply was a two-fingered salute, a more determined stride, and a whispered 'FYTP' Bennett heard him.

'Sorry, sir?'

'Nothing,' said Rebus. 'Nothing at all.'

It took them half an hour to reach Bloomsbury. Every second building seemed to sport a blue circular plaque commemorating some writer's having lived there. Rebus recognised few of the names. Finally, he found the building he was looking for, and waved Bennett goodbye. It was the Psychology Department of University College in Gower Street. The, secretary, who appeared to, be the only living soul around at one o'clock, asked if she could help him.

'I hope so,' he said. 'I'm looking for Lisa Frazer.'

'Lisa?' The secretary, seemed unsure. 'Oh, Lisa. Dear me, I don't think I can help. I haven't seen her in over a week. You might try the library. Or Dillon's.'

' Dillon's?'

'It's a bookshop, just around the corner. Lisa seems to spend a lot of her time in there. She loves bookshops. Or there's always the British Library. It's just possible she might be there.'

He left the building with a new puzzle. The secretary had seemed very distant, very fuzzy. Maybe it- was just him. He was starting to read things into every situation: He found the bookshop and went inside. 'Shop' was something of an understatement. It was huge. He read on a wall that psychology books were to be found three floors up. So many books. One man could not hope to read them all in a lifetime. He tried to walk through the aisles without focusing. If he focused, he would become interested; and if he became interested he would buy. He already had over fifty books at home, piled beside his bed, waiting for that elusive weeklong break when he could concentrate on something other than police work. He collected books. It was just about his only hobby. Not that he, was precious about it. He did not lust after first editions, signed copies and the like. Mostly, he bought paperbacks. And he was nothing if not catholic in his tastes: any subject matter would do.

So he tried to pretend he was wearing blinkers, pondered the essential difference between catholic and Catholic and finally reached the psychology section. It was a room joined onto other rooms as in a chain, but there was no sign of Lisa in any of the links. He did, however, find where some of her own library of books had no doubt originated. There was a shelf next to the cashier's desk, dedicated to crime and violence. One of the books she had loaned him was there. He picked it up and turned it over to look at the price. Then blinked twice in astonishment. So, much money! And it wasn't even a hardback! Still, academic books always did carry steep price tickets. Strange really: weren't students, the intended readership after all, least able to afford these titles? It might take a psychologist to explain that one, or perhaps a shrewd economist.

Next to the criminology section were books on the occult and witchcraft, along with various packs of Tarot cards and the like. Rebus smiled at this curious marriage: police work and hocus-pocus. He picked up a book on rituals and flipped through it. A young, slender woman, in billowing satin dress and with long fiery hair, paused beside him to lift a Tarot set, which she took to the cash desk. Well, it took all sorts, didn't it? She looked serious enough, but then these were serious times.

Ritual. He wondered if there was an element of ritual to the Wolfman's particular spree. So far he had been seeking an explanation from the killer's psyche: what if the whole thing were some kind of rite? Slaughter and defilement of the innocent, that sort of thing. Charlie Manson and his swastika-tattooed forehead. Some said there was a Masonic element to Jack the Ripper's methods. Madness and evil. Sometimes you found a cause, and sometimes you just didn't.

Slash the throat.

Gouge the anus.

Bite the stomach:

The two ends of the human trunk, and something like the mid-point. Could there be a clue in that particular pattern?

There are clues everywhere.

The monster from his past, rearing up out of the dark deep waters of memory. That case had tied him up all right, but not half as much as this. He had thought the Wolfman might be a woman. Now a woman had conveniently appeared to tell him the Wolfman was a man. Very conveniently. George Flight was right to be wary. Perhaps Rebus could learn something from him. Flight did everything by the book, and in scrupulous detail. He didn't go running down the bloody hall with a pair of toy false teeth clutched in his sweaty hand. He was the type to sit down and think things through. That was what made him a good copper, better than Rebus, because he didn't snap at every red herring that came along.' Better ' because he was methodical, and methodical people never let anything escape them.

Rebus left Dillon's Bookshop with his own little thundercloud hanging above his head and a plastic carrier-bag full of newly purchased books swinging from his right hand. He walked down Gower Street and Bloomsbury Street; took a fortuitous left at a set of traffic lights and found himself outside the British Museum, inside which, he knew from memory, was to be found the British Library. Unless, that was, they'd already, moved it, as he'd read they were planning to.

But the British Library; itself was off-limit to 'nonreaders'. Rebus tried to explain that he was a reader, but apparently what this meant was that he had to be in possession of a reader's card. With hindsight, he supposed he could have flashed his ID and said he was on the trail of a maniac, but he didn't. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and went instead for a walk around the museum.

The place seemed full almost to bursting with tourists and school parties. He wondered if the children, their imaginations still open, were as thunderstruck as he was by the Ancient Egyptian and Assyrian rooms. Vast stone carvings, huge wooden gates, countless exhibits. But the real throng was around the Rosetta Stone. Rebus had heard of it, of course, but didn't really know what it was. Now he found out. The stone contained writing in three languages and thus helped scholars to work out for the first time what Egyptian hieroglyphics actually meant.

He was willing to bet they hadn't solved it overnight, or even over a weekend. Slow painstaking graft, just like police work, toil as difficult as anything a bricklayer or miner could endure. And in the end it usually still came down to the Lucky Break. How many times had they interviewed the Yorkshire Ripper and let him go? That sort of thing happened more often than the public would ever be allowed to know.

He walked through more rooms, rooms airy and light and containing Greek vases and figurines, then, pushing open a, glass double-door, he found himself confronted by the Sculptures of the Parthenon. (For some reason they had stopped advertising them as the Elgin Marbles.) Rebus walked around this large gallery, feeling almost as though he were in some modern-day place of worship. At one end, a gabble of school-kids squatted before some statues, trying to draw them, while their teacher walked around, trying to keep the grudging artists quiet. It was Rhona. Even at this distance he recognised her. Recognised her walk and the slant of her head and the way she held her hands behind her back whenever she was trying to make a point.

Rebus turned away, and found himself face to face with a horse's head. He could see the veins bulging from the marble neck, the open mouth with its teeth worn away to an indeterminate smoothness. No bite. Would Rhona thank him for walking over and interrupting her class, just to make smalltalk? No, she would not. But what if she, spotted him? If he were to slink away it would look like the action of a coward. Hell, he was a coward, wasn't he? Best to face facts and move back towards the doors. She might never spot him, and if she' did she was hardly likely to announce the fact. But then he wanted to know about Kenny, didn't he? Who better to ask than Rhona? There was a simple answer: better to ask anyone. He'd ask Samantha. Yes, that's what he'd do. He'd ask Samantha.

He crept back to the doors and walked briskly towards the exit. Suddenly all the exquisite vases and statues had become ridiculous. What was the point in burying them behind glass for people to glance at in passing? Wasn't it better to look forward, 'forget about ancient history? Wouldn't it be better if he just took Lamb's ill-meant advice? There were too many ghosts in London. Way too many. Even the reporter Jim Stevens was down here somewhere. Rebus fairly flew across the museum courtyard only pausing when he reached the gates. The guards stared at him strangely, glancing towards his carrier-bag. They're just books, he wanted to say. But he knew you could hide anything in a book, just about anything. Knew from painful personal experience.

When feeling depressed, be rash. He stuck a hand out into the road and at the first attempt managed to stop an empty black cab. He couldn't remember the name of the street he wanted, but that didn't matter.

'Covent Garden,' he said to the driver. As the cab did what Rebus assumed was a fairly illegal u-turn, he dipped into his bag to claim the, first prize.

He wandered around Covent Garden proper for twenty minutes, enjoying an open-air magic act and a nearby fireeater before moving off in search of Lisa's flat. It wasn't too difficult to find. He surprised himself by recalling a kite shop and another shop which seemed to sell nothing but teapots. Took a left and a right and another right and found himself in her street; standing outside the shoe shop. The shop itself was busy. The clientele, like the serving staff, was very young, probably not yet out of teens. A jazz saxophone played. A tape — perhaps, or someone busking in the distance. He looked up at the window to Lisa's flat, with its bright yellow' roller blind. How old was she really? It was hard to, tell.

And then, only then, he went to the door and pressed her buzzer.. There was noise from the intercom, a crackle of movement. 'Hello?'

'It's me, John.'

'Hello? I can't hear you!'

'It's John,' he said loudly into the door frame, looking around him in embarrassment. But no-one was interested. People glanced into the shop window as they passed, eating strange-looking snacks, vegetable-looking things.

'John?' As though she had forgotten him already. Then: 'Oh, John.' And the buzzer sounded beside him. 'Door's open. Come on up.'

The door to her flat was open, too, and he closed it behind him. Lisa was tidying the studio, as she called it. In Edinburgh it wouldn't have been called a studio. It would have been called a bedsit. He supposed Covent Garden didn't have such things as bedsits.

'I've been trying to get in touch,' he said.

'Me too.'

'Oh?'

She turned to him, noting, the hint of disbelief in his voice. 'Didn't they tell you? I must've left half a dozen messages with, what was his name, Shepherd?'

'Lamb?'

'That's it.'

Rebus's hate for Lamb intensified.

'About an hour ago,' she went on, 'I called and they said you'd gone back to Scotland. I was a bit miffed at that. Thought you'd gone without saying goodbye.'

Bastards, thought Rebus. They really did hate his guts, didn't they? Our expert from north of the border.

Lisa had finished making a neat stack from the newspapers lying on the floor and the bed. She had straightened the duvet and the cover on the sofa. And now, a little out of breath, she was standing close to him. He slid his arm around her and pulled her to him.

'Hello,' he murmured, kissing her.

'Hello,' she said, returning the kiss.

She broke away from his hug and walked into the alcove which served as a kitchen. There was the sound of running tap-water, a kettle filling. 'I suppose you've seen the papers?' she called.

'Yes.'

Her head came out of the alcove. 'A friend called me up to tell me. I couldn't believe it. My picture on the front page!'

'Fame at last.'

'Infamy more like: a "police psychologist" indeed! They might have done their research. One paper- even called me Liz Frazier!' She plugged the kettle in, switched it on, then came back into the room. Rebus was sitting on the arm of the sofa.

'So,' she asked, 'how goes the investigation?' 'A few interesting developments.'

'Oh?' She sat on the edge of the bed. 'Tell me.'

So he told her about Jan Crawford, and about his false teeth theory. Lisa suggested that Jan Crawford's memory might be helped by hypnosis. 'Lost memory' she called it. But Rebus knew this sort of thing was inadmissible as evidence. Besides, he'd experienced 'lost memory' for himself, and shivered now at the memory.

They drank Lapsang Souchong, which he said reminded him of bacon butties, and she put on some music, something soft and classical, and they ended up somehow sitting next to one another on the Indian carpet, their backs against the sofa, shoulders, arms and legs touching. She stroked his hair, the nape of his neck.

'What happened the other night between us,' she said,

'are you sorry?’

'You mean sorry it happened?' She nodded.

'Christ, no,' said Rebus. 'Just the opposite.' He paused.

'What about you?'

She thought over her answer. 'It was nice,' she said, her eyebrows almost meeting as she concentrated on each word. 'I thought maybe you were avoiding me,' he said. 'And I thought you were avoiding me.'

'I went looking for you this morning at the university.' She sat back; the better to study his face. ’Really?' He nodded.

'What did they say?'

'I spoke to some secretary,' he explained. 'Glasses on a string around her neck, hair in a sort of a bun.' 'Millicent. But what did she tell you?'

'She just said you hadn't been around much.' 'What else?'

'That I might find you in the library, or in Dillon's.' He nodded over towards the door; where the carrier-bag stood propped against a wall. 'She said you liked bookshops. So I went looking there, too.'

She was still studying — his face, then she laughed and pecked him — on the cheek. 'Millicent's a treasure though, isn't she?'

'If you say so.' Why did her laugh have so much relief in it? Stop looking for puzzles, John. Just stop it right now.

She was crawling away from him towards the bag.

'So what did you buy?'

He couldn't honestly remember, with the exception of the book he'd. started reading in the taxi. Hawksmoor.

Instead; he watched her behind and her legs as she moved away from him. Spectacular ankles. Slim with a prominent hemisphere of bone.

'Well!' she said, lifting one of the paperbacks from the bag. 'Eysenck.'

'Do you approve?'

She thought this question over, too. 'Not entirely. Probably not at all, in fact. Genetic inheritance and all that. I'm not sure.' She lifted out another book, and shrieked. 'Skinner! The beast of behaviourism! But what made you —?'

He shrugged. 'I just recognised some names from those books you loaned me, so I thought I'd '

Another book was lifted high for him to see. King Ludd. 'Have you read the first- two?' she asked.

'Oh,' he said, disappointed, 'is it part of a trilogy? I just liked the title.'

She turned and gave him a quizzical look, then laughed. Rebus could feel himself going red at the neck. She was making a fool of him, He turned away from her and concentrated on the pattern of the rug, brushing the rough fibres with his hand.

'Oh dear,' she said, starting to crawl back. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.' And she placed a hand on either of his legs, kneeling in front of him, angling her head until his eyes were forced to meet hers. She was smiling apologetically. 'Sorry,' she mouthed. He managed a smile which said: 'that's okay'. She leaned' across him and placed her lips on his, one of her hands sliding up his leg towards the thigh, and then a little higher still.

It was evening before he escaped, though 'escape' was perhaps putting it too harshly. The effort of easing, himself from beneath Lisa's sleeping limbs was almost too much. Her body perfume, the sweet smell of her hair, the flawless warmth of her belly, her arms, her behind. She did not waken as he slid from the bed and tugged on his clothes. She did not waken as he wrote her another of his notes, picked up his carrier-bag of books, opened the door, cast a glance back towards the bed and then pulled the door, shut after him.

He went to Covent Garden tube station, where he was offered a choice: the queue for the elevator, or the three hundred-odd spiralling stairs. He opted for the stairs. They seemed to go on forever, turning and turning in their gyre. His head became light as he thought of what it must have been like to descend this corkscrew during the war years. White tiled walls like those of public lavatories, Rumble from above. The dull echo of footsteps and voices.

He thought, too, of Edinburgh's Scott Monument, with its own tightly winding stairwell, much more constricted and unnerving than this. And then he was at the bottom, beating the elevator by a matter of seconds. The tube train was as crowded as he had come to expect. Next to a sign proclaiming 'Keep your personal stereo personal', a white youth wearing a green parka with matching teeth shared his musical taste with the rest of the carriage. His eyes had a distant, utterly vacant look and from time to time he swigged from a can of strong lager. Rebus toyed with the notion of saying something; but held back. He was only travelling one stop. If the glowering passengers were content to suffer silently, that was how it should be.

He prised himself out of the train at Holborn, only to squeeze into another compartment, this time on the Central Line. Again, someone was playing a Walkman at some dizzying level, but they were somewhere over towards the far end of the carriage, so all Rebus had to suffer was the Schhch-schch-schch of what he took to be drums. He was becoming a seasoned traveller now, setting his eyes so that they focused on space rather than on his fellow passengers, letting his mind empty for the duration of the journey.

God alone knew how these people could do it every day of their working lives.

He had already rung the doorbell before it struck him that he did not have a pretext for coming here. Think quickly, John.

The door was pulled open. 'Oh, it's you.' She sounded disappointed.

'Hello, Rhona.'

'To what do we owe the honour?' She was standing her ground, just inside the front door, keeping him on the doorstep. She was wearing a hint of make-up and her clothes were not after work, work, relaxing-at-home clothes. She was going out somewhere. She was waiting for a gentleman.

'Nothing special,' he said. 'Just thought I'd pop round. We didn't get much of a chance to talk the other night.' Would he mention that he had seen her in the British Museum? No, he would not.

Besides, she was shaking her head. 'Yes we did, it was just that we had nothing to talk about'.' Her voice wasn't bitter; she was simply stating a fact. Rebus looked at the doorstep.

'I've caught you at a bad time,' he said. 'Sorry.' 'No need to apologise."

'Is Sammy in?'

'She's out with Kenny.'

Rebus nodded. 'Well,' he said, 'enjoy- wherever '' it is you're' going.'' My God, he actually felt jealous. He couldn't believe it of himself after all these years. It was the make-up that did it. Rhona had seldom — worn make-up. He half turned to leave, then stopped. 'I couldn't use your loo, could I?'

She stared at him, seeking some trick or plan, but he smiled back with his best impersonation of a crippled dog and she relented.

'Go on then,' she said. 'You know where it is.'

He left his carrier at the door, squeezed past her and began to climb the steep stairs. 'Thanks, Rhona,' he said.

She was lingering downstairs, waiting to let him out again. He walked across the landing to the bathroom, opened and closed the door loudly, then opened it again very quietly and crept back across the landing to where the telephone sat on a small and quite grotesque confection of brass, green glass and red hanging tassels. There were London phone books piled beneath this table, but Rebus went straight to the smaller 'Telephone & Addresses' book on the top of the table. Some of the entries were in Rhona's writing. Who, he wondered, were Tony, Tim, Ben and Graeme? But most were in Sammy's grander, more confident script. He flipped to the K section and. found what he wanted.

'KENNY', printed in capitals with a seven figure number scribbled below the name, the whole enclosed by a loving ellipse. Rebus took pen and notepad from his pocket and copied down the number, then closed the book and tiptoed back to the bathroom, where he flushed the toilet, gave his hands a quick rinse and boldly started downstairs again. Rhona was looking along the street, no doubt anxious that her beau should not arrive and find him here.

'Bye,' he said, picking up the carrier, walking past her and setting off in the direction of the main road. He was nearly at the end of her street when a white Ford Escort turned off the main drag and moved slowly past him, driven by a canny-looking man with thin face and thick moustache. Rebus stopped at the corner to watch the man pull up outside Rhona's building. She had already locked the door and fairly skipped to the car. Rebus turned away before she could kiss or hug — the man called Tony, Tim, Ben or Graeme.

In a large pub near the tube station,' a barn, of a place with walls painted torrid red, Rebus remembered that he had not tried the local brews since coming south. He'd gone for a drink with George Flight, but had stuck, to whisky. He looked at, the row of pumps, while the barman watched him, a proprietorial hand resting on one pump. Rebus nodded towards this, resting hand.

'Is it any good?'

The man snorted. 'It's bloody Fuller's, mate, of course it's good.'

'A pint of that then, please.'

The stuff turned out to have a watery look, like cold tea, but it tasted smooth and malty. The barman was still watching him, so Rebus nodded approval, then took his glass to a distant corner where the public telephone stood. He dialled HQ and asked for Flight.

'He's left for the day,' he was told.

'Well then, put me through to anyone from CID, anyone who's helpful. I've got a telephone number I want tracing.' There were rules and regulations about this sort of thing, rules at one time ignored but of late enforced. Requests had to be made and were not always granted. Some forces could pull more weight than others when it came to number tracing. He reckoned the Met and the Yard ought to carry more weight than most, but just in case he added: 'It's to do with the Wolfman case. It might be a very good lead.'

He was told to repeat the number he, wanted- tracing. 'Call back in half an hour,' said the voice.

He sat at a table and drank his beer. It seemed silly, but it appeared to be going to his head already, with only half a pint missing from 'the glass. Someone had left a folded, smudged- copy of the midday Standard. Rebus tried to concentrate on the sports pages and even had a stab at the concise crossword. Then he made the call and was put through to someone he didn't know, who passed him on to someone else he didn't know. A boisterous crowd, looking like a team of bricklayers, had entered the bar. One of them made for the jukebox, and suddenly Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild was booming, from the walls, while the men urged the unwilling barman to wick it up a bit'.

'If you'll just hold a minute, Inspector Rebus, 'I believe Chief Inspector Laine wants a word.'

'But, Christ, I don't want To late, the voice at the other end had gone. Rebus held the receiver away from him and scowled.

Eventually, Howard Laine came on the line. Rebus pushed a finger into one ear, pressing his other ear hard against the earpiece.

'Ah, Inspector Rebus. I wanted a quiet word. You're a hard man to catch. About that business last night.' Laine's was the voice of reasoned sanity. 'You're, about a bullock-hair's breadth away from an official reprimand, understand? Pull a stunt like that again and I'll personally see to it that you're shipped back to Jockland in the boot of a National Express bus. Got that?'

Rebus was silent, listening closely. He could almost hear Cath Farraday sitting in Laine's office, smirking.

'I said, have you got that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.' A rustling of paper. 'Now, you want an address I believe?'

'Yes, sir.'

'It's a lead, you say?'

'Yes, sir.' Rebus suddenly wondered if this would be worth it. He hoped so. If they found out he was abusing the system like, this, they'd have him in the dole office with prospects roughly equivalent to those of a shoeshine boy on a nudist beach.

But Laine gave him the address and as a bonus, supplied Kenny's surname.

'Watkiss,' said Laine. 'The address is Pedro Tower, Churchill Estate, E5, I think that's Hackney.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Rebus.

'Oh by the way,' said Laine, 'Inspector Rebus?' 'Yes, sir?'

'From what I've been told of Churchill Estate, if you're intending to visit, tell us first. We'll arrange for an SPG escort. All right?'

'Bit rough is it then, sir?'

'Rough doesn't begin to tell the story, son. We train the SAS in there, pretend it's a mock-up of Beirut.'

'Thanks for the advice, sir.' Rebus wanted to add that he'd been in the SAS and he doubted Pedro Tower could throw anything at him that the SAS HQ in Hereford hadn't. All the same, it paid to be cautious. The brickies were playing pool, their accents a mix of Irish and Cockney. Born to be Wild had finished. Rebus finished his pint and ordered another.

Kenny Watkiss. So there was a connection and rather a large one at that, between Tommy Watkiss and Samantha's boyfriend. How was it that in a city of ten million souls, Rebus had suddenly begun to feel an overwhelming sense, of claustrophobia? He felt like someone had wrapped a muffler around his mouth and pulled a Balaclava down over his head.

'I'd be careful, mate,' said the barman as Rebus took delivery of his second pint. 'That stuff can kill you.'

'Not if I kill it first,' said Rebus, winking as he raised the glass to his lips.

The taxi driver wouldn't take him as far as the Churchill Estate. 'I'll drop you off a couple of streets away and show you where to go, but there's no way I'm going in there.'

'Fair enough,' said Rebus.

So he took the taxi as far as the taxi would take him, then walked the remaining distance. It didn't look so' bad. He'd seen worse on the outskirts of Edinburgh. A lot of dull concrete, nuggets of glass underfoot, boarded windows and spray-painted gang names on every wall. Jeez Posse seemed to be the main gang, though there were other names so fantastically contrived that he could not make them out. Young boys skateboarded through an arena constructed from milk-crates, wooden planks and bricks. You couldn't muzzle the creative mind. Rebus stopped to watch for a moment; it only took a moment to appreciate that these boys were masters of their craft.

Rebus came to the entrance of one of the estate's four high-rises. He was busy looking for an identifying mark when something went splat on the pavement beside him. He looked down. It was a sandwich, a salami sandwich by the look of it. He craned his neck to look up at the various levels of the tower block, just in time to catch sight of something large and dark growing larger and darker as it hurtled towards him.

'Jesus Christ!' He leapt into the safety of the block's entrance hall, just as the TV set landed, flattening itself with an explosion of plastic, metal and glass. From their arena, the boys cheered. Rebus moved outside again, but more warily now, and craned his neck. There was no one to be seen. He whistled- under his breath. He was impressed, and a little scared. Despite the thunderous sound, nobody seemed curious or interested.

He wondered which television show had so- angered the person somewhere above him. 'Everyone's — a critic,' he said. And then: 'FYTP '

He heard a lift opening. A young woman, greasy dyed-blonde hair, gold stud in her nose and three in each ear; spider-web tattoo across her throat. She wheeled a pushchair out onto the concrete. Seconds earlier she would have been beneath the television.'

'Excuse me,' said Rebus above the noise of her wailing passenger.

'Yeah?'

'Is this Pedro Tower?'

'Over there,' she said, pointing a sharpened fingernail towards one of the remaining blocks.

'Thank you.'

She glanced towards where the television had landed'. 'It's the kids,' she said. 'They break into a flat, and throw a sandwich out of the window, A dog comes to eat it, and they chuck a telly after it: Makes a helluva mess.' She sounded almost amused. Almost.

'Lucky I don't like salami,' Rebus said.

But she was already manoeuvring the pushchair past the fresh debris. 'If you don't shut up I'll fucking kill, you!' she yelled at her child. Rebus walked on unsteady legs towards Pedro Tower.

Why was he here?

It had all seemed to make sense, had seemed logical. But now that he stood in the sour-smelling ground-floor hallway of Pedro Tower he found that he had no reason at all to be here. Rhona had said that Sammy was out with Kenny. The chances of them choosing to spend the evening in Pedro Tower must be slim, mustn't they?

Even supposing Kenny were here, how would Rebus locate the flat? The locals would sniff an enquiring copper from fifty paces. Questions would go unanswered, knocked doors would stay unopened. Was this what intellectuals — called an impasse? He could, always wait, of course. Kenny would be sure to return at some point. But wait where? In here? Too conspicuous, too unappealing. Outside? Too cold, too open, too many armchair critics high above him in the now dark sky.

Which left him where precisely? Yes, this probably was an impasse. He walked from the block, his eyes on the windows above' him, and was about to make off in the direction of the skateboarders when a scream split the air from the other side of Pedro Tower. He walked quickly towards the source of the sound and was in time to see the butt-end of a burning argument. The woman no more than a girl really, seventeen, eighteen hit the bedenimed man with a good right-hand; sending him spinning. Then she stalked off as he, holding one side of his face, tried to hurl obscenities at her while at the same time feeling in his mouth for damaged teeth.

They did not interest Rebus particularly. He was looking past them to a low-built, dimly — illuminated building, a prefabricated construction surrounded by grass and dirt. A weathered board, lit by a single bulb, proclaimed it The Fighting Cock; A pub? Here? That was no place for a policeman, no place for a Scots policeman. But what if? No, it couldn't be so simple. Sammy and Kenny couldn't be in. there wouldn't be, in there.' His daughter deserved better. Deserved the best

But then she reckoned Kenny Watkiss was the best. And maybe he was. Rebus stopped dead. Just what the hell was he doing? Okay, so he didn't like Kenny. And when he had seen Kenny cheering in the Old Bailey, he had put two and two together and come to the conclusion that Kenny was in deep with Tommy Watkiss. But now it turned out the two were related in some way and that would explain the cheer, wouldn't it?

The psychology books told him that coppers read the worst into every situation. It was true. He didn't like the fact that Kenny Watkiss was dating his daughter. If Kenny had been heir apparent to the throne, Rebus would still have been suspicious. She was his daughter. He'd hardly seen her since she had entered her teens. In his mind she was still a child, a thing to be cosseted, loved, and protected. But she was a big girl now, with ambition, drive, good, looks and a grown-up, body. She was grown-up, there was no escaping it, and it scared him. Scared him because she was Sammy, his Sammy. Scared him because he hadn't been there all these years to warn her, to tell her how to cope, what to do.

Scared because he was getting old.

There, it was out. He was growing old; He had a sixteen year old daughter and she was old enough to leave school and get a job, to have sex, to get married. Not old enough to go into pubs, but that wouldn't stop her. Not old enough for street-wise eighteen-year-olds like Kenny Watkiss. But grown-up all the same, grown-up-without him, and now he too was old.

And by God he felt it.

He plunged his left hand: deep into his pocket, his right hand: still wrapped around the handle of the carrier-bag, and turned from the pub. There was a bus stop near where the taxi had dropped him. He'd go where the bus would take him. The skateboarders were coming along the path in front of him; One of them seemed very-proficient, weaving without losing balance. As the boy approached, he suddenly flipped the board up so that it spun in the air, in front of him. Both hands neatly grabbed the board by its running tail and swung the board itself in a backward arc. Too late, Rebus saw the manoeuvre for what it was. He tried to duck but the heavy wooden board hit the side of his head with a sharp crack.

He- staggered, dropped to his knees: They were on him immediately, seven or eight of them, hands gouging into his pockets.

'Fuckin’ split my board, man. Lookatit. Fuckin’ six inch split.'

A training shoe caught Rebus on the chin and sent him flying. He was concentrating on not losing consciousness, so much so that he forgot to fight or to scream or to defend himself. Then a loud voice:

'Oi! What the fuck d'you think you're up to?'

And they ran, rolling their-boards-until they had gained enough speed, the hard wheels crackling on the tarmac as they fled. Like a posse in an old western, Rebus thought with a smile. Like a posse.

'You all right, mate? Come on, let's get you up.'

The man helped Rebus to his feet. When his eyes regained their powers of focus, he saw, blood on the man's lip, smeared across his, chin. The man noticed him looking.

'My bird,' he said, his breath rich with alcohol. 'She fuckin’ clocked me, didn't she? Got me a good one, too. Couple of loose teeth. Still, they was rotten anyway, probably saved me a fortune at the dentist's.' He laughed. 'Come on, let's get you into the Cock. A couple of brandies'll see you right.'

'Took my money,' Rebus said He was clutching the carrier-bag to him like a shield.

'Never mind that,' said his Samaritan.

They were kind to him.. They sat him down at a table, and every now and again a drink: would appear, and someone would say. ’That one's from Bill’, or 'That one's from Tessa’, or 'That one's from Jackie', or 'That one's from …'

They were kind to him. They collected a fiver so he could get a taxi back to his hotel. He explained that he was a tourist, down here for a bit of sightseeing. He'd managed to get lost, had jumped off a bus and ended up here. And they, kind souls, believed him.

They didn't bother phoning the police.

'Those bastards,' they spat. 'Waste of time. Wouldn't turn up till tomorrow morning and then they'd do nothing. It's the cops round here that are behind half the crimes, believe me.'

And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner. 'All the best, eh?'

And they were playing cards and dominoes, a lively crowd, a regular crowd. The TV blared; a musical quiz show and the jukebox sang and the one-armed bandit bleeped and buzzed and spat out an occasional win. He thanked God Sammy and Kenny weren't here. How would it have looked to them? He dreaded to think.

At one point he excused himself and went to the toilet. There was a jagged triangle of mirror nailed to one wall.; The side of his head, jaw- and ear, were red and would probably bruise. The jaw would ache for some time. Where the shoe had connected, there was already a red and purple welt. Nothing more. Nothing worse. No knives or razor blades'. No massed, assault. It had been a clean, professional hit. The way that kid had flipped the board, caught it and swung it. Professional. An absolute pro. If Rebus ever caught him, he would congratulate him on one of the sweetest moves he had ever seen.

Then he'd kick the little bastard's teeth so far down his throat they'd bite his small intestine.

He reached down the front of his trousers and drew out his wallet. The warning from Laine and the knowledge that he was on uncharted ground, had been enough to persuade Rebus that he should hide his wallet. Not to save him from muggers, no. So that no one would find his ID. It was bad enough being a stranger in this place, but being a copper…. So he had hidden the wallet, ID and all, down the front of his underpants, tucked into the elasticated waistband. He slipped it back there now. After, all, he was not yet clear of Churchill Estate. The night might turn out to be a long one.

He. pulled open the door and- headed back to his table.

The brandy was working. His head was numb, his limbs pleasantly flexible.

'You all right there, Jock?'

He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. 'I'm all right. Oh yes, I'm quite all right.' 'Great. By the way, this one's from Harry at the bar.'

After she has posted the letter, she feels a lot better. She does some work, but soon begins to twitch inside. It's like feeding a habit now. But it's also an art form. Art? Fuck art. So unbecoming in a man. So art unbecoming fuck in a man. So fuck a man in unbecoming art. They used to quarrel, squabble, argue all the time. No, that's not true. She remembers it that way but it wasn't that way. For a while it was, but then they just stopped communicating altogether. Her mother. Her father. Mother, strong, domineering, determined to be a great painters a great watercolourist. Every day busy at an easel, ignoring her child who needed her, who would creep into the studio and sit quietly in a corner, crouched, trying.not to be noticed. If noticed, she would be sent out of the room fiercely, red hot tears streaming down her face.

'I never wanted you!' her mother would screech. 'You were an accident! Why can't you be a proper little girl?'

Run, run, run: Out of the studio and down the stairs, through the morning room, and out of the doors. Father, quiet, innocuous, cultured, civilised. father. Reading the newspapers in the back garden, one trousered leg crossed over the other as he reclined in his deckchair.

'And how's my little sweet this morning?'

'Mummy- shouted at me.'

'Did she? I'm sure she didn't mean anything. She's a bit crochety when she's painting, isn't she? Come and sit here on my lap, you can help me read the news.'

Nobody visited, nobody came. No family, no friends. At first she went to school, but then they kept her at home, educating her themselves. It was all the rage with a certain section of a certain class. Her father had been left money by a great aunt. Enough money for a comfortable life, enough to keep the wolf from the door. He pretended to be a scholar. But then his painstakingly researched essays started to be rejected and he saw himself for what he was. The arguments' grew worse. Grew physical.

'Just leave me alone will you? My art's, what matters to me, not you.'

'Art? Fuck art!'

"How dare you!'

A dull, solid thump. A blow of some kind. From anywhere in the house she could hear them, anywhere but the attic. But she daren't go to the attic. That was where … Well, she just couldn't.

'I'm a boy,' she whispered to herself, hiding beneath her bed.' 'I'm a boy, I'm a boy; I'm a boy.'

'Sweetness, where are you?' His voice, all sugar and summery. Like a slide-projector show. Like an afternoon car ride.

They said, the Wolfman was homosexual. It wasn't true. They said they'd caught him. She almost whooped when she read it. Wrote them a letter and posted it. See what they'd make of that! Let them find her, she didn't care. He and she didn't care. But he cared that she was taking over his mind as well as his body.

Sweetness … Oranges and lemons say the bells of —.

So unbecoming in a man. Long nosehairs, her mother had been talking about Daddy's nosehairs Long nosehairs, Johnny, are so unbecoming in a man. Why did she remember that utterance above all others? 'Long Nose Hairs So Unbecoming In A Man. Johnny.’

Daddy's name: Johnny.

Her father, who had sworn at her mother. Fuck art. Fuck was the dirtiest word there was. At school it had been whispered, a magic word, a word to conjure up demons and secrets.

And she's on the streets now, although she knows that really she should do something about the Butcher's' Gallery. It needs cleaning badly. There are torn canvases everywhere. Torn and spattered. It doesn't matter: nobody visits. No family, no friends.

So she finds another one. This one's stupid. 'As long as you're not the Wolfman,' she says with a laugh. The Wolfman laughs too. He? She? It doesn't matter now. He and she are one and the same. The wound has healed. He, feels whole, feels complete. It is not a good feeling. It is a bad feeling. But it can be forgotten for a moment.

Back in his house.

'Some gaff you've got here,' she says. He smiles, takes her coat and hangs it up. 'Bit of a smell though. You haven't got a gas leak, have you?'

No, not a gas leak. But a leak, yes. He, slips his hand into his pocket, checks that the teeth are there. Of course they are, they're always there when he needs them. To bite with. The way he was bitten.

'Only a game, sweet.'

Only a game. Bitten in fun. On the stomach. Bitten. Not hard, more like blowing a raspberry. But that didn't stop it hurting. He touches his gut. It still hurts, even now.

'Where do you want me, love?'

'In here will do,' he says, taking out the key and beginning to unlock the door. The mirror was a bad idea. The last one had seen what was happening behind her, had almost screamed. The mirror has been taken down. The door is unlocked:

'Keep it locked, do you? What you got in there, the crown jewels?'

And the Wolfman, showing teeth, smiles.

Know This, Womin

He woke up in his hotel room, which was something in itself, bearing in mind that he had no idea how he'd got there. He was lying on his bed, fully clothed, his hands pressed between his legs. Beside him lay the carrier-bag full of books. It was seven o'clock and by the quality of the light streaming in through the uncurtained window, it was morning rather than evening. So far so good. The bad news was that his head seared with two kinds of pain, bad when he opened his eyes, unbearable when he closed them. With eyes closed, the world spun at an awkward tilt. With eyes opened, it merely floated on a different. plane.

He groaned, attempted to unglue his furred tongue from the roof of his mouth. Staggered to the sink and ran the cold tap for some moments, then, splashed; his face and cupped his hand, lapping water from it the way a mongrel might. The water was sweet, chlorinated. He tried not to think of kidneys … seven sets of kidneys. Knelt by the toilet-pan and retched. The big white telephone receiver to God. What was the score? Seven brandies, six dark rums he'd lost count after that. He squeezed an inch-long strip of toothpaste onto his brush and scrubbed at his teeth and gums. Then, only then, did he have the courage to examine himself in the wall-mirror.

There were two kinds of pain. One from the hangover, the other from, the mugging. He'd lost twenty quid, maybe thirty. But the loss to his pride was above price. He held in his head a good description of a couple of the gang and especially the leader. This morning, he would give what he knew to the local station. His message would be clear: seek out and destroy. Who was he kidding? They'd rather protect their own villains than help an intruder from north of the border. Our man from north of the border. Jockland. Jock. But to let the gang get away with it was worse. What the hell.

He rubbed his jaw. It felt worse than it looked. There was a pale mustard bruise down one cheek and a graze on his chin. Good thing training shoes were all the rage. In the early 70s it would have been a steel-capped Airwear boot and he would not have been so chipper.

He was running out of clean clothes. Today, he would have either to buy some new bits and pieces or else find himself a laundrette. He had come to London intending to stay no more than two or three days. He'd thought that after that the Met would come to see that he could add nothing to the case. But instead here he was, coming up with possible leads, making himself' useful, getting beaten up, turning into an over-protective father, having a holiday romance with a psychology lecturer:

He thought about Lisa, about the way the secretary at University College had acted. Something jarred about the whole incident. Lisa, who slept so soundly, the sleep of a clear conscience. What was that smell? That smell creeping into his room? The smell of cooking fat mingled with toast and coffee. The smell of breakfast. Somewhere downstairs they were busy perspiring over the griddles, breaking eggs to sizzle beside thick sausages and grey-pink bacon. The thought sent Rebus's stomach on a tiny rollercoaster ride. He was hungry, but the thought of fried food repelled him. He felt his just-cleaned mouth turning sour.

When had he last eaten? A sandwich on the way to Lisa's. Two packets of crisps in the Fighting Cock. Christ, yes, he was hungry. He dressed quickly, making a mental note of what needed buying — shirt, pants, socks and headed down to the dining-room clutching three paracetamol tablets in his hand. A fistful of dullers.

They weren't quite ready to start serving, but when he announced that he needed only cereal and fruit juice, the waitress (a different face each day) relented and showed him to a table set for one.

He ate two small packets of cereal. A cereal killer. Smiled grimly and went to the trestle table to help himself to more juice. Lots more juice. It had a funny artificial smell to it, and a' taste best described as 'wersh'. But it was cold and wet and the vitamin C would help his head. The waitress brought him two daily papers. Neither contained anything of interest. Flight had not yet used Rebus's idea of the detailed description. Maybe Flight had passed it on to Cath Farraday. Would she sit on it out of spite? After all, she hadn't been too happy about his last little stunt, had she? Maybe she was holding, back on this one, just to show him that she could. Well, sod them. He didn't see anyone coming up with better ideas, with any ideas at all, come to that. Nobody wanted to make a mistake; they'd all rather sit on their hands than be seen to get it wrong. Jesus Christ.

When the first customer proper of the morning ordered bacon, eggs and tomatoes, Rebus finished his orange juice and left the restaurant.

In the Murder Room, he sat at one of the typewriters and prepared detailed descriptions of the gang members. His typing had never been proficient at the best of times, but today's hangover was compounded by an electronic typewriter of infernal complexity. He couldn't get the thing to set a reasonable line length, the tabs appeared not to work and every time he pressed a wrong key the thing bleeped at him.

'Bleep yourself,' he said, trying again to set it for single space typing

Eventually, he had a typed description. It looked like the work of a ten-year-old, but it would have to do. He took the sheets of paper through to his office. There was a note from Flight on his desk:

'John, I wish you wouldn't keep disappearing. I've run a check on missing persons: Five women have been reported missing north of the river in the past forty-eight hours. Two of these could be explicable, but the other three look more serious. Maybe you're right, the Wolfman's getting hungrier. No feedback from the press stories yet though. See you when you've finished shagging the Prof.'

It was signed simply 'GF'. How did Flight know where he'd been yesterday afternoon? An inspired guess, or something more cunning and devious? It didn't really matter. What mattered were the missing women. If Rebus's hunch were true, then the Wolfman was losing some of his previous control and that, meant that sometime soon he was bound to make a mistake. They need only goad him a little more. The Jan Crawford story might just' do that particular trick. Rebus had to sell the idea to Flight — and to Farraday. They had to be made to see that it was the right move at the right time. Three missing' women. That would bring the count to seven. Seven murders; There was no telling where it would stop. He rubbed at his head again. The hangover was returning with a steel-tipped vengeance.

'John?'

She was standing in the doorway, trembling, her eyes wide.

'Lisa?' He rose slowly to his, feet. 'Lisa, what is it?' What's wrong?'

She stumbled towards him. There were tears in her eyes and her hair was slick with sweat. 'Thank God,' she said, clinging to him. 'I thought I'd never … I didn't know what to do, where to go. Your hotel said you'd already left. The Sergeant on the desk downstairs let me come up. He recognised me from the photo in the papers. My photo.' And then the tears came: hot, scalding, and loud. Rebus patted her on the back, trying to calm. her, wanting to know just what the hell had happened.

'Lisa,' he said quietly, 'just tell me about it.' He manoeuvred her onto a chair, with his hand rubbing soothingly at her neck. Every bit of her seemed damp with perspiration.

She pulled her bag onto her lap, opened it, and drew from one of the three compartments a small envelope, which she handed: silently to Rebus.

'What is it?' he asked.

'I got it — this morning,' she said, 'addressed to me by name and sent to my home.'

Rebus examined the typed name and address, the; first class stamp, and the postmark: London EC4. The frank stated that the letter had been posted the previous morning.

'He knows where I live, John. When I opened it this morning, I nearly died on the spot. I had to get out of the flat, but all the time I knew that maybe he was watching me.' Her eyes filled with water again, but she threw back her head so that the tears would not escape. She fished in her bag and came out with some paper tissues, peeling off one so that she could blow her nose. Rebus said nothing.

'It's a death threat,' she explained.

'A death threat?'

She nodded.

'Who from? Does it say?'

'Oh yes, it says all right. It's from the Wolfman, John. He says I'm going to be next.'

It was a rush job, but the lab, when they heard the circumstances, were happy to cooperate. Rebus stood with hands in pockets watching them at work. There was the crackle of paper in his pocket. He had folded the description of the, gang members and tucked it away, perhaps for future use: for now, there were more important matters to attend to.

The story was straightforward enough. Lisa- had been scared out of her wits by the letter, and more so by the fact that the Wolfman knew where she lived. She had tried contacting Rebus and when that failed had panicked, fleeing from her flat, aware that he might be watching her, might be about to pounce at any moment. The pity was, as the lab had already explained, she'd messed up-the letter, gripping it in her hand as she fled, destroying, any fingerprints or other evidence that there might have been on the envelope itself. Still, they'd do their best.

If the letter was from the Wolfman and not from some new and twisted crank, then there might well be clues to be had from the envelope and its contents: saliva (used to stick down both flap and stamp), fibres, fingerprints. These were the physical possibilities. Then there were more arcane elements: the typewriter itself might be traceable. Were there oddities of speech or misspellings which might yield a clue? And what about that postmark? The Wolfman had outwitted them in the past, so was the postal address another red herring?

The various processes involved would take time. The lab was efficient, but the chemical analyses could not be hurried. Lisa had come to the lab, too, as had George Flight. They were off in another part of the building drinking tea and going over the details for the fourth or fifth time, but Rebus liked to watch the lab boys at work. This was his idea of sleuthing. It also helped calm him, to watch someone working in such painstaking detail. And he certainly needed calming.

His plan had worked. He had, prodded and teased the Wolfman into action. He should, though, have realised the danger Lisa might be in. After all, her photo had been in the papers, as had her name: They had even mistakenly termed her a police' psychologist — the very people who, according to the earlier planted story, had come to the conclusion that the Wolfman might be gay, or transsexual, or any of the other barbs they had used. Lisa Frazer had become the Wolfman's enemy, and he, John Rebus, had led her into it by the nose. Stupid, John, oh so very stupid. What if the Wolfman had actually tracked her to her flat and …? No, no, no: he couldn't bear to think of it.

But though Lisa's name had appeared in the newspapers, her address had not. So how had the Wolfman found out her address? That was much more problematic.

And much more chilling.

She was ex-directory, for a start. But as he, knew only too well, this was no barrier to someone in authority, someone like a police officer. Jesus was he really talking about another police officer?. There had to be other candidates: staff and students at University College, other psychologists — they would know Lisa. Then there were those groups who could have linked an address to a name: civil servants, the local council, taxmen, gas and electricity boards, the postman, the guy next door, numerous computers and mailshot programmes, her local public library. Where could he start?

'Here you are, Inspector.'

One of the assistants handed him a photocopy of the typed letter.

'Thanks,' said Rebus.

'We're testing the original at the moment, scanning for traces of anything interesting. We'll let you know.'

'Right. What about the envelope?'

'The saliva tests will take a little longer. We should have something for you in the next couple of hours. There was also the photograph, of course, but it won't photocopy too well. We know which paper it was from, and that it was cut out with a pair off fairly sharp scissors, perhaps as small as manicure scissors judging from the length of each cut.'

Rebus nodded; staring at the photostat. 'Thanks again,' he said.

'No problem.'

No problem? That: wasn't right; there were plenty: of problems. He read through the letter. The typing seemed nice and even, as though the typewriter used was a new one, or a good quality model, something like the electronic machine he'd been using, this morning. As for the content, well, that was something else again.

GET THIS, I'M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.? WOLFMAN IS WHAT WOLFMAN DOES. WHAT WOLFMAN DOES NEXT IS THIS: HE KILLS YOU. DON'T WORRY, IT WON'T HURT. WOLFMAN DOES NOT HURT; JUST DOES WHAT WOLFMAN IS. KNOW THIS, WOMIN, WOLFMAN KNOWS YOU, WHERE YOU LIVE, WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE JUST TELL THE TRUTH AND NO HARM CAN CUM TO YOU.

On a piece of plain A4-sized paper, folded in four to get it into the small white envelope. The Wolfman had cut a picture of Lisa from one of the newspapers. Then he had, cut her head off and drawn a dark pencilled circle on her stomach. And this photograph of her trunk had accompanied the letter.

'Bastard,' Rebus hissed. 'Jesus, you bastard.'

He took the letter along the corridor and up the stairs to the room where Flight was sitting, rubbing at his face again.

'Where's Lisa?'

'Ladies' room.'

'Does she seem …?'

'She's, upset, but she's coping. The doctor's given her some tranqs. What have you got there?' Rebus handed over the copy: Flight read through it quickly, intently. 'What the hell do you make of it?' he asked. Rebus sat himself down on a hard chair still warm from Lisa's presence. He reached out a hand and took the paper from Flight, then angled his chair so that both men could inspect the letter together.

'Well,' he said. 'I'm not sure. At first sight, it looks like the work of a near-illiterate.'

'Agreed.'

'But then again, there's something artful' about it. Look at the punctuation, George. Absolutely correct, right down to every comma. And he uses colons and semi-colons. What sort of person could spell "woman" as "womin", yet know how to use a semi-colon?'

Flight studied the note intently, nodding.. 'Go on.'

'Well, Rhona, my ex-wife, she's a teacher. I remember she used to tell me how frustrating it was that nowadays no one in schools bothered to teach basic grammar and, punctuation. She said that kids were growing up now with no need for things like colons and semi-colons and no idea at all of how to use them. So I'd say we're dealing either with someone who has been well educated, or with someone in middle age, educated at a time when punctuation was still taught in every school.'

Flight gave a half-smile. 'Been reading your psychology books again I see, John.'

'It's not all black magic, George. Mostly it's just, to do with common sense and how you interpret things. Do you want me to go on?'

'I'm all ears.'

'Well,' Rebus was running a finger down the letter again. 'There's something else here, something that tells me this letter is genuinely from the killer, and not the work of some nutter somewhere.'

'Oh?'

'Go on, George, where's the, clue?'

He held the paper out towards Flight. Flight grinned for a moment, then took it.

'I suppose,' he said, 'you're talking about the way; the writer refers to the Wolfman in the third person?'

'You've just named the tune in one; George. That's exactly what I mean.'

Flight looked up. 'Incidentally John, what the hell happened to you? Did you get in a fight or something? I thought the Scots gave up wearing woad a couple of years back?'

Rebus touched his bruised jaw.' 'I'll tell you the story sometime. But look, in the first sentence, the writer refers to himself in the first person. He's taken our homosexual jibe personally.' But in the rest of the letter, he speaks of the Wolfman in the third person. Standard practice with serial murderers.'

'What about the misspelling of homosexual?'

'Could be genuine, or it could be to throw us off the scent. "U" and "a" are at different ends of the keyboard. A two-fingered typist could miss the "a" if he was writing fast, if he was angry.' Rebus paused, remembering the, list in his pocket. 'I speak from recent experience.'

'Fair enough:'

'Now look at what he actually' says: "Wolfman is what Wolfman does". What the books say is that killers find their identity through killing. That's exactly what this sentence means.'

Flight exhaled noisily. 'Yes, but none of this gets us any closer, does it?' He offered a cigarette to Rebus. 'I mean, we can build up as clear a picture as we like of the bastard's personality, but it won't give us a name and address.'

Rebus sat forward in his chair. 'But all the time we're narrowing down the possible types, George. And eventually we'll, narrow it down to a field of one. Look at this final sentence.''

"'Just tell the truth and no harm can cum to you,"' Flight recited.

'Skipping the pun, which is intriguing in itself, don't you think there's something very, I don't know, official sounding about that construction? Something very formal?'

'I don't see what you're getting at.'

'What I'm getting at is that it seems to me the sort of thing someone like you or me would say.'

'A copper?' Flight sat back in his chair. 'Oh, come on, John, what kind of crap is that?';

Rebus's voice grew quiet and persuasive. 'Someone who knows where Lisa Frazer lives, George. Think about it. Someone who knows that kind of information or knows how to get it. We can't afford to rule out '

Flight stood up. 'I'm sorry, John, but no. I simply can't entertain the notion that … that someone some copper, could be behind all this. No, it's just not on.'

Rebus shrugged. 'Okay, George, whatever you say.' But Rebus knew, that he had planted a seed now in George Flight's head, and that the seed would surely sprout.

Flight sat down, again, confident, that this time he had won a point from Rebus. 'Anything else?'

Rebus read the letter through yet again, sucking on his 'cigarette. He remembered how at school, in his. English class, he had loved writing summaries and close interpretations of texts. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'Actually there is. This letter seems to me more of a warning, a shot across the bows. He starts off by saying that he's going to kill, her, but by the end of the letter he's tempered that line. He says nothing will happen if she tells the truth. I think he's looking for a retraction. I think he wants us to put out another story saying he's not gay.'

Flight checked his watch. 'He's in for another fright.' 'How do you mean?'

'The lunchtime edition will be hitting the streets. I believe Cath Farraday's put out the Jan Crawford story.'

'Really?' Rebus revised his idea of Farraday. Maybe she wasn't, a vindictive old bat after all. 'So now we're saying we've got a living; witness, and he must realise it's a fact. I think it might just be enough to blow what final fuses he's got up here.' Rebus, tapped his head. 'To send him barking mad, as Lamb would put it.'

'You reckon?'

'I reckon, George. We need everybody at their most alert. He could try anything.'

'I dread to think.'

Rebus was staring at the letter. 'Something else, George. EC4: where's that exactly?'

Flight thought it over. 'The City, part of it anyway. Farringdon Street, Blackfriars Bridge, all around there. Ludgate, St Paul's.'

'Hmm. He's tricked us before, making us see patterns where none exist. The teeth for example, I'm sure I'm right about them. But now that we've got him rattled — '

'You think he lives in the City?'

'Lives there, works there, maybe just drives through there on his way to work.' Rebus shook his head. He didn't yet want to share with Flight the image which had just passed through his, mind, the image of a motorcycle courier, based in the City, a motorcyclist with easy access to every part of London. Like the man in leathers he'd seen on the bridge that first night down by the canal.

A man like Kenny Watkiss.

'Well,'' he said instead, 'whatever, it's another piece of the jigsaw.'

'If you ask me,' said Flight, 'there are too many pieces. They won't all fit.'

'Agreed.' Rebus' stubbed out the cigarette. Flight had already finished his own, and was about to light another. 'But as the picture emerges, we'll know better which bits we can discard, won't we?' He was still studying the letter. There was something else. What was it? Something at, the back of his mind, lurking somewhere in memory…. Something stirred momentarily by the letter, but, what? If he stopped thinking about it, maybe it would come to him, the way the names of forgotten actors in films did.

The door opened

'Lisa, how are you?' Both men rose to offer her a seat, but she lifted a hand to show she preferred to stand. All three of them stood, a stiff triangle in the tiny box of a room.

'Just been sick again,' she said. Them' she smiled. 'Can't be much more to bring up. I think I'm back to yesterday's breakfast already.'- They smiled with her. She looked tired to Rebus, exhausted. Lucky she had slept so soundly yesterday. He doubted she'd get much sleep for the next night or ten, tranqs or not.

Flight spoke first. 'I've arranged for temporary accommodation, Dr Frazer. The less people who know where, the better. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. We'll have a guard on you.'

'What about her flat?' asked Rebus.

Flight nodded. 'I've got two men there keeping an eye on the place. One inside the flat itself, the other outside, both of them hidden. If the Wolfman turns up, they'll cope with him, believe me.'

'Stop talking as though I'm not here,' Lisa snapped. 'This affects me too.'

There was a cold silence in the room.

'Sorry,' she said. She covered her eyes with her ringless left hand. 'I just can't believe I was so scared back there. I feel — '

She tipped her head back again. The tears were too precious to be released. Flight placed a hand softly on her shoulder.

'It's all right, Dr Frazer. Really it is.' She gave a wry smile at this.

Flight kept on talking, feeding her with comforting words. But she wasn't listening. She was staring at Rebus, and he was staring back at her. Rebus knew what her eyes were telling him. They were telling him something of the utmost importance.'

Catch the Wolfman, catch him quickly and destroy him utterly. Do it for me, John. But just do it.

She blinked, breaking the contact. Rebus nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. She smiled at him, and suddenly her eyes were dry sparkling stones. Flight felt the change and lifted his hand away from her arm. He looked to Rebus for some explanation, but Rebus was studying the letter, concentrating on its opening sentence. What was it? There was, something there, something just beyond his line of vision. Something he didn't get.

Yet.

Two detectives, one of them extraordinarily burly, like the prop-forward from a rugby team, the other tall and thin and silent, came to the labs to take Lisa away with them, away to a place of safety. Despite vigorous protests, Rebus wasn't allowed to know the destination. Flight was taking all of this very seriously indeed. But before Lisa could go, the lab people needed her fingerprints and to take samples of fibres from her clothes, all for the purpose of elimination. The two bodyguards went with her.

Rebus and Flight, exhausted, stood together at the drinks machine in the long, brightly-lit hallway, feeding in coins for cups of powdery coffee and powdery tea.

'Are you married, George?'

Flight seemed surprised by the question, surprised perhaps that it should come only now. 'Yes,' he said. 'Have been the past twelve years. Marion. She's the second. The first was a disaster — my fault, not hers.'

Rebus nodded, taking hold of the hot plastic beaker by its rim.

'You said you'd been married, too,' Flight remarked.

Rebus nodded again.

'That's right.'

'So what happened?'

'I'm not really sure any more. Rhona used to say it was like the continental drift: so slow we didn't notice until it was too late. Her on one island, me on another, and a great big bloody sea between us.'

Flight smiled. 'Well, you did say she was a teacher.' 'Yes, she still is actually. Lives in Mile End with my daughter.'

'Mile End? Bloody hell. Gentrified gangland, no place for any copper's daughter.'

Rebus smiled at the irony. It was time to confess.

'Actually, George, I've found out she's going out with someone called Kenny Watkiss.'

'Oh dear. Who is? Your missus or your daughter?' 'My daughter. Her name's Samantha.'

'And she's going out with Kenny Watkiss? How old is he?'

'Older than her. Eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He's a bike messenger in the City.'

Flight nodded, understanding now. 'He was the one who shouted from the public gallery?' Flight thought for a moment. 'Well, from what I know of the Watkiss family history, I'd say Kenny must be Tommy's nephew. Tommy's got a brother, Lenny, he's doing time just now. Lenny's a big softie, not like Tommy. He's in for fraud, tax evasion, clocking cars, naughty kites, I mean bad cheques. It's all fourth division stuff, but it mounts up, and when there's enough of it against you at any one sitting of the bench, well, it's odds on you'll go inside, isn't it?'

'It's no different in Scotland.'

'No, I don't suppose it is. So, do you want me to find out what I can about this bike messenger?'

'I already know where he stays. Churchill Estate, it's a housing estate in — '

Flight was chuckling. 'You don't have to tell any copper in Greater London where Churchill Estate is, John. They use that place to train the SAS.'

'Yes,' said Rebus, 'so Laine said.'

'Laine? What's he got to do with it?'

In for a penny, thought Rebus. 'I had Kenny's telephone number. I needed an address.'

'And Laine got it for you? What did you tell him it was for?'

'The Wolfman case.'

Flight flinched, his face creasing. 'You keep forgetting, John, you're our guest down here. You don't go pulling stunts like that. When Laine finds out — ' 'If he finds out.'

But Flight was shaking his head. 'When he finds out. There's no 'if' about it, believe me. When he finds out, he won't bother with you. He won't even bother with who's directly above you. He'll go to your Chief Super back in Edinburgh and give him the most incredible verbals. I've seen him do it.'

Do as good job, John. Remember, you're representing our force down there.

Rebus blew on the coffee. The notion of anyone giving 'verbals' to Farmer Watson was almost amusing. 'I always did fancy getting back into uniform,' he said.

Flight stared at him. The fun was over. 'There are some rules, John. We can get away with breaking a few, but some are sacrosanct, carved into stone by God Almighty. And one of them states that you 'don't muck around with someone like Laine just to satisfy your own personal curiosity.' Flight was angry, and trying to make a point, but he was also whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.

Rebus, not really caring any more, was half-smiling as he whispered back. 'So what do I do? Tell him the truth? Oh hello there, Chief Inspector, my daughter's winching with someone I don't like. Can I have the young man's address, please, so I can go and belt him? Is that how I do it?'

Flight paused, then frowned. 'Winching?'

Now he too was smiling, though trying hard not to show it. Rebus laughed aloud.

'It means dating,' he said. 'Next you'll be telling me you don't know what hoolit means.'

'Try me,' said Flight, laughing too.

'Drunk,' explained Rebus.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment: Rebus thanked God for the linguistic barrier. between them, for without it there would be no easy jokes, jokes which broke the tension. There were two ways to defuse tension one was to laugh it away, the other was to resort to physical action. It was laugh or lash out. Once or twice now they had come near to trading punches, but had ended up trading grins instead.

Praise be for the gift of laughter.

'Anyway, I went to Hackney last night looking for Kenny Watkiss.'

'And you got those for your pains?' Flight was nodding towards the bruises. Rebus shrugged. 'Serves you right. Someone once told me hackney's French for a nag. Doesn't sound French, does it? But I suppose it would explain the hackney carriage.'

Hackney, Nag. That horse in the British Museum, no bite: Rebus had to talk to Morrison about the bite marks.

Flight finished his drink first, draining the cup and tossing it into a bin beside the machine: He checked his watch.

'I better find a phone," he said. 'See what's happening back at base. Maybe Lamb will have found something on that Crawford woman.'

'That Crawford woman?' is a victim, George. Stop making her sound like a criminal.'

'Maybe she's a victim,' said Flight. 'Let's get our facts straight, before we go for the tea and sympathy routine. Besides, when did you join this little victim-support group of yours? You know the way we have to play this sort of thing. It isn't nice necessarily, but it means we don't get it wrong.'

'That's quite a speech.'

Flight sighed and examined the tips of his shoes. 'Look, John, has it ever occurred to you that there might be another way?'

'The way of Zen perhaps?'

'I mean, a way- other than your own. Or are the rest of us just thick, and you're-the only policeman on the planet who knows how to solve a crime? — I'd be interested to know.'

Rebus desperately did not want to blush, which is probably precisely why he did blush. He tried to think of a smart answer, but none came to mind right that second, so he kept silent. Flight nodded approval.

'Let's find. that phone,' he said. Now Rebus found the courage he needed.

'George,' he said. 'I need to know who, brought me here?'

Flight stared 'at him, wondering whether or not to answer: He pursed his lips as he, thought about it, and came up- with an answer: what, the hell.

'I did,' he said. 'It was my idea.'

'You?' Rebus seemed puzzled. Flight nodded confirmation.

'Yes, me. ' I suggested you to Laine and Pearson. A new head, fresh blood, that sort of thing.'

'But how in God's name did you know about me?'

'Well,' Flight was beginning to look sheepish. He made a play of 'examining the, tips: of his shoes again. 'Remember I showed you that file, the one with all the guesswork in it? On top of that I did some background, reading on multiple murderers. Research; you could call it And I came across that case of yours in some newspaper clippings from Scotland Yard. I was impressed.'

Rebus pointed a disbelieving finger.; 'You were reading up on serial killers?' -

Flight nodded..

'On the psychology of serial killers?'

Flight shrugged. 'And other aspects, yes.' Rebus's eyes had widened.

'And all this time- you've been having a dig at me, for going along with Lisa Frazer's — no, I don't believe it!’

Flight was laughing again. The apparently arch anti-psychologist revealed in his true-light. 'I had to examine every angle,' he said, watching as Rebus, having finished his-coffee, tossed the cup into a waste-bin. 'Now come-on, we really should make that phone call.'

Rebus was still shaking his head as he followed Flight down the hall. But though he appeared to be in good humour, his brain was more active than ever. Flight had pulled the wool over, his eyes with consummate ease. How far did the pretence actually stretch? Was he now seeing-the real Flight, or yet another mask? Flight whistled as he walked and kicked at an imaginary football. No, not George Flight, Rebus decided in an instant: never George Flight,

There was a telephone in the admin offices. There was also, seated at a desk having a conversation with one of the senior staff, Philip Cousins, immaculate: in grey suit and burgundy tie.

'Philip!

'Hello there,George. How are things?' Cousins spotted Rebus. 'And Inspector Rebus, too. Still lending a Caledonian hand?'

'Trying,' said Rebus.

'Yes, very,' rejoined Flight. 'So. what brings you here, Philip? Where's Isobel?'

'Penny's rather tied up, I'm afraid. She'll be sorry to have missed you, George. As for my presence here, I just wanted to double-check some facts on a murder case from last December. You might remember it, — the man in the bathtub.'

'The one that looked like suicide?'

'That's right.'. Philip Cousins's voice was as rich and slow as double cream. Rebus reckoned that the word 'urbane' had been invented with him in mind. 'I'm in court later today,' Cousins was saying, — 'Trying to help Malcolm Chambers pin the deceased's wife for manslaughter at the very least.'

'Chambers?' Flight shook his head. 'I don't envy you that.'

'But surely,' Rebus interrupted, 'you'll be on the same side?'

'Ah yes, Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, 'you are quite correct. But Chambers is such a scrupulous man. He'll want my evidence to be water-tight, and if it isn't, then he's as likely to undo me as is the defence counsel. More likely, in fact. Malcolm Chambers is interested in the truth, not in verdicts.'

'Yes, said Flight, 'I remember him having a right go at me once in the witness box, all because I couldn't recall offhand what kind of clock had been in the living-room. The case nearly crumbled there and then.' Flight and Cousins shared a comradely smile.

'I've just been hearing,' said Cousins, 'that there's fresh evidence on the Wolfman case. Do tell.'

'It's beginning to come together, Philip,' said Flight. 'It's definitely beginning to come together, due in no small part to my associate here.' Flight laid a momentary hand on Rebus's shoulder.

'I'm impressed,' said Cousins, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed.

'It was luck,'' said Rebus, as he felt he ought. Not that he believed what he was saying. Cousins's eyes on him were like packs of ice, so that the room temperature seemed to drop with every glance.

'So what do we have?'

'Well,' said Flight, 'we've got someone who claims she was attacked by the Wolfman but escaped from him.'

'Fortunate creature,' said Cousins.

'And,' continued Flight, 'one of the … people helping us on the case this morning received a letter claiming to be from the Wolfman.'

'Good God.'

'We think it's kosher,' Flight concluded.

'Well,' said Cousins, 'this is something. Wait till I tell Penny. She'll be thrilled.'

'Philip, we don't want it getting out — '

'Not a word, George, not a word. You know it's all one-way traffic with me But Penny should be told."

'Oh, tell Isobel by all means,' said Flight, 'only warn her it's not to go any further.'

'Total secrecy,' said Cousins. I quite understand. Mum's the word. Who was it, by the way?' Flight appeared not to understand. 'To whom was this threatening letter addressed?'

Flight was about to speak, but Rebus beat him to it. 'Just someone on the case, as Inspector Flight says.' He smiled, trying to alleviate the brusqueness of his response. Oh yes, his mind was working now, working in a fever nobody had told Cousins the letter was threatening, so how did he know it was? Okay, it was simple enough to work out that it wouldn't exactly have been fan mail, but all the same.

'Well then,' said Cousins, choosing not to press for details. 'And now gentlemen,' he scooped up two manila files from the desk and tucked them under his arm, then stood, the joints of his knees cracking with the effort, 'if you'll excuse me, Court Eight awaits. Inspector Rebus,' Cousins held out his free hand, 'it sounds as though the case may be drawing towards its conclusion. Should we fail to meet again, give my regards to your delightful city.' He turned to Flight. 'See you soon, George. Bring Marion round for supper some evening. Give Penny a tinkle and we'll try to find one night in the calendar when all four of us are free. Goodbye.'

'Bye, Philip.'

'Goodbye.'

'Oh.'. Cousins had stopped in the doorway.. 'There is just one thing.' He turned pleading eyes on Flight,'You don't have a spare driver, do you, George? It's going to be hell getting a taxi at this time of day.'

.'Well,' Flight thought hard, then had an idea, 'if you can hang on for a couple of minutes, Philip, I've got a couple of men here in the building.' He turned to. Rebus, whose eyes had widened. 'Lisa won't mind, will she, John? I mean, if her car drops Philip off at the Old Bailey?'

Rebus could do little but shrug.

'Excellent' said Cousins, clasping his hands together. 'Thank you so much.'

'I'll take you to, them,' Flight said. 'But first I need to make a phone call.'

Cousins nodded towards the corridor. 'And I must visit the WC. Be back-in a tick.'

They watched him leave. Flight was grinning, shaking his head in wonderment. 'Do you know,' he said, 'he's been like that ever since I met him? I mean, the sort of ambassadorial air, the aged aristocrat. Ever since I've known him.'

'He's a gentleman all right,' said Rebus.

'But that's just the thing,' said Flight. 'His background is every bit as ordinary as yours or mine.' He turned to the lab man. 'All right if I use your phone?'

He did not wait for an answer, but started dialling straight away. 'Hello?' he said into the receiver when he was finally connected. 'Who's that? Oh, hello, Deakin, is Lamb there? Yes, put him on, will you? Thanks.' While he was waiting, Flight picked invisible threads from his trousers. The trousers were shiny from too many wearings. Everything about Flight, Rebus noticed, seemed worn: his shirt collar had an edge of grime to it and the collar itself was too tight, constricting the loose flesh of the neck, pinching it into vertical folds. Rebus found himself transfixed by that neck, by the tufts of grey sprouting hair where the razor had failed in its duty. Signs of mortality, as final as a hand around a throat. When Flight got off the phone, Rebus. would protest about sending Cousins off with Lisa. Ambassadorial Aristocrat. One of the earlier mass killers had been an aristocrat, too.

'Hello, Lamb? What have you found on Miss Crawford?' Flight listened, his eyes on Rebus, ready to communicate anything of interest. 'Uh-huh, okay. Mm, I see. Yes. Right.' All the time his eyes told Rebus that everything was checking out, that Jan Crawford was reliable, that she was telling the truth. Then Flight's eyes, widened a little. 'What's that again?' And he listened more intently, moving his eyes from Rebus to study the telephone, apparatus itself 'Now that is interesting.'

Rebus shifted. What? What was interesting? But Flight had again resorted to monosyllables.

'Uh-hu. Mmm. Well, never mind. I know. Yes, I'm sure.' His voice sounded resigned to something. 'Okay; Thanks for letting me know. Yes. No, we'll be back in about, I don't know, maybe another hour. Right, catch you then.'

Flight held the receiver above the telephone, but did not immediately drop it back into its cradle. Instead, he let it hang there.

Rebus could contain his curiosity no longer. 'What?'' he said. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

Flight seemed to 'come out of his daydream, and put down the receiver. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's Tommy Watkiss.' 'What about him?'

'Lamb has just heard that there isn't going to be a retrial. We don't know why yet. Maybe; the judge didn't think the charges were worth all the aggro and told the CPS so.'

'Assault on a woman not worth the aggro?' All thought of Philip Cousins vanished from Rebus's mind.

Flight shrugged. 'Retrials are expensive. Any trial is expensive. We cocked it up first time round, so we lose a second chance. It happens, John, you know that.'

'Of, course it happens. But the idea of a wake like Watkiss getting away with something like that — ’

'Don't worry, he can't keep his nose clean for long. Breaking the law's in his blood. When he does something naughty, we'll have him, and I'll see to it there are no ballsups, mark my words.'

Rebus sighed. Yes, it happened, you lost a few. More than a few. Incompetence or a soft judge, an unsympathetic jury or a rock-solid witness for the defence. And sometimes maybe the Procurator Fiscal thought a retrial not worth the money. You lost a few. They were like toothache.

'I bet Chambers is fuming,' Rebus said.

'Oh yes,' said Flight, smiling at the thought, 'I bet he's got steam coming out of his bloody shirt-cuffs.'

But one person would be happy at least, Rebus was thinking: Kenny Watkiss. He'd be over the moon.

'So,' said Rebus, 'what about Jan Crawford?'

Flight shrugged again. 'She seems straight as a die. No previous, no record of mental illness, lives-quietly, but the neighbours seem to like her well enough. Like Lamb said, she's so clean it's frightening.'

Yes, the squeaky clean ones often were. Frightening to a policeman the way an unknown species might be to a jungle explorer: fear of the new, the different. You got to suspect that everyone had something to hide: the schoolteachers smuggled in porn videos: from their holiday in Amsterdam; the solicitors took cocaine on their weekend parties; the happily married MP was sleeping with his secretary; the magistrate had a predilection for underage boys; the librarian kept a real skeleton hidden in the closet; the angelic looking children had set fire to a neighbour's cat.

And sometimes your suspicions were correct.

And other, times' they weren't. Cousins was standing at the door now, ready to leave. Flight laid a hand softly on his arm. Rebus recalled that he'd meant to say something to Flight, but how to phrase it? Would it do to, say that Philip Cousins seemed almost too clean, with his surgeon's cold, manicured hands and his ambassadorial air? Rebus was wondering now, seriously wondering.

Since Flight had gone off with Philip Cousins to find Lisa and her protectors, Rebus went back to, the lab to hear the result of the first saliva test.

'Sorry,' said the, white-coated scientist. He looked not yet to be out of his teens. Beneath his lab coat, there lurked a black T-shirt decorated with the name of a heavy metal band. 'I don't think we're going to have much luck. All we're finding; so far is H20, tap-water. Whoever: stuck the envelope down must have used a wet sponge or a pad or one of those old-fashioned roller, things. No traces, of saliva at all.'

The breath left Rebus's lungs. 'What about fingerprints?'

'Negative so far. All we've found are two sets which look like they're going to match Dr Frazer's. And we're not having any better luck with fibres or grease stains. I'd say the writer wore gloves. Nobody here has seen such a clean, speck-free job.'

He knows, Rebus was thinking. He knows everything we might try. So damned smart.

'Well, thanks anyway,' he said. The young man raised his eyebrows and spread his palms.

'I wish we could do more.'

You could start by getting a haircut, son, he thought to himself. You look too much like Kenny Watkiss. He sighed instead. 'Just do what you can,' he said. 'Just do what you can.’

Turning to walk away, Rebus felt a mixture of fresh rage and impotence, sudden savage frustration. The Wolfman was too good. He would stop killing before they could catch him; or he would simply go on killing again and, again and again. No one would be safe. And most of all, it seemed, Lisa would not be safe.

Lisa.

She was being blamed by the Wolfman for the story Rebus had invented. It had nothing to do with Lisa. And if the Wolfman should' somehow get to her it would be Rebus's fault, wouldn't it?. Where was Lisa going? Rebus didn't know. Flight thought it was safer that way. But Rebus couldn't shake off the idea that the Wolfman might well be a policeman. Might: well be any policeman. Might be the brawny detective or the thin and silent detective. Lisa had gone off with them thinking them her protection. What if she had walked straight into the clutches of …? What if the Wolfman knew exactly.;.? What if Philip Cousins …?

A loudspeaker, sounded from its recess in the ceiling.

'Telephone call for Inspector Rebus at reception. Telephone call for Inspector Rebus.

Rebus walked quickly down the rest of the corridor and through the swing-door at the end. He didn't know if Flight was still in the building, didn't care. His mind was filling with horrors: Wolfman, Lisa, Rhona, Sammy. Little Sammy, his daughter. She'd' seen enough terror in her life. He'd been responsible before. He didn't want her to be hurt ever again.

The receptionist lifted the receiver as he approached, holding it out to him. As he grabbed it, she pressed a button on the dial, connecting him to the caller.

'Hello?' he said, breathlessly.

'Daddy?' Oh Christ, it was Sammy.

'Sammy?' Nearly yelling now. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

'Oh, Daddy.' She was crying. The memory flashed in front of him, scalding his vision. Phonecalls. Screams.

'What is it, Sammy? Tell me!'

'It's,' a sniff, 'it's Kenny.'

'Kenny?' He furrowed his brow. 'What's wrong with him? Has he been in a crash?'

'Oh no, Daddy. He's just … just disappeared."

'Where are you, Sammy?'

'I'm in a call-box.'

'Okay, I'm going to give you the address of a police station. Meet me there. If you have to get a taxi, that's fine. I'll pay for it when you arrive. Understand?'

'Daddy.' She sniffed back tears. 'You've got to find him. I'm' worried. Please find him, Daddy. Please. Please!'

By the time. George Flight, reached reception, Rebus had already left. The receptionist explained as best she could, while Flight rubbed his jaw, encountering stubble. He’ had argued with Lisa Frazer, but by Christ she'd been stubborn. Attractively stubborn, he had to admit. She'd told him she didn't mind bodyguards but that the idea of a 'safe location' was out of the question. She had, she said, an appointment at the Old Bailey, a couple of appointments actually, interviews she was doing in connection with some research.

'It's taken me weeks to set them up,' she said, 'there's no way I'm going to blow them out now!'

'But my dear,' Philip Cousins had drawled, 'that's just where we're headed.' He was, Flight knew keen for a close to proceedings, glancing at his watch impatiently. And it seemed that Lisa and Cousins knew one another from the murder at Copperplate Street, that they had things in common, things they wanted to talk about. That they were keen to be going.

So Flight made a decision. What did it matter after all if she did visit the Bailey? There were few better protected spots in the whole city. It was several hours yet until the first of her interviews, but that didn't really bother her. She did not, she said, mind hanging around in the 'courthouse'. In fact, she rather enjoyed the idea. The two officers could accompany her, wait for her, then drive her on to whatever safe location Flight had in mind. This, at any rate, was Lisa Frazer's argument, an argument defended by Philip Cousins who could see 'no flaw in the reasoning, m'lud'. So, to smiles on their part and a shrug on Flight's, the course of action was decided. Flight watched the Ford Granada roll away from him. the two officers in the front, Philip and Lisa Frazer in the back. Safe as houses, he was thinking. Safe as bloody houses.

And now Rebus had buggered off Oh well, he'd catch up with him no doubt. He didn't regret bringing Rebus down here, not a bit. But he knew it had been his decision, not one entirely endorsed by the upper echelons. Any ballsups and it would be Flight's pension on the block. He knew that only too well, as did everyone else. Which was why he'd stuck so close to Rebus in the first few days, just to be sure of the man.

Was he sure of the man? It was, a question he would rather not answer, even now, even to himself. Rebus was like the spring in a trap, likely to jump no matter what landed on the bait. He was also a Scot, and Flight had never trusted the Scots, not since the day they'd voted to stay part of the Union …

'Daddy!'

And she runs into his arms. He hugs her to him, aware that he does not have to bend too far to accomplish this. Yes, she's grown, and yet she seems more childlike than ever. He kisses the top of her head, smells her clean hair. She is trembling. He can feel the vibrations darting through her chest and arms.

'Sshh,' he says. 'Ssshhh, pet, ssshhh.'

She pulls back and almost smiles, sniffs, then; says, 'You always used to call me that. Your pet. Mum never called me pet. Only you.'

He smiles back and strokes her hair. 'Yes,' he says, 'your mum told me off for that. She said a pet was a possession and that you weren't a possession.' He is remembering now. 'She had some funny ideas, your mum'

'She still does.' Then she remembers why she is here. The tears well up anew in her eyes.

'I know you don't like him,' she says.-

'Nonsense, whatever gives you that — '

'But I love him, Daddy.' His heart spins once in his chest. 'And I don't want anything to happen to him.' 'What makes you think something's going to happen to him?'

'The way he's been acting lately, like he's keeping secrets from me. Mum's noticed it, too. I'm not just dreaming. But she said she thought maybe he' was planning an engagement.' She sees his eyes widen, and shakes her head. 'I didn't believe it. I knew it was something else. I thought, I don't know, I just..:'

He notices for the first time that they have an audience. Until now they might have been in a sealed box for all the notice he has taken of their surroundings. Now, though, he sees a bemused desk sergeant, two WPCs clutching paperwork to their bosoms and watching the scene with a kind of maternal glow, two unshaven men slumped in seats against the wall, just waiting.

'Come on, Sammy,' he says. 'Let's go up to my office.'

They were halfway to the Murder Room before he remembered that it was not, perhaps, the most wholesome environment for a teenage. girl. The photos on the walls were only the start of it. A sense of humour was needed on a case like the Wolfman, and that sense of humour had begun to manifest itself in cartoons, jokes and mock-ups of newspaper stories either pinned to the noticeboards or taped onto the sides of computer screens. The language could be choice, too, or someone might- be overheard in conversation with someone from forensics.

'. torn.. ripped her right … kitchen knife, they reckon … slit from ear..gouged … anus..; nasty bastard makes some of them seem almost human.' Stories were swapped of serial killers past, of suicides scraped from railway lines, of police dogs playing ball with a severed head.

No, definitely not the place for his daughter. Besides, there was always the possibility that Lamb might be there.

Instead, he found a vacant interview room.. It had been turned into a temporary cupboard while the investigation continued, filled with empty cardboard boxes, unneeded chairs, broken desk-lamps and computer keyboards, a heavy-looking manual typewriter. Eventually, the computers in the Murder Room would be packed back into the cardboard boxes, the files would be tidied away into dusty stacks somewhere.

For now, the room had a musty, barren feel, but it still boasted a light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, a table and two chairs. On the table sat a glass ashtray full of stubs and two plastic coffee cups containing a layer of green and black mould. On the floor lay a crushed cigarette packet. Rebus kicked the packet beneath some of the stacked chairs.

'It's not much,' he said, 'but' it's home. Sit down. Do you want anything?''

She seemed not to understand' the question. 'Like what?'

'I don't know, coffee, tea?'

'Diet Coke?'

Rebus shook his head.

'What about Irn-Bru?'

Now he laughed: she was joking; with him. He couldn't bear to see her upset, especially over someone as undeserving as Kenny Watkiss.

'Sammy,' he asked, 'does Kenny have an uncle?'

'Uncle Tommy?'

Rebus nodded. 'That's the one.'

'What about him?'

'Well,' said Rebus, crossing his legs, 'what do you know about him?'

'About Kenny's Uncle Tommy? Not a lot.' 'What does he do for a living?'

'I think Kenny said he's got a stall somewhere, you know in a market.''

Lake Brick Lane' market? Did he sell false teeth?

'Or maybe he just delivers to market stalls, I can't really remember:'

Delivers stolen goods? Goods given to him by thieves like the one they'd picked up, the one who had pretended to be the Wolfman?

'Anyway, he's got a few bob.'

'How do you know that?'

'Kenny told me. At least, I think he did. Otherwise how would I know?'

'Where does Kenny work, Sammy?'

'In the City.'

'Yes, but for which firm?'

'Firm?'

'He's a courier, isn't he? He must work for a company?'

But she shook her head. 'He went freelance when he had enough regular clients. I remember he said that his boss at the old place was pissed off ' She broke off suddenly and looked up at him, her face going red. She'd forgotten for a moment that she was talking to her father, and not just to some copper. 'Sorry, Dad,' she, apologised, 'His boss was angry with him for taking away so much of the trade. Kenny was good, see, he knows all the shortcuts, knows which buildings are which. Some drivers get confused when they can't find some tiny alleyway, or when the numbers on a street don't seem to make sense.' Yes. Rebus had noticed that; how sometimes the street numbers seemed illogical, as though numbers had been skipped. 'But not Kenny. He knows London like the back of his hand.'

Knows London well, the roads, the shortcuts. On a motorbike, you could cut across London in a flash. ' Tow-paths, alleys — in a flash.

'What kind of bike does he have, Sammy?'

'I don't know. A Kawasaki something-or-other. He's got one that he uses for work, because it's not too heavy, and another he keeps for weekends, a really big bike:'

'Where does he keep them? There can't be too many safe places around the Churchill Estate?'

'There are some garages nearby. They get vandalised, but Kenny's put a reinforced door on. It's like Fort Knox. I keep kidding him about it. It's better guarded than his.. ' Her voice falls flat. 'How did you know he lives on Churchill?'

'What?'

Her voice is stronger now, curious 'How did you know Kenny lives on Churchill?'

Rebus shrugged. 'I suppose he told me, that night I met him round; at your place.'

She's thinking back, trying to recall the conversation. But there's nothing there, nothing she can latch onto. Rebus is thinking, too.

Like Fort Knox. A handy place to store stolen gear. Or a corpse.

'So,' he says, pulling his chair a little further in to the table. 'Tell me what you think has happened. What do you think he's been keeping from you?'

She stared at the table-top, shaking her head slowly, staring, shaking, until finally: 'I don't know.'

'Well, had you fallen out over anything? Maybe you'd been arguing?'

'No.’

'Maybe he was jealous?'

She gave a desperate laugh. 'No.'

'Maybe he had other girlfriends?'

'No!'

When her eyes "caught his, Rebus felt a stirring of shame inside him. He couldn't forget that she was his daughter; nor could he forget that he needed to ask her these questions. Somehow he kept swerving between the two, careering into her.

'No,' she repeated softly. 'I'd have known if there was someone else.'

'Friends, then: did he have any close friends?'

'A few. Not many. I mean, he talked about them, but he never introduced me.'

'Have you tried calling them? Maybe one of them knows something.'

'I only know their first names. A couple of guys Kenny grew up with, Billy and Jim. Then there was someone called Arnold. He used to mention him. And one of the other bike messengers, I think his name was Roland or Ronald, something posh like that.'.

'Hold on, let me jot these down.' Rebus took notebook and pen from his pocket. 'Right,' he said, 'so that was Billy, Jim. What was the other one?'

'Roland or Ronald or something.' She watched him writing. 'And Arnold.'

Rebus sat back in his chair. 'Arnold?' 'Yes.'

'Did you ever meet Arnold?'

'I don't think so.'

'What did Kenny say about him?'

She shrugged. 'He was just someone Kenny used to bump into. I think he worked the stalls, too. They went for a drink sometimes.'

It couldn't be the same Arnold, could it? Flight's bald sex-offender snitch? What were the chances? Going for a drink? They seemed unlikely supping companions,' always supposing it was the same Arnold.

'All right,' Rebus said, closing the notebook. 'Do you have a recent photo of Kenny? A good one, one.that's nice and sharp.'

'I can get one. I've got some back at the house.'

'Okay, I'll get someone to drive you home. Give them the picture and they'll bring it back to me. Let's circulate Kenny's description, that's: the first thing to do. Meanwhile I'll do some snooping, see what I can come up with.'

She smiled. 'It's not really your patch, is it?'

'No, it's not my patch at all. But sometimes if you look at something, or some place, for too long, you stop seeing what's there. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to see what's staring you in the face.' He was thinking of Flight, of the reason Flight. had brought him down here.-He-was thinking, too, of whether he, Rebus, could muster enough clout to organise a search for Kenny Watkiss. Maybe not without Flight to back him up. No, what was he thinking of? This was a missing person, for Christ's sake. It had to be investigated. Yes, but there were ways and ways of investigating, and he could count on no preferential treatment, no favours, when it came to the crunch. 'I don't suppose,' he asked now, 'you know whether or not his bikes are still in' the garage?'

'I took a look. They're both still there. That was when I started to get worried.'

'Was there anything else in the garage?' But she wasn't listening to him.

'He hardly ever goes anywhere without a bike. He hates buses and stuff He said he-was going to name his big bike after.'.. after me.'

The tears came again. This time he let her cry, though it hurt him more than he could say. Better out than in, wasn't that how the cliche went? She was blowing her nose when the door opened. Flight looked into the small room. His eyes said it all: you might have taken her somewhere better than this.

'Yes, George? What can I do for you?'

'After you left the lab,' the pause showed displeasure at not having been informed or left a message, 'they gave me a bit more gen on the letter itself'

'I'll be with you in a minute.'

Flight — nodded but directed his attention to Samantha. 'Are you okay, love?'

She sniffed. 'Fine, thanks.' -

'Well,' he said archly, 'if you do want to register a complaint against Inspector Rebus, see the desk sergeant.!

'Ach, get away, George,' said Rebus.

Sammy was trying to giggle and blow her nose at the same time, and making a bit of a mess of both. Rebus winked towards Flight who, having done as much as. he could- (and for which Rebus was grateful), — was now retreating.

'You're not all bad, are you?' said Samantha when Flight had gone.

'What do you mean?'

'Policemen. You're not all as.bad as they say.'

'You're a copper's daughter, Sammy. Remember that. And you're a straight copper's daughter. Be sure-to stick up for your old dad. Okay?'

She smiled again. 'You're not old, Dad.'

He smiled, too, but did not reply. In truth, he was basking in the compliment, whether it was mere: flattery or. no. What mattered was that Sammy, his daughter Sammy, had said it.

'Right,' he said at last, 'let's get you into a car. And don't worry, pet, we'll track down your missing beau.' 'You called me pet again.'

Did I? Don't tell your mother.'

'I won't. And, Dad?'

'What?' He half-turned towards her just in time to receive her peck on the cheek.

'Thanks,' she said. 'Whatever happens, thanks.'

Flight was in the small office of the Murder Room. After the close confiness of the interview cupboard, this space had suddenly taken on a new, much' larger dimension. Rebus sat himself down and swung one leg over the other.

'So what's this about the Wolfman letter?' he said.

'So,' replied Flight, 'what's this about Kenny Watkiss disappearing?'

'You tell me yours' and I'll tell you mine.'

Flight picked up a folder, opened it, took-out three or four closely typed sheets of paper, and began to read.

'Typeface used is Helvetica. Unusual for personal correspondence, though used by newspapers and, magazines.' Flight looked up meaningfully.

'A' reporter?' Rebus' said doubtfully.

'Well, think about it,' said Flight; 'Every crime reporter in England knows — about Lisa Frazer by now. They could probably find out where she lives, too.'

Rebus considered this. 'Okay,' he — said at last, 'go on.'

'Helvetica can be found on some electronic' typewriters and electric golfball machines, but is more commonly found on computers' and word processors.' Flight glanced up. 'This would correlate with density of type. The type itself is of very even quality … blab, blah, blah. Also, the letters line up neatly, suggesting that a good' quality printer has been used, probably a daisywheel, suggesting in turn the use of a high quality word' processor or word-processing package. However,' Flight went on, 'the letter K becomes faint towards the tips of its stem.' Flight paused to turn the page. Rebus wasn't really paying a great deal of attention as yet, and neither was George Flight. Labs always came up with more information than was useful. So far, all Rebus had really been hearing was the chaff. -

'This is more interesting,' Flight went on. 'Inside' the envelope particles were found which appear to be flecks of paint, yellow, green' and orange predominating. Perhaps' an oil-based paint: tests are still continuing.' 'So we've got a crime reporter who fancies himself as

Van Gogh?'

Flight wasn't rising to the bait. He read through the rest of the report quickly to himself. 'That's pretty much it,' he said. 'What's left is more to do with what they failed to find: no prints, no stains, no hair or fibres.'

'No personalised =watermark?' Rebus asked. In detective novels, the personalised watermark would lead to a small family business run by an eccentric old man, who would recall selling the paper to someone called … And that would be it: crime solved. Neat, ingenious, but it seldom happened like that. He thought of Lisa again; of Cousins. No, not Cousins: it couldn't be Cousins. And besides, he wouldn't try anything with those two gorillas in attendance.

'No personalised watermark,' Flight was saying. 'Sorry.'

'Oh well,' Rebus offered, with a loud sigh, 'we're no further forward, are we?'

Flight was looking at the report, as though willing something, some clue, to grab his attention. Then: 'So what's all this about Kenny Watkiss?'

'He's scarpered under mysterious circumstances. Good riddance, — I'd say, but it's left Sammy in a bit of a state. I said we'd do what we could.' °

'You can't get involved, John. Leave it to us.'

'I don't want to get involved, George. This one's all yours.' The voice seemed ingenuous enough, but Flight was long past being fooled by John Rebus. He grinned and shook his head.

'What do you, want?' he asked.

'Well,' said Rebus, leaning forward in his chair, 'Sammy did mention one of Kenny's associates. Someone called Arnold who worked on a market stall, at least she thinks he works in or around a market.'

'You think it's my Arnold?' Flight thought it over. 'It's possible.'

'Too much of a coincidence, you think?'

'Not in a city as small as this.' Flight saw the look on Rebus's face. 'I'm being serious, actually. The small-time crooks, they're like a little family. If this was Sicily, you could cram every small-timer in London into a village. Everybody knows everybody else. It's the big-timers we can't pin. They keep themselves too much to themselves, never go down the pub shooting their mouths off after a couple of Navy Rums.'

'Can we talk to Arnold?'

'What for?'

'Maybe he knows something about Kenny.,

'Even supposing he does why should he tell us?'

'Because we're police officers, George. And he's a member of the public. We're here to uphold law and order, and it's his duty to help us in that onerous task.' Rebus was reflective. 'Plus I'll slip him twenty quid.'

Flight sounded incredulous. 'This is London, John. A score can hardly get a round of drinks. Arnold gives good gen, but he'll be looking for a pony at least.' Now he was playing with Rebus, and Rebus, realising it, smiled.

'If Arnold wants a pony,' he said, 'tell him I'll buy him one for Christmas. And a little girl to sit on it. Just so long as he tells me what he knows.'

'Fair enough,' said Flight.- 'Come on then, let's go find ourselves a street market.'