Tooth & Nail

The Gallery

Flight was struggling with half a dozen large brown paper bags, the fruits—literally—of asking for Arnold at three or four market stalls so far. Rebus had refused the offers of free bananas, oranges, pears and grapes, though Flight had prodded him to accept.

`It's a local custom,' Flight said. `They get annoyed if you don't accept. Like a Glaswegian offering you a drink. Would you turn it down? No, because then you'd offend him. Same with these guys.'

`What would I do with three pounds of bananas?'

`Eat them,' said Flight blandly, Then, cryptically: `Unless you were Arnold, of course.'

He refused to explain the meaning of this, and Rebus refused to consider the various possibilities. They moved from stall to stall, passing most, stopping at only a few. In their way, they were like the women who crushed in all around them, feeling this or that mango or aubergine, checking prices at the various stalls, pausing only at a few to make their final purchases.

"Allo, George.'

`Blimey, George, where you been, hiding yourself?'

`All right there, George? How's your love life?'

It seemed to Rebus that half the stall-holders and most of their box and tray-carrying assistants knew Flight. At one point, Flight nodded behind one of the stalls, 'where a young man was disappearing rapidly along the street.

`Jim Jessop,' he said. He skipped bail a couple of weeks back.'

`Shouldn't we . . . ?'

But Flight shook his head. `Another time, eh, John? The little bugger was three A's standard in the thousand metres. I don't feel like a run today, what about you?'

`Fair enough,' said Rebus, aware that here, in this place, on this `patch', he was very much the bystander, the tourist. This was Flight's territory. The man moved confidently through the throng, spoke easily with the various vendors, was in every way quite at home. Eventu?ally, after a chat with the man behind the fresh fish counter, Flight returned with a bag of mussels, another of scallops and information on where Arnold might be found. He, led Rebus behind the market stalls onto the pavement and then into a narrow alleyway.

'Moules, mariniere,' he said, holding up one of the white polythene bags. 'Beautiful. Easy, to cook, too. It's the preparation that takes up all the time.'

Rebus shook his head. `You're full of surprises, George. I'd never have taken you for a cordon bleu.'

Flight just smiled, musing. `And scallops,' he said, `Marion loves those. I make a sauce with them and serve it with fresh trout. Again, it's all preparation. The cooking's the easy part.'

He enjoyed showing Rebus this other side of his personality, though he couldn't say why. Nor could he exactly say why he hadn't, told John Rebus that Lisa had gone to the Old Bailey; had instead mumbled something about seeing her safely on her way. He thought probably his reasoning had to do with Rebus's spring-loaded emotions: if the Scotsman thought Lisa Frazer was not in Flight's place of safety, he'd probably go haring off after her, making a fool of himself ‘neath blindfolded justice herself And Rebus was still flight's responsibility, still the liability he always had been, if not more so.

They had come out of the alley onto a small-scale housing, estate. The houses looked fairly, new, but already the paint was flaking from the window, sills. There were cries and squeals from just ahead, A kiddies playground, concrete surrounded by concrete. A huge section of pipe had become a tunnel, a den, a hiding place. There were swings, too, and a see-saw. And a sand-pit which had become, second home to the area's cats and dogs.

The children's imaginations knew few bounds. Pretend you're in hospital, and I'm the doctor. And then the spaceman's ship crashed on the planet. Cowboys don't have girlfriends. No you're chasing me because I'm the soldier and you're the guard. Pretend there isn't a pipe.

Pretend. There was no pretend about, the energy they were expending. They couldn't stand still, couldn't pause for breath. They had to yell and jump and get, involved. It made Rebus tired just to look at them.

`There he is,' said Flight. He was pointing towards a bench on the edge of the playground. Arnold was sitting there, his back very straight, hands clasping his knees. He had an intent look on his face, neither happy nor unhappy. The kind of look you sometimes saw at the zoo, when someone was peering into a particular cage or enclosure. It was best described as an interested look. Oh yes, Arnold was interested. It made Rebus's stomach queasy just to watch him. Flight seemed to take it all quite casually. He walked across to the bench and sat down beside Arnold, who turned, his eyes suddenly taking on a hunted, frightened look, his mouth creasing into an O. Then he exhaled noisily.

`It's you, Mister Flight. I didn't recognise you.' He gestured towards the bags. `Been shopping? That's nice.' The voice was flat, lacking emotion. Rebus had heard addicts talk like that. Five percent of their brain was fixed on dealing with the external world, the remaining ninety-five concentrating on other things. Well, he supposed Arnold was a kind of addict too.

`Yes,' said Flight, `just buying a few bits. You remember Inspector Rebus?'

Arnold followed Flight's eyes, staring up from his bench to where Rebus stood, his body purposely shielding Arnold from the children.

`Oh yes,' Arnold said blandly, `he was in the car with you the other day, Mr Flight.'

`Well done, Arnold. Yes, that's right. You've got a good memory, haven't you?'

`It pays to have, Mr Flight. That's how I remember all the things I tell you.'

`Actually, Arnold,' Flight slid along the bench until his thigh, was almost touching that of the other man. Arnold angled his own legs away from the policeman, his eyes intent on Flight's proximity to him. `Speaking of memory, maybe you can help me.' Maybe you can help Inspector Rebus, too.'

`Y-e-e-s?' The word was stretched almost to breaking point.

`We were just wondering,' said Flight, `whether you've seen Kenny lately. Only he doesn't seem to have been around much, does he? I wondered whether he'd maybe gone on holiday?'

Arnold gazed up with milky, childlike eyes. `Kenny who?'

Flight laughed. `Kenny Watkiss, Arnold. Your mate Kenny.'

For a moment, Rebus held his breath. What if it was another Arnold? What if Sammy had got the name wrong? Then' Arnold nodded slowly.

`Oh, that Kenny. He's not really a mate, Mr Flight. I mean, I see him now and again.' Arnold stopped, but Flight was nodding, saying nothing, expecting more. `We have a drink together sometimes.'

`What do you talk about?'

The question was unexpected.’

‘What do you mean?

`It's a simple enough question,' said Flight with a smile. `What do you talk about? I wouldn't have thought the two of you would have much in common.'

`We just, we talk. I don't know.'

`Yes, but what do you talk about? Football?'

`Sometimes, yes.'

`What team does he support?'

`I don't know, Mr Flight.?

'You talk about football with him—and yet you don't know what team he supports?'

`Maybe he told me and I forgot!

Flight looked dubious. `Maybe,' he agreed. Rebus knew his part in the drama now. Let Flight do the talking. Just keep quiet but look ominous, standing over Arnold like a thundercloud, staring down like an avenger onto that gleaming bald dome of a head. Flight knew exactly what he was doing. Arnold was growing nervous, his body jerking, unable to keep his head still, his right knee bobbing up and down.

`So what else do you talk about? He likes motorbikes, doesn't he?'

`Yes,' Arnold answered, guardedly now, for he knew what was happening to him.

`So do you talk about bikes?'

`I don't like bikes. Too noisy.'

`Too noisy? Yes, you've got a, point there.' Flight nodded towards the play area. `But this place is noisy, too, Arnold, isn't it? Yet you don't seem to mind the noise here. Why's that?'

Arnold turned on him, eyes burning. But Flight was ready with a smile, a smile more serious than any grimace.

`What I mean is,' he went on, 'you like some noises but not others. That's fair, isn't it? But you don't like motorbikes. So what else do you talk about with Kenny?'

`We just talk,' said Arnold, his face creased with anguish. `Gossip, how the city's changing, the East End. This used to be all rows of cottages. There was a field and allotments. The families all used to have picnics on the field. They'd bring tomatoes or potatoes or a cabbage to your mum, saying they grew too much, and the kids would all play in the street. There weren't any Bangladeshis or what have you. Just proper East Enders. Kenny's mum and dad didn't live far from here. Two streets away from where I lived. Course, I was older than him. We never played together or anything.'

`And where did Uncle Tommy live?'

`He was over that way.' Arnold pointed with a finger. He had grown a little more confident now. Reminiscences couldn't do any harm, could they? And to talk freely came as such, a relief after, the careful duel he'd just gone through. So he opened up` to them. The good old days. But between his words, Rebus could, see a truer picture, a picture of how the other kids used to beat. him up, play tricks on him, of how his father used to lock him in his room, starve him. The family breaking apart. Drifting into petty crime. Painfully shy, unable to form relationships.

`Do you ever see Tommy around?' Flight asked sud?denly.

`Tommy Watkiss? Yes, I see him.' Arnold was, still basking in the past.

`Does Kenny see him?'

`Of course he does. He works for him sometimes.'

`What? Deliveries, that sort of thing?'

`Deliveries, pick-ups—' Arnold halted, aware of what he was saying. This wasn't the past they were talking about any longer. This wasn't safe.

Flight leaned across so that his nose was almost touchin Arnold's. All Arnold could do was lean back against th bench, its hard spars stopping him from escaping.

`Where is he, Arnold?'

`Who? Tommy?'

`You know bloody well who I mean! Kenny! Tell me where he is!'

Rebus half-turned, to see that the children had stopped playing and were watching this grown-up game.

`You going to fight, mister?' one of them called. Rebus shook his head and called back, 'Just pretending.'

Flight still had Arnold pinned to the bench. 'Arnold,' he hissed, 'you know me. I've always played, fair by you.'

`I know that, Mr Flight.'

`But I'm not pretending. What I'm doing is losing my rag. Everything's going to hell in this city, Arnold, and I'm inclined to just shrug my shoulders and join in. Understand me? Why should I play fair when nobody else does, eh? So I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Arnold. I'm going to have to pull you in.'

`What for?' Arnold was terrified now. He didn't think Flight was playing a game. Rebus had the same feeling either that or Flight was in line for an Oscar.

Tor indecent exposure. You were going to expose, yourself to those kids. I saw you getting ready. I saw your dick hanging out of your fly.'

`No, no.' Arnold was shaking his head. 'That's a lie.'

`Previous convictions don't lie, Arnold. Inspector Rebus saw you, too. He saw your prick waving in the air like a cocktail sausage. We both saw you, and that's what we'll tell the judge. Now who's he going to believe, eh? Think about that for a moment. Think about solitary. They'll have to hold you in solitary so the other prisoners don't kick the shit out of you. But that won't stop them pissing in your tea and gobbing in your food. You know the score, Arnold. You've been there. And then one night, you'll hear your door being unlocked, and in they'll come. Maybe the screws, maybe the prisoners. They'll come in and they'll hold you down. One of them'll have a brush-handle, and one'll have a rusty old razor blade, won't they, Arnold? Won't they Arnold?'

But Arnold was trembling too violently to speak, trembling and babbling, bubbles of saliva bursting at either side of his mouth. Flight slid back along the bench away from him, then looked up at Rebus with sad eyes. Rebus nodded solemnly. This wasn't a nice business that they were in, not nice at all. Flight lit a cigarette. Rebus refused one. Two words were bouncing around the inside of John Rebus's skull.

Needs must.

And then Arnold started to talk. And when he had finished, Flight dug into a trouser pocket and drew out a pound coin, which he slapped down on the bench beside his shattered victim.

`There you go, Arnold. Get yourself a cup of tea or something. And stay away from playgrounds, all right?' Flight picked up his carrier-bags, picked out an apple from one, and tossed it into Arnold's lap, causing the man to flinch. Then he picked out another one and began to crunch on it, starting off back towards the market.

Needs must.

Back at HQ Rebus thought about Lisa. He felt the need for some human contact, for something clean and warm and separate from this other world he chose to inhabit, something to wash out his badly soiled mind.

Flight had warned him on the way back—'no messing about this time, John. Leave it to us. You've got to stay out of it. It would look bad in court, copper with a grudge, that sort of line.'

`But,' Rebus had replied, `I do have a grudge, George. This guy Kenny might have been shagging my daughter!'

Flight had glanced from the windscreen into Rebus's face, then had looked away.

`I said leave it to us, John. If you can't play it that way, I'll personally see that you go bouncing back down the ranks like a ball down a fucking stairwell. Got that?'

`Loud and clear.'

`It's not a threat, John. It's a promise.'

`And you always keep your promises, George, don't you? You seem to be forgetting something. It's your fault that I'm down here in the first place. You sent for me.'

Flight had nodded. `And I can send you back just as quick. Is that what you want?'

Rebus had stayed silent, though he knew the answer. Flight knew it too, and smiled at, this small triumph. They drove in silence after that, both men tainted by the memory of a playground and of a silent man, hands clasping his knees, staring, ahead of him, his thoughts sweet with corruption.

Now Rebus was thinking of Lisa, 'thinking of ? HYPERLINK “http://how.it/”??how it? would feel to take a shower with her, to scrub away a layer of London from them both. Maybe he would ask George again for the secret address. Maybe he could visit her. He remembered a conversation they'd had in bed. He'd asked if he could see her office in University College sometime.

`Sometime,' she'd said. `Mind you, it's not a very nice room, nothing like those huge antique Oxbridge rooms you see in television dramas. It's a pokey little hole, to be honest. I hate it.'

`I'd still like you to show me around.'

`And I said okay.' She sounded on edge. Why was, that? Why had she been so nervous of letting him see her room? Why had the secretary—Millicent, Lisa had called her—been so vague the day Rebus had visited? No, not just vague. Uncooperative. Downright uncooperative, now that he thought of it. What the hell was it they were keeping from him? He knew one way he could find out the answer, one sure and certain way. What the hell. Lisa was safe, and he'd been told to stay out of the Watkiss case, so what was stopping him from following up this latest mystery? He got to his feet. The answer was nothing was stopping him, nothing at all.

`Where are you going?'

It was Flight, yelling at him from an open door as Rebus stalked down, the hall.

`It's personal,' Rebus called back.

`I warned you, John! Don't get involved!'

`It's not what you. think!' He stopped, turning to face George Flight.

`Well, what is it then?'

`Like I said, George, it's personal, okay?'

'No.'

'Look,' said Rebus, his, emotions suddenly getting the better of him, all those thoughts he'd been keeping on a tight rein—Sammy, Kenny Watkiss, the Wolfman, the threat against Lisa—all boiling up. He swallowed, breathing hard. `Look, George, you've got plenty to keep you busy, okay?' His finger stabbed at Flight's chest. `Remember what I said: it could be a copper. Why don't you do some of your careful, precious, nit-picking investigation on that. The Wolfman could be here in this building. He could be working on the bloody case, hunting himself!' Rebus heard his voice growing hysterical and calmed quickly, regaining control over his vocal chords: if nothing else.

`A sort of wolf in the fold, you mean?'

'I'm serious.' Rebus paused. `He might even know where you've sent Lisa.'

`For Christ's sake, John, only three people know where Lisa's going. Me, and the two men I sent with her. Now you don't know those guys, but I do. We go back all the way to training college. I'd trust them with my life.' Flight paused. `Will you trust me?'

Rebus said nothing. Flight's eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and he whistled. `Well,' he said, `that certainly answers my question.' He shook his head slowly. `This case, John. I've been in the force God knows how many years, but this case, it's the worst. It's like every victim was somebody close to me.' He paused again, gathering strength. Now his finger jabbed at Rebus. `So don't you dare think what I know you're thinking! It's the ultimate fucking insult!'

There was a long silence in the corridor. Typewriters chattered somewhere. Male voices were raised in laughter. A hummed tune floated down the hall towards and past them. It was as though the whole world were indifferent to this quarrel. And there they stood, not quite friends, not quite enemies, and not quite sure what to do any more.

Rebus studied the scuff marks on the linoleum. Then: `Lecture over?'

Flight seemed pained' by this response. `It wasn't a lecture, it was just . . . I want you to see my side of things.'

`But I do, George, I do.' Rebus patted Flight's arm and turned away from him again. He started to walk.

`I want you to stay here, John!' Walking. `Do you hear me? I'm ordering you not to go.'

Rebus kept walking.

Flight shook his head. He'd had enough, absolutely up to his eyes, so that they stung now, stung as though he were in a smoky room. `You're out on your ear, Rebus,' he called, knowing this to be the final warning. If Rebus kept walking now, Flight would be compelled to keep his word or else lose face, and he was damned if he'd lose face for a hard headed Jock copper. `Just keep walking!' he, yelled. `Keep walking and you're finished!'

Rebus walked. He didn't know exactly why, perhaps more out of pride than anything else. Stupid pride, pride he couldn't explain, but pride all the same. The same emotion that made grown men cry at football matches when Flower of Scotland was played as the Scots national anthem. All he knew was that he had something to do, and he would do it, like the Scots knew their job was to be footballers with more ambition than ability. Yes, that was him all right: more ambition than ability. They'd put it on his gravestone.

At the end of the corridor, he shoved open the swing doors. He didn't look back. Flight's voice followed him, trailing off as it grew in anger.

`Damn, you, you stupid Jock bastard! You've bitten off more than you can chew this time, do you hear me? More than you can bloody well chew.'

FYTP.

Rebus was moving through the entrance hall when he came face to face with Lamb. He made to move past him, but Lamb placed a hand on Rebus's chest.

`Where's the fire?' he said. Rebus was trying to ignore him, was trying to make Lamb invisible. The last thing he needed now was this. His knuckles tingled with anticipa?tion. Lamb was still talking, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in.

`She found you then, your daughter?'

`What?'

Lamb was smiling. `She phoned here first, and they put her on to me. She sounded a bit upset, so I gave her the lab's number.'

`Oh.' Rebus could feel himself deflating. He managed a grudged `thanks' and this time succeeded in moving around Lamb. But then Lamb spoke again.

`She sounded a bit tasty though. I like them young. How old is she again?'

Rebus's elbow shot back into Lamb's unprotected stomach, cutting off breath, doubling him over. Rebus studied his work; not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.

He walked.

Because he's on personal business, he stands outside the station and looks for a cab. One of the uniformed officers, who knows him from the scene of Sunday's murder, offers a lift in a patrol car, but Rebus shakes his head. The officer looks at him as if an insult has just been traded.

`Thanks anyway,' says Rebus, trying to sound concilia?tory. But all he sounds is mad. Mad with Lamb, with himself, mad with the Wolfman case, mad with Kenny bloody Watkiss, mad with Flight, with Lisa (why did she have to be in Copperplate Street in the, first place?) and, most of all, mad with London. Where are all the cabs, all the greedy black cabs, beetling like insects as they try to pick up fares? He's seen thousands of them this past week, but now that he needs one, they're all avoiding him. He waits anyway, eyes slightly unfocused. And as he waits, he thinks, and as he thinks he calms a little.'

What the hell is he doing anyway? He's asking for trouble doing this. He's begging for it, like a black-clothed. Calvinist pleading to be beaten for his sins. A lash across the back. Rebus had seen them all, all the available religions. He had tasted them and each one tasted bitter in its own particular way. Where was the religion for those who did not feel guilty, did not feel shame, did not regret getting angry or getting even, or, better yet, getting more than even? Where was the religion for a man who believed that good and bad must coexist, even within the individual? Where was the religion for a man who believed in God but not in God's religion?

And where were all the bloody taxis?

`Sod it then.' He walked up to the first patrol car he saw and tapped on the window, flashing his ID.

`Inspector Rebus,' he announced. `Can you give me a lift to Gower Street?'

The building seemed as deserted as ever and Rebus feared that on this occasion perhaps even the secretary might have scarpered for an early start to the weekend. But no, she was there, like the retainer of some dusty mansion. He cleared his throat, and she looked up from her crochet.

`Yes?' she said. `Can I help you?' She appeared not to remember him. Rebus brought out, his ID and pushed it towards her.

`Detective Inspector Rebus,' he said, his voice stiff with authority. `Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a few questions about Dr Frazer.'

The woman looked frightened. Rebus feared he had overdone the menace. He tried a don't-worry-it's-not-you-we're-interested-in sort of smile, a peaceable smile. But the woman looked no less afraid, and her fear flustered her.

`Oh, gracious,' she stammered. `Oh my, oh my.' She looked up at him. 'Who did you say? Dr Frazer? But there's no Dr Frazer in the Department.'

Rebus described Lisa Frazer. The woman suddenly raised her head, recognising the description.

`Oh, Lisa?. You mean Lisa? But there's some mistake. Lisa Frazer isn't a member of staff here. Gracious me, no. Though I believe she may have taken a tutorial or two, just filling in. Oh dear, Scotland Yard. What, I mean, surely she hasn't . . . What has she done?'

`She doesn't work here?' Rebus needed to be certain. `Then who is she?'

`Lisa? She's one of our research students.'

'A student? But she's—' He was about to say `old'.

`A mature student,' the secretary explained. `Oh dear, is she in trouble?'

'I came here before,' Rebus said. `You didn't tell me any of this then. Why?'

`Came here before?' She studied his face. `Yes, I remember. Well, Lisa made me promise not to tell anyone.'

`Why?'

`Her' project, she said. She's doing a project on, now, what is it exactly?' She opened a, drawer of her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. `Ah yes, “The Psychology of the Investigation of Serious Crime”. She explained it to me. How she needed access to a police investigation. How she, needed to gain trust. The courts, police and so on. She told me she was going to pretend to be a lecturer I told her not to, I warned her, but she said it was the only way. The police wouldn't waste time with a mere student, would they?'

Rebus was stuck for an answer. The answer was no, they wouldn't. Why, should they?

`So she got you to cover for her?'

The woman shrugged. `Lisa is quite a persuasive young woman. She said probably I wouldn't have to tell lies. I could just say things like she's not here, she's not teaching today, that sort of thing. Always supposing anyone bothered to check up on her.'

`And has anybody checked up on her?'

`Oh yes. Why, only today I had a telephone call from someone she had arranged to interview. He wanted to be sure that she really was part of University College, and not just a journalist or a Nosey Parker.'

Today? An interview today. Well, that was one appoint?ment she wouldn't be keeping.

`Who was this person?' Rebus asked. `Do you remem?ber?'

`I think I wrote it down,' she said. She lifted the thick notepad beside her telephone and flipped through it. 'He did say who he was, but I can't remember. It was at the Old Bailey. Yes, that's right. She'd arranged to meet him at the Old Bailey. I usually write these things down' as soon as someone mentions their name, just in case I forget later. No, there's no sign of it. That's funny.'

`Perhaps in the bin?' Rebus" suggested'

`Well, perhaps.' But she sounded doubtful. Rebus lifted the small wicker paper-basket onto her desk and sifted through it. Pencil shavings and sweet-wrappers, an empty polystyrene coffee cup and crumpled bits of paper. Lots of bits of paper.

`Too big,' she would say as he started to uncrumple one, or `too small.' Until finally, he pulled out a sheet and spread it out on the desk. It was like some bizarre work of art, filled with doodles and hieroglyphs and little notes, phone numbers, names, addresses.

'Ah,' she said, sliding a finger over to one corner where something had been written in very faint, wavering pencil. `Is that it?'

Rebus looked closer. Yes, that was it. That was most definitely it. 'Thank you,' he said.

`Oh dear,' said the secretary. `Have I, got her into trouble? Is Lisa in trouble? What has she done, Inspector?'

`She lied to us,' said Rebus. `And because of that, she's ended up having to go into hiding.'

`Hiding? Gracious, she didn't mention anything about that.'

Rebus was beginning to suspect that the secretary was a couple of keys short of a typewriter. `Well,' he said, 'she didn't know she was in trouble until today.'

The secretary was nodding. `Yes, but she only phoned a little over an hour ago.'

Rebus's face creased into an all-over frown. `What?'

'Yes, she said she was calling from the Old Bailey. She wanted to know if there were any messages for her. She told me she had time to kill before her second appointment.'

Rebus didn't bother to ask. He dialled quickly, the receiver gripped in his hand like a weapon. `I want to talk to George Flight.'

`Just a minute, please.' The ch-ch-ch-ch of a re-routing. Then: `Murder Room, Detective Sergeant Walsh speaking.'

`It's Inspector Rebus here.'

`Oh yes?' The voice had become as rudimentary as a chisel.

`I need to speak to Flight. It's urgent.'

`He's in a meeting.'

`Then get him out! I told you; this is urgent,'

There was doubt, cynicism in the Sergeant's voice Everyone knew that the Scotsman's, `urgent' wasn't worth its weight in breath. `I can leave a message—'

`Don't fuck me around, Walsh! Either get him, or put me on to someone with a spare brain they're not sitting on!'

Ca —click. Brrrrr. The ultimate put-down. The secretary was staring at Rebus in horror. Perhaps psychologists never got angry. Rebus attempted a reassuring smile, but it came out like a clown's drunken greasepaint. He made a bowing motion before turning to leave, and was watched all the way out to, the stairwell by a woman mortified almost to the core of her being.

Rebus's face was tingling with a newly-stoked anger. Lisa Frazer had tricked him, played him like a fool. Christ, the things he'd told her Thinking she wanted to help with the Wolfman case. Not realising he was merely part of her project. Christ, the things he had said. What had he said? Too much to recall. Had she been taping everything? Or simply jotting things down after he'd left? It didn't matter. What mattered was that he had seen in her something solid and believable amidst a sea of chaos. And she had been Janus. Using him. Jesus Christ, she had even slept with him. Was that, too, part of the project, part of her little experiment? How could he ever be sure it wasn't? It had seemed genuine enough, but . . . He had opened his mind to her, as she had opened her body to him. It was not a fair exchange.

`The bitch!' he exploded, stopping dead. `The lying little bitch!'

Why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she just explained everything? He would have helped her, he would have found time for her. No, he wouldn't. It was a lie. A research student? A project? He would have shown her the door. Instead he had listened to her, had believed her, had learned from her. Yes, it was true. He had learned a lot from her. About psychology, about the mind of the killer. Had learned from her books. Yes, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it had all become crass and diluted, now that he knew her for what she was.

`Bitch.' But his voice was softer, his throat tightening, as though a hand had slid around it and was slowly applying pressure. He swallowed hard, and began to take deep breaths. Calm down, John. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? It mattered, he answered himself, because he felt something for her. Or had felt something for her. No, still did feel something. Something he thought might have been returned.

`Who are you trying to kid?' Look at him, overweight and in his forties. Stuck at Inspector level and going nowhere except, if Flight carried out his promise, down. Divorced. A daughter distraught and mixing with darkness. Someone in London with a kitchen knife and a secret and a knowledge of Lisa. It was all wrong. He'd been clutching at Lisa the way drowning men reached out for a thin snap of straw. Stupid old man.

He stood at the main door to the building, not really sure now. Should he confront her, or, let it go, never see her again? Usually he relished confrontation, found it nourish?ing and exciting. But today, maybe not.

She was at the Old Bailey to interview Malcolm Chambers. He, too, was at this moment being tricked by her mock credentials, by that falsely prefixed `Doctor', Everyone admired, Malcolm Chambers. He was smart, he was on the side of the law, and he made pots of money. Rebus had known coppers who were none of these; most could score only one out of three, a few managed two. Chambers would sweep Lisa Frazer off her feet. She would loathe him, until that loathing mingled with awe, and then she'd probably think that she loved him. Well, good luck to her.

He'd head back to the station, say his farewells, pack his bags, and head north. They could get along without him very well. The case was heading nowhere until the Wolfman bit again. Yet they had so much now, knew so much about him, had come so close to opening him up like a soft fat peach. Maybe he'd bite Lisa Frazer. What the hell was she doing at the Old Bailey when she should be in hiding? He needed to speak to Flight. What the hell was Flight up to anyway?

'Ach, to hell with the lot of you,' he muttered, plunging his hands into his pockets.

Two students, their voices loudly American, were heading towards him. They seemed excited, the way students always did, discussing this or that concept, ready to change the way the world thought. They wanted to get past, wanted to go into the building. He moved aside for them, but they didn't so much move past him as through him, as though he were insubstantial as exhaust fumes.

`Like, y'know, I think she likes me, but I'm not sure I'm ready for something like—'

So much for difficult concepts, thought Rebus. Why should students be different from anyone else in the population? Why should they be thinking (and, talking), about something other than sex?

`Yeah,' said the other, one. Rebus wondered how comfortable he felt in his thick white T-shirt and thicker checked lumberjack shirt. The day was sticky. 'Yeah,' the American repeated. His accent reminded Rebus of Lisa's softer Canadian tones.

`But get this,' continued his companion, their voices fading as they moved deeper into the building, `she says her mother hates Americans because one of them near raped her in the war.'

Get this. Where had Rebus heard that expression before? He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found a folded piece of paper, Unfolded it and began to read.

`GET THIS, I'M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.?' It was the photocopy of the Wolfman's letter to Lisa.

Get this. It did have a transatlantic ring to it, didn't it? A curious way altogether of starting a letter. Get this. Be warned, watch out. There were several ways, of starting a letter so that the reader knew he was to pay particular attention to it. But get this?

What did they know, or what did they suspect, about the Wolfman? He knew about police procedure (past offender, copper, both were possible). He was a he, if Jan Crawford were to be believed. He was quite tall, she thought. In the restaurant, Lisa Frazer had added her own ideas: he was conservative most of the time he not only seemed normal, he was normal he was, in her phrase, `psychologically , mature. And he had posted a letter to Lisa from EC4, EC4 wasn't that where the Old, Bailey was? He recalled his first and only visit to the building. The courtroom, and seeing Kenny Watkiss there. Then meeting Malcolm Chambers. What was it Chambers had said to George Flight?

Unknown

‘Royally shafted. Own team. I don't like. Flight, I don't like being royally shafted . . . own team . . . get this. Get this, George.

Jesus Christ! Every ball on the table suddenly fell into a pocket until only the cue ball and the black were left. Every single ball.

`Get this, George, I don't like being royally shafted by my own team.'

Malcolm Chambers had studied in the USA for a while. Flight had told Rebus that. You tended to pick up mannerisms when you wanted to fit into a new and strange place. Get this. Rebus had tried to avoid the temptation in London, but it was strong. Studied in the USA. And now he was with Lisa Frazer. Lisa the student, Lisa the psychologist, Lisa with her photo in the newspapers. Get this. Oh, how the Wolfman must hate her. She was a psychologist after all and the psychologists had pronounced him gay, they had insights into what was wrong with him. He didn't think anything was wrong with him. But something was. Something that was slowly taking him over.

Old Bailey was in EC4. The Wolfman, rattled, had slipped up and posted his letter from EC4.

It was Malcolm Chambers, Malcolm Chambers was the Wolfman. Rebus couldn't explain it, couldn't exactly justify it, but he knew it all the same. It was like a dark polluted wave rolling over him, anointing him. Malcolm Chambers. Someone who knew about police procedure, someone above suspicion, someone so clean you had to scratch beneath the skin to find, the filth.

Rebus was running. He was running along Gower Street in what he hoped was the right direction for the City. He was running and he was craning his neck to seek out a taxi. There was one ahead of him, at the corner beside the British Museum, but it was picking up a fare. Students or tourists. Japanese. Grins and cameras. Four of them, two men, two young women. Rebus stuck his head into the back of the cab, where two of them were already seated.

`Out!' he yelled, jerking a thumb towards the pavement.

'Oi, mate, what's your game?' The driver was so fat he could barely turn in his seat.'

`I said out!' Rebus grabbed an arm and pulled. Either the young man was surprisingly light, or else Rebus had found hidden strength, for the body fairly flew from its seat uttering a string of high-pitched comment as it went.

`And you.'

The girl followed obligingly and Rebus hurled himself into the cab, slamming shut the door.

`Drive!' he yelled.

`I'm not moving till I—'

Rebus shoved his ID against the window separating the back seats of the taxi from the front.

`Inspector Rebus!' he called. `This is an emergency. I need to get to the Old Bailey. Break every traffic law you like, I'll sort it out later. But get your fucking skates on!'

The driver responded by switching his headlights on full beam before setting out into the traffic.

`Use your horn!' Rebus called. The driver did so. A surprising number of cars eased out of his way. Rebus was on the edge of his seat, gripping it with both hands to stop himself being thrown about. `How long will it take?"

'This time of day? Ten or fifteen minutes. What's the matter, guv? Can't they start without you?'

Rebus smiled sourly. That was just the problem. Without him, the Wolfman could start whenever he liked. `I need to use your radio,' he said. The driver slid his window further open.

'Be my guest,' he said, pulling the, small microphone up, towards Rebus. He'd worked on the cabs for twenty-odd years, but he'd never had a fare like this.

In fact, he was so excited, they were halfway there before he remembered to switch on the meter.

Rebus had told Flight as much as he could, trying not to sound hysterical. Flight sounded dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to send men to the Old Bailey. Rebus didn't blame George Flight for being wary. Hard to justify arresting a pillar of society on the strength of a gut feeling. Rebus remembered what else Lisa Frazer had said about serial killers: that they were products of their environments; that their ambitions had been thwarted, leading them to kin members of the social group above them. Well, that certainly wasn't true in Malcolm Chambers's case, was it? And what had she said about the Wolfman? His attacks were 'non-confrontational', so perhaps he was like that in his working life. Hah! So much for theory. But now Rebus began to doubt his own instincts. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if the theory was right? He was going to look more than a little psychologically disturbed himself.

Then he recalled something George Flight had said. You could build up as neat a picture as you liked of the killer, but it wouldn't give you a name and address. Psychology was all well and good, but you couldn't beat a good old fashioned hunch.

`Nearly there, guv.'

Rebus tried to keep his breathing regular. Be calm, John, be calm. However, there were no police cars waiting by the entrance to the Old Bailey. No sirens and armed officers, just people milling around, people finishing work for the day, people sharing a joke. Rebus left the cab driver unpaid and untipped—`I'll settle later'—and pushed open the heavy glass door. Behind more bulletproof glass stood two security personnel. Rebus stuck his ID in front of their noses. One of them pointed towards the two vertical glass cylinders by which people were admitted to the building one at a time. Rebus went to one cylinder and waited. Nothing happened. Then he remembered, pushed the heel of his hand against the button and the cylinder door opened. He walked in. and waited for what seemed an eternity while the door slid shut behind him, before the door in front slid just as slowly open.

Another guard stood beside the metal-detection equipment. Rebus, still holding open, his ID, walked quickly past until he found himself behind the bulletproof glass of the reception area.

`Can, I help?' said one of the security men.

`Malcolm Chambers,' said Rebus. `He's a barrister. I need to see him urgently.'

`Mr Chambers? Hold on, I'll just check.'

`I don't want him to know I'm here,' Rebus warned. `I just want to know where I can find him.'

`Just one moment.' The guard moved off, consulting with one of his companions, then slowly going through a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. Rebus's heart was pounding. He felt like he was about to explode. He couldn't just stand here. He had to do something. Patience, John. Less haste, more speed, as his father had always said. But what the hell did that mean anyway? Surely haste was a kind of speed?

The guard was coming back.

`Yes, Inspector. Mr Chambers has a young lady with him at present. I'm told they're sitting together upstairs.'

Upstairs meant the concourse outside the courtrooms. Rebus flew up the imposing flight of steps two at a time. Marble. There was a lot of marble around him. And wood. And glass. The windows seemed huge. Bewigged counsels came down a spiral staircase, deep in conversation. A frayed-looking woman smoked a cheap cigarette as she waited for someone. It was a quiet pandemonium. People were moving past Rebus, moving in the opposite direction from him. Juries, finished for the day. Solicitors and guilty-looking clients. The woman rose to greet her son. The son's solicitor had a bored, drawn look. The concourse was emptying rapidly, the stairs taking people down to more glass cylinders and to the outside world.

About thirty yards from where Rebus stood, the two men were sitting, legs crossed, enjoying a cigarette. The two men Flight had sent with Lisa. Her bodyguards. Rebus ran to them.

`Where is she?'

They recognised him, seemed to realise immediately that something was wrong, and rose' to their feet. `She's interviewing some barrister—’

`Yes, but where?'

The man nodded towards one of the courtrooms. Court Eight! Of course: hadn't Cousins been due to give evidence in Court Eight? And wasn't Malcolm Chambers the prosecuting counsel?

Rebus pushed through the doors into the courtroom, but, cleaners apart, it was completely empty. There had to be another exit. Of course there was the green padded door to the side of the jury-box. The door leading to the judges rooms. He ran across the court and up the steps to the door, pulling it open, finding himself in a bright carpeted corridor. A window, flowers in a pot on a table. A narrow corridor, doors only on one side, the other wall a blank. Judges' names above the doors. The doors themselves locked. There was a tiny kitchenette, but it too was empty. One door eventually, gave, and he peered into ay jury room. Empty. Back into the corridor again, hissing now with frustration. A court usher, cradling a mug of tea, was coming towards him.

`No one's allowed—'

'Inspector Rebus,' he said. `I'm looking for an advocate . . . I mean, a barrister. Malcolm Chambers. He was here with a young woman.'

`They've just left.'

`Left?'

She gestured along towards the far end of the corridor. `It leads to the underground car park. That's where they were headed.' Rebus made to squeeze past her. `You won't catch them now,' she said. `Not unless they're having trouble with the car.'

Rebus thought about it, gnawing at his bottom lip. There wasn't time. His first decision had to be the right one. Decision made, he turned from the usher, and ran back towards the court, back across the court itself and out into the concourse.

`They've gone!' he yelled to the bodyguards. `Tell Flight! Tell him they're in Chambers's car!' And then he was off again, down the steps towards the exit, pausing only to grab at a security man's sleeve. `The car park exit, where is it?'

`Round the other side of the building.’

Rebus stuck a finger in the guard's face. `Buzz down to the car park. Don't let Malcolm Chambers leave.' The, guard stood there dumbly, staring at the finger. `Do it!'

And then he was off again, running, taking the stairs down three at a time, great leaps which almost sent him flying. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd waiting to leave.

`Police,' he said, `emergency.' Nobody said anything. They were like cows, patiently waiting to be milked. Even so, it took a silent scream of an age, for the cylinder to empty its cargo, close its doors, then open them again for Rebus.

`Come on, come on.' And then the door sucked itself open and he was out, out in the foyer, bursting through the main doors. He ran up to, the corner, took a right, and ran again along the face of the building. Another right. He was on the other side of the building now. Where the car-park exit was. A slope of road down into darkness. The car screeched as it ? HYPERLINK “http://came.to/”??came to? the surface, hardly slowing as it climbed the hill to Newgate Street. It was a long gloss-black BMW. And in the passenger seat sat Lisa Frazer, looking relaxed, smiling, talking to the driver, not realising.

`Lisa!' But he was too far away, the traffic around him too loud. `Lisa!' Before he could reach it, the car had turned into a flow of traffic and disappeared. Rebus cursed under his breath. Then looked around him for the first time and saw that he was standing next to a parked Jaguar, in the front of which sat a liveried chauffeur, staring out of the window at him. Rebus yanked at the doorhandle and threw open the door, reaching in with one hand to pull out the bemused driver. He was getting to be a dab hand at, this: relieving people of their vehicles.

'Hoi! What the bleedin’ ‘ell—'

The man's cap rolled along the ground, given force by a gust of wind. For a moment, he knelt on the pavement, undecided whether to rescue the cap or the car. The moment was enough. Rebus gunned the engine and pulled , away from the kerb, horns sounding behind him as he did so. At the top of the slight incline, he pressed his hand hard on the horn and careered left into the main road. A squeal of brakes. More horns. The pedestrians looking at him as though he were mad.

`Need lights,' he said to himself, glancing at the dashboard. Eventually, he found the headlamp switch and flipped them to full beam. Then took a hard right to bring himself into the middle of the road, passing the traffic, scraping the passenger side against an oncoming red bus, clipping a central bollard, uprooting the flimsy plastic construction and sending it flying into, the path of the oncoming traffic

They couldn't be too far ahead of him. Yes! He caught a glimpse of the BMW's tail-lights as it braked to turn a corner. He'd be damned if they'd lose him.

`Excuse me?'

Rebus flinched, startled, and nearly pulled the car onto the pavement. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an elderly gentleman sitting in the back seat, arms spread so as to keep himself upright. He appeared calm as he leaned forward towards Rebus.

`Would you kindly mind telling me what's going on? Am I being kidnapped?'

Rebus recognised the voice before he remembered the face. It was the judge from the Watkiss case. Jesus Christ, he'd run off with a judge!

`Only, if you are kidnapping me,' the judge went on, `perhaps you'd allow me to call my wife. She'll burn the chops otherwise.'

Call! Rebus looked down again. Below the dashboard, between the driver's and front passenger seats, there was a neat black car-phone.

`Do you mind if I use your phone?' he asked, grinning with a face full of adrenalin.

`Be my guest.'

Rebus grabbed at the contraption and fiddled as he drove, his steering becoming more `erratic than ever.

`Press the button marked TRS,' the judge suggested.

`Thank you, your honour.'

`You know who I am? I thought I recognised the face. Have I had you before me recently?'

But Rebus had dialled and was now waiting for the call to be answered. It seemed to take forever. And meantime, the BMW had nipped across an amber traffic light.

`Hold tight,' Rebus said, baring his teeth. The horn was a banshee-wail as they pushed past the waiting traffic and flew across the intersection, traffic from left and right braking hard. One car dented the back of another. A, motorcycle slewed on the greasy road. But they were across. The BMW was still in sight, less than half a dozen cars ahead now, yet still apparently unaware of the pursuing demon.

Finally, the call was answered.

`It's Rebus here.' Then, for his passenger's sake: `Detective Inspector Rebus. I need to speak to Flight. Is he there?' There was a long pause. The connection crackled wildly, as though about to short out altogether. Rebus gripped the handset between hunched shoulder and angled cheek, driving with both hands to take first one bend and then another.

`John? Where are you?' Flight's voice sounded metallic and distant.

`I'm in a car,' said Rebus, `a car I commandeered. I'm following Chambers. He's got Lisa Frazer with him. I don't think she knows he's the Wolfman.'

'But for Christ's sake, John, is he the Wolfman?'

`I'll ask him when I catch him. Did you send any cars to the Old Bailey?'

`I sent one, yes.'

`That was generous.' Rebus saw what was ahead. `Oh shit!' He braked hard, but not hard enough. The old lady was shuffling slowly across the zebra crossing, her shopping trolley a step behind her like a pet poodle. Rebus swerved but couldn't avoid winging the trolley. It flew into the air as though fired from a cannon, dispensing groceries as it went eggs, butter, flour, cornflakes raining down on the road. Rebus heard the woman screaming. At worst she'd have a broken arm. No, at worst the shock would kill her.

`Oh shit,' he said again.

The judge was staring out of the rear window. `I think she's all right,' he said.

`John?' It was Flight's tin-can voice on the line. `Who was that speaking?'

`Oh,' said Rebus. `That was the judge. It's his Jaguar I've commandeered.' He had found the windscreen wiper switch and was letting them deal with the pancake mixture on the windscreen.

`You what?' So that was what a roar sounded like. The BMW was still in sight. But it had slowed a little, perhaps aware of the incident behind it.

`Never mind,' said Rebus. `Look, just get some patrol cars up here. We're on . . . ' He glanced out of windscreen and side window, but could see no street signs.

`High Holborn,' said the judge.

`Thanks,' said Rebus. `We're on High Holborn, George.'

`Wait a second,' said Flight. There was a muffled exchange at his end of the line. Then he came back on again. He sounded tired. `Please, John, tell me it isn't you behind these reports we're getting. The switchboards are lighting up like Christmas trees.'

`That's probably us, George. We took a bollard out a little way back, caused a couple of accidents and now we've just sent an old woman's messages flying everywhere. Yes, that's us.'

If Flight groaned, he did so quietly. Then: `What if it's not him, John? What if you're wrong?'

`Then it's all a bit of a balls-up, George, and I'll probably get to see what the inside of a dole office looks like, if not a prison cell. Meanwhile, get those coppers down here!' Rebus looked at the handset. `Judge, help me. How do I—'

`Just press Power.' Rebus did, and the illuminated digits faded.

`Thanks,' he said.

The traffic was slowing, a jam of lights up ahead. And the judge was saying, `if you intend using the apparatus again, I should probably inform you that it can be used in hands-free mode. Just dial and leave it in its little compartment there. You'll be able to hear the caller and they'll be able to hear you.' Rebus nodded his thanks. The judge's head was close to Rebus's ear, peering, over his shoulder at the road ahead.

`So,' he said excitedly, `you think Malcolm Chambers is behind, all these killings?'

`That's right.'

`And what evidence do you have, Inspector?'

Rebus laughed, and tapped his head. `Just this, your lordship, just this.'

`Remarkable,' said the judge. He seemed to be considering something. `I' always thought Malcolm was rather an odd young man. Fine in court, of course, very much the star prosecutor, playing to the gallery and what have you. But outside the courtroom, he seemed very different. Oh, very different indeed. Almost sullen, as though his mind were wandering.

His mind had wandered all right, thought Rebus, wandered all the way over the edge.

`Would you like to speak to him?'

`You think. I'm chasing him for a bet?'

The judge chuckled, pointing to the car-phone. `I meant talk to him right now.'

Rebus went rigid. `You mean you've got his number?’

‘Oh yes.'

Rebus thought it over, but shook his head. `No,' he said. `He's got someone with him. An innocent woman. I don't want to panic him.'

`I see,' said the judge, settling back again. `Yes, I suppose you're right. I hadn't thought of that.'

And then there was an electric purring inside the car was the phone, its display illuminated now and flashing. Rebus handed the set to the judge.

`Probably for you,' he said drily.

`No,' said the judge, `just put it back and press Receive.'

Rebus did so. Only then did the judge speak. `Hello?' The voice was clear, the reception signal strong.

`Edward? Is that you following me?'

It was Chambers' voice, sounding amused about something. The judge stared at Rebus, who could offer no suggestion, for an answer.

`Malcolm?' said the judge, his composure intact. `Is that you?'

.'You should know. You're only about twenty yards behind me.'

`Am I? Which road are you on?'

The voice altered, taking on an edge of sudden viciousness. `Don't fuck with me, Ted! Who's driving the fucking car? Can't be you, you haven't even got a licence. Who is it?'

The judge looked to Rebus again, seeking guidance. They listened together in silence and heard Lisa's faint voice.

`What's going on?' she was saying. `What's happening?'

Then Chambers's voice. `Shut up, bitch! You'll get yours.' The voice rose a chilling octave, sounding like a bad female impersonator, making the hairs on Rebus's neck bristle. `You'll get yours.' Then it dropped again, speaking into the handset. `Hello? Who's that? Who's there? I can hear you breathing, you little shit.' Rebus bit his lip. Was it better to let Chambers know, or to stay silent? He stayed silent.

`Oh well,' said Chambers with a sigh, as though resigned to this stalemate. `Out she goes.'

Ahead, Rebus saw the BMW's passenger door swing open as the car veered onto the pavement.

`What are you doing!' screamed Lisa. `No! No! Let me go!'

`Chambers!' Rebus yelled towards the handset. `Leave, her!' The BMW swerved back into the road, the door drifting shut. There was a pause.

'Hello,', said Chambers's voice. `To whom am I speaking?'

`My name's Rebus. We met at—'

`John!' It was Lisa's voice, very afraid now, almost hysterical. The sound of the slap was a static crack in Rebus's ear.

`I said leave her!' Rebus yelled.

`I know you did,' said Chambers, `but then you're hardly in a position to give orders. Anyway, now that I know you two know each other, that makes things interesting, doesn't it, Inspector?'

`You remember me?'

`I have an intimate knowledge of everyone on the Wolfman case. I've taken an interest in it from the start—for obvious reasons. There was always someone around willing to tell what they knew.'

`So you could keep one step ahead?'

`One step?' Chambers laughed. `You flatter yourself. So tell me, Inspector, what do we do now?' Do you stop your car—Edward's car, I should say—or do I kill your friend here? Do you know, she wanted to ask me about the psychology of court trials. She couldn't have picked better, could she, the little bitch?' Lisa was sobbing. Rebus could hear her, and every sound cut him a little deeper. `Picture in, the paper,' Chambers was cooing. `Picture in the paper with the big tough detective.'

Rebus knew he had to keep Chambers talking. By keeping him talking, he was keeping Lisa alive. But the traffic had stalled. Red lights ahead. The BMW only a few cars in front, prevented from jumping the lights by another car directly in front of it. Could he . . . ? Should he even be thinking of it? The judge was still gripping Rebus's headrest, staring out towards the gleaming black, car, the car that was so close to them. So close . . . and so stationary.

`Well?' It was Chambers's voice. 'Do you pull over, Inspector, or do I kill her?'

Rebus was staring hard at Chambers's car. He could see that Lisa was leaning away from Chambers, as though making to escape. But Chambers was gripping her with his left arm, his right presumably resting on the steering wheel. So the man's attention would be focussed on the passenger side of the car, leaving the driver's side unguarded.

Rebus made up his mind and quietly opened his door, slipping out onto the reassuringly solid surface of the road. Horns were sounding around him. He paid them no heed. The lights were still at red. He began to move forward,'crouching, but moving quickly. Chambers' driver's-side mirror! If Chambers looked into it, he'd have a clear view of Rebus's approach. Make it fast, John, make it.

Amber.

Shit!

Green.

He had reached the BMW, had gripped the doorhandle. Chambers looked out at him, a stunned expression on his face. And then the car in front moved off, and Chambers gunned the engine, the car accelerating forwards, tearing itself free of Rebus.

Shit! Car horns all around. Angry. Angry drivers rolling down their windows and yelling at him as he ran back to the Jaguar. Started the car, moved off. The judge's hand patted his shoulder.

`Good try, my boy. 'Good try.'

And Chambers' laughter on the car-phone. `Hope I didn't hurt you, Inspector.' Rebus examined his hand, flexed it painfully. The fingers had nearly been pulled out of their joints. His little finger was swelling already. A break? Perhaps.

`So,' said Chambers, 'for the last time. I make you an offer you can hardly refuse. Stop the car, or I kill Dr Frazer.'

`She's not a doctor, Chambers. She's just a student.' He swallowed: now Lisa knew that he knew. Not that it mattered one way or the other, not now. He took a deep breath. `Kill her,' he said. Behind him, the judge gasped, but Rebus shook his bead, reassuring him.

`What did you say?' asked Chambers.

`I said kill her. I'm not really bothered. She's led me a merry little dance this past week. It's her own fault she's in this deep. And after you've killed her, I'll take great pleasure in killing you, Mr Chambers.'

He heard Lisa's faint voice again. `God, John, please no!' And then Chambers, seeming to grow calmer as Rebus grew more excited `As you wish, Inspector. As you wish.' The voice was as cold as a mortuary floor, any vestige of humanity gone. Perhaps partly it was Rebus's fault, taunting him with newspaper stories, with fabrications. But Chambers hadn't picked on Rebus: he had picked on Lisa. Had Rebus arrived a minute later at the Old Bailey, she would be on her way to certain death. As it was, nothing was certain.

Nothing but the fact of Malcolm Chambers's madness.

`He's turning onto Monmouth Street,' said the judge, his voice level. He had grasped the fact of Chambers's guilt, the horror of what had happened and what might still happen.

Rebus heard a flapping sound overhead, and glanced up towards where a helicopter was shadowing the chase. A police helicopter. He could hear sirens, too. So, it seemed, could Chambers. The BMW spurted ahead, slashing the side of another car as it squeezed into a space. The injured car stopped dead. Rebus braked, pulled on the steering wheel, but still clipped it with his driver's-side bumper, the headlamp shattering.

`Sorry about that.'

`Never mind the car,' said the judge. `Just don't let him get away'

`He won't get away,' said Rebus, with sudden confi?dence. Now where the hell had that come from? The moment he thought about it, it disappeared again, leaving behind a quivering vapour.

They were on St Martin's Lane now. People mingling, pre-theatre or after work. The busy West End. Yet the traffic ahead had thinned for no apparent reason and the crowds gawped as first the BMW, then the Jaguar sped past.

As they approached Trafalgar Square Rebus saw, to right and left, police officers in luminous yellow jackets holding up the traffic in the side-streets. Now why, would they do that? Unless . . .

Road block! One entrance to the Square left open, all exits blocked, the Square itself kept empty for their arrival. In a moment they'd have him. God bless you, George Flight.

Rebus picked up the handset, his voice a snarl, specks of saliva dotting the windscreen as he spoke.

`Stop the car, Chambers. There's no place to go.'

Silence. They were skidding into Trafalgar Square now, traffic blaring in queues all around them, held back by the gloved, raised hand of authority. Rebus was buzzing again. The whole West End of London, brought to a standstill so that he might race a Jaguar against a BMW. He could think of friends who'd give whole limbs to be in his place. Yet he had a job to do. That was the bottom line. It was just another job to be cleared up. He might as well have been following teenage Cortina thieves through the streets of some Edinburgh housing-scheme.

But he wasn't.

They'd done one full circuit around Nelson's Column. Canada House, South Africa House and the National Gallery were just blurs. The judge was being thrown against the door behind Rebus.

`Hang on,' Rebus called.

`To what, pray?'

And Rebus laughed. He roared with laughter. Then he realised the line was still open to Chambers's BMW. He laughed even harder, picking up the handset, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, left arm aching.

`Having fun, Chambers?' he yelled. `Like the TV programme used to say, there's no hiding place!'

And then the BMW gave a jolt, and Rebus heard Chambers gasp.

`You bitch!' Another jolt, and sounds of a struggle. Lisa was retaliating, now that Chambers was intent on this speeding circuit without end.

`No!'

`Get off!'

'I'll—'

And a piercing scream, two piercing screams, both high-pitched, feminine in their intensity, and the black car didn't take the next bend, flew straight for the pavement, mounted it and bounced into a bus shelter, crumpling the metal structure and driving on into the walls of the National Gallery itself

`Lisa!' Rebus cried. He brought the Jaguar to a sudden, pivoting stop. The driver's door of the BMW creaked open and Chambers stumbled out, slouching off in a half-run, clutching something in his right hand, one leg damaged. Rebus struggled with his own door, finally finding the handle. He ran to the BMW and peered in. Lisa was slumped in the passenger seat, a seatbelt passing in a diagonal across her body. She was groaning, but there were no signs of blood. Whiplash. Nothing more serious than whiplash. She opened her eyes.

'John?'

`You're going to be all right, Lisa. Just hang one Somebody will be here.' Indeed, the police cars were closing in, uniforms running into the Square. Rebus looked up from the car, seeking Chambers.

`There!'` The judge was out of the Jaguar and pointing with a rigid arm, pointing upwards. Rebus followed the line to the steps of the National Gallery. Chambers had reached the top step.

`Chambers!' Rebus yelled. 'Chambers!'

But the body disappeared from view. Rebus started towards the steps, finding his own legs to be less than solid. As though rubber instead of bone and cartilage were keeping him upright. He climbed the steps and entered the building by its nearest door—the exit door. A woman in a staff uniform was lying on the ground in the foyer, man standing over her. The man gestured towards the gallery's interior.

`He ran inside!'

And where Malcolm Chambers went, Rebus would surely follow.

He ran and he ran and he ran.

The way he used to run from his father—running and climbing the steps to the attic, hoping to hide. But always caught in the end. Even if he hid all day and half of the night, eventually the hunger, the thirst, would force him back downstairs, to where they were waiting.

His leg hurts. And he's cut. His, face is stinging. The warm blood is trickling down his chin, down his neck. And he's running.

It wasn't all bad, his childhood. He remembers his mother delicately snipping away at his father's nosehairs. 'Long nosehairs are so unbecoming in a man.' It wasn't his fault, was it, any of it? It was theirs. They'd wanted a daughter, they'd never wanted a son. His mother had dressed him in pink, in girls' colours and girls' clothes. Then had painted him, painted him with long blonde curls, imagining him into her paintings, into her landscapes. A little girl running by a riverbank. Running with bows in her hair. Running.

Past one guard, past two. Lunging at them. The alarm is, ringing somewhere. Maybe it's just his imagination. All these paintings. Where have all these paintings come from? Through one door, turn right, through another.

They kept him at home. The schools couldn't teach him the way they could. Home taught. Home made. His father, some nights, drunk, would knock over his mother's canvases and dance on them. `Art! Fuck art!' He'd do his little dance, with a chuckle in his throat and all the time his mother would sit with her face in her hands and cry, then run to her room and bolt shut the door. Those were the nights when his father would stumble through to his bedroom. Just for a cuddle. Sweet alcoholic breath. Just for at cuddle. And then more than a cuddle, so very much more. `Open wide, just like the dentist tells you.' Christ, it hurt so much. A probing finger . . . tongue . . . the wrenching open . . . And even worse was the noise, the dull grunting, the loud nasal breathing. And then the sham, pretending it had been just a game, that was all. And to prove, it, his father would bend down and take a big soft bite out of his stomach, growling like a bear. Blowing a raspberry on the bare flesh. And then a laugh. `You see, it was only a game, wasn't it?'

No, never a game. Never. Running. To the attic. To the garden, to squeeze behind the shed, where the stinging nettles were. Even their bite was not so bad as his father's. Had his mother known? Of course she had known. Once, when he had tried to tell her in a whispered moment, she had refused to listen. `No, not your father, you're making it up, Malcolm.' But her paintings had grown more violent: the fields now, were purple and black, the water blood-red. The figures on the riverbank had grown skeletal, painted stark white like ghosts.

He'd hidden it all so well for so long. But then she'd come back to him. And now he was mostly `she', consumed by her, and by her need for . . . Not revenge, it couldn't really be called revenge. Something deeper than revenge, some huge and hungry need without a name, without a form. Only a function. Oh yes, a function.

This way and that. The people in the gallery make way for him. The alarm is ringing still. There's a hissing in his head like a child's rattle. Sss- sss-sss. Sss-sss-sss. These paintings he is running past, they're laughable. Long nosehairs Johnny. None mimicked real life, and less so the life beneath. None could ape the grim caveman thoughts of every human being on the planet. But then he pushes open another door and it's all so very different. A room of darkness and shadowplay, of skulls and frowning bloodless faces. Yes, this is how it is. Velazquez, El Greco, the Spanish painters. Skull and shadow. Ah, Velazquez.

Why couldn't his mother have painted like this? When they died. (Together, in bed. A gas leak. The police said the child was lucky to be alive. Lucky his own bedroom window had been open a couple of inches.) When they had died, all he'd taken with him from the house had been her paintings, every single one of them.

`Only a game.'

`Long nosehairs, Johnny.' Snipping with the scissors, his father asleep. He'd pleaded with his eyes, pleaded with her to stick the point of the scissors into his father's fleshy noiseless throat. She'd been so gentle. Snip. So kind and gentle. Snip. The child was lucky.

What could they know?

Rebus walked up the stairs and through the bookshop. Other officers were close behind him. He motioned for them to spread out. There would be no escape. But he also warned them to keep their distance.

Malcolm Chambers was his.

The first gallery was large, with, red walls. A guard pointed through the doorway on the right and Rebus strode towards it. By the side off the doorway, a painting showed a headless corpse, spouting blood. The painting mirrored Rebus's thoughts so well that he smiled grimly. There were spots of rust-coloured blood on the orange carpet. But even without these, he would have had no difficulty following Chambers's trail. The tourists and attendants stood back from him, pointing, showing him the way. The alarm bell was bright and sharp, focusing his mind. His legs had become solid once again and his heart pumped blood so loudly he wondered if others. could hear it.

He took a right, from a small corner room into another large gallery, at the far end of which stood a set of hefty wooden and glass' doors. Near them another attendant stood nursing a wounded arm. There was a bloody handprint on one door. Rebus stopped and looked through into the room itself.

In the furthest corner, slouched on the floor, sat the Wolfman. Directly above him on the wall was a painting of a monastic figure, the face cowled and in shadow. The figure looked to be praying to heaven. The figure was holding a skull. A smear of blood ran down and past the skull.

Rebus pushed open the door and walked into the room. Next to this painting was another of the Virgin Mary with stars around what was left of her head. A large hole had been punched through her face. The figure beneath the paintings was still and silent. Rebus took a few paces forward. He glanced to his left and saw, that on the opposite wall were portraits of unhappy looking noblemen. They had every right to be unhappy. Slashes in each canvas almost ripped their heads from their bodies. He was close now. Close enough to see that the painting next to Malcolm Chambers was a Velazquez, `The Immaculate Conception'. Rebus smiled again. Immaculate indeed.

And then Malcolm Chambers's head jerked up. The eyes were cold, the face stippled with glass from the BMW's windscreen. The voice when it spoke was dull and tired.

`Inspector Rebus.'

Rebus nodded, though it had not been a question.

`I wonder,' Chambers said, `why my mother never brought me here. I don't remember being taken anywhere, except perhaps Madame Tussaud's. Have you ever been to Madame Tussaud's, Inspector? I like the Chamber of Horrors. My mother wouldn't even come in with me.' He laughed, and leaned against the foot-rail behind him, ready to push himself to his feet. `I shouldn't have torn those paintings, should I?' he was saying. `They were probably priceless. Silly really. They're only paintings, after all. Why should paintings be priceless?'

Rebus had reached out a hand to help him up. At the same time, he saw the portraits again. Slashed. Not torn, slashed. Like the attendant's arm. Not by human hand, but with an instrument.

Too late. The small kitchen-knife in Chambers's hand was already pushing through Rebus's shirt. Chambers had leapt to his feet and was propelling Rebus backwards, back towards the portraits on the far wall. Chambers was infused with the strength of madness. Rebus felt his feet catch on the foot-rail behind him, his head fell back against one painting, thudding into the wall. He had his own right hand clasped around Chambers's knife-hand now, so that the tip of the knife was still gouging at his stomach but could go no deeper. He jerked a knee into Chambers's groin, at the same time jamming the heel of his left hand into Chambers's nose. There was a squeal as the pressure lessened on the knife. Rebus twisted Chambers's wrist, trying to shake free the knife, but Chambers's grip held fast.

Upright again, away from the wall now, they wrestled for control of the knife. Chambers was crying, howling. The sound chilled Rebus, even as he grappled with the man. It was like fighting with darkness itself. Unwanted thoughts sped through his mind: crammed tube trains, child molesters, beggars, blank faces, punks and pimps, as everything he'd seen and experienced in London washed over him in a final rolling wave. He dare not look into Chambers's face for fear that he would freeze. The paintings all around were blurs of blue, black and grey as he danced this macabre dance, feeling Chambers growing stronger and himself' growing more tired. Tired and dizzy, the room spinning, a dullness coursing through his stomach towards the hole made by the knife.

The knife which is moving now, moving with new-found power, a power Rebus feels unable to counter with anything more than a grimace. He dares himself to look at Chambers. Does so, and sees the eyes staring at him like a bull's, the mouth set defiantly, the chin jutting. There is more than defiance there, more than madness, there is a resolution. Rebus feels it as the knife-hand turns. Turns one hundred and' eighty degrees. And then he is being pushed backwards again. Chambers is rearing up, driving him on, powerful as an engine, until Rebus slams into another wall, followed by Chambers himself. It is almost an embrace. The bodies seemingly intimate in their contact. Chambers is heavy, a dead weight. His cheek rests against Rebus's. Until Rebus, recovering his breath, pushes the body away. Chambers staggers backwards into the room, the knife buried in his chest all the way up to the hilt. He angles his head to look down, dark blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He touches at the handle of the knife. Then looks up at Rebus. and smiles, almost apologetically.

`So unbecoming . . . in a man.' Then falls to his knees. Trunk falls forward. Head hits carpet. And stays like that. Rebus is breathing hard. He pushes himself up from the wall, walks to the centre of the room, and pushes at the body with the toe of his shoe, tipping Chambers sideways. The face looks peaceful, despite the welts of blood. Rebus touches two fingers to the front of his own shirt. They come away moist with blood. That didn't matter. What mattered was that the Wolfman had turned out to be human after all, human and mortal, mortal and dead. If he wanted to, Rebus knew he could take the credit. He didn't want the credit. He'd get them to take away the knife and check it for fingerprints. They would find only Chambers's. That didn't mean much, of course. The likes of Flight would still think Rebus had killed him. But Rebus hadn't killed the Wolfman, and he couldn't be sure exactly what had: cowardice? guilt? or something deeper, something never to be explained?

So unbecoming . . . in a man. What kind of obituary was that?

John?'

It was Flight's voice. Behind him stood two officers armed with pistols

`No need for silver bullets, George,' said Rebus. He stood there, surrounded by what he supposed would, be millions of pounds worth of damaged works of art, alarm bells ringing, while outside the traffic in central London would be backed up for miles until Trafalgar Square could be opened again.

`I told you it'd be easy,' he said.

Lisa Frazer was fine. Shock, a few bruises, whiplash. The hospital wanted to keep her in overnight, just to be sure. They wanted to keep Rebus in, too, but he refused. They gave him painkillers instead, and three stitches in his, stomach. The cut, they said, was fairly, superficial, but it was best to be safe. The thread they used was thick and black.

By the time he arrived at Chambers's huge two-storey flat in Islington, the place was crawling with police, forensics, photographers and the usual retinue. The reporters outside were desperate for a quote, some recognising him from the impromptu conference he had given outside the house on Copperplate Street. But he pushed past them and into the Wolfman's lair.

`John, how are you?' It was George Flight, looking bemused by the day's proceedings. He had placed a hand on Rebus's shoulder. Rebus smiled.

`I'm fine, George. What have you found?'

They were standing in the main hall. Flight glanced back into one of the rooms off this hall. 'You won't believe it,' he said. `I'm still not sure I do' There was a tang of whisky on Flight's breath. The celebrations had begun already.

Rebus walked to the door and into the room, This was where the photographers and forensics people were busiest. A tall man rose to his feet from behind a sofa and looked across to Rebus. It was Philip Cousins. He smiled and nodded. Near him stood Isobel Penny, sketchbook in hand. But Rebus noticed that she wasn't drawing, and her face had lost all traces of liveliness. Even she, it seemed, could still be shocked.

The scene was certainly shocking. But worst of all was the smell, the smell and the buzzing of flies. One wall was covered in what had been paintings—very crudely done paintings, as even Rebus could tell. But now they had been slashed into tatters, some of which lay across the floor. And on the opposite wall was as much graffiti as would befit any tower block in Churchill Estate. Venomous stuff: FUCK ART. FEEL THE POOR. KILL PIGS. The stuff of madness.

There were two bodies thrown casually behind the sofa, and a third lying under a table, as though some rudimentary effort had been made to tidy them out of sight. Carpet and walls were stained with fine sprays of blood and the cloying smell told Rebus that at least one of the bodies had been here for several days. Easy to confront this now, now that it was at an end. Not so easy to work out the `why?' That was what worried Flight.

`I just can't find a motive, John. I mean, Chambers had everything. Why the hell did he need to . . . ? I mean, why would he just . . . ?' They were in the flat's living-room. No clues were being offered up. Chambers's private life seemed as tidy and innocuous as the rest of his home. Just that one room, that one secret corner. That apart, they might have been in any successful barrister's apartment, poring over his books, his desk, his correspondence, his computer files.

It didn't really bother Rebus. It wouldn't bother him supposing they never found out why. He shrugged.

`Wait till the biography's published, George,' said Rebus, `maybe then you'll get your answer.' Or ask a psychologist, he thought to himself. He didn't doubt there would be plenty of theories.

But Flight was shaking his head, rubbing at his head, his face, his neck. He still couldn't believe it had come to an end. Rebus touched a hand to his arm. Their eyes met. Rebus nodded slowly, then winked.

`You should have been in that jag, George. It was magic.

Flight managed to pull a smile out of the air. `Tell that to the judge,' he said. `Tell that to the judge.'

Rebus ate that night at George Flight's home, a meal cooked by Marion. So at last they were having the promised dinner together, but, it was a fairly sombre occasion, enlivened only by an interview with some art historian on the late-night news. He was talking about the damage, to the paintings in the National Gallery's Spanish Room.

`Such pointless waste . . . vandalism . . . sheer, wanton priceless . . . perhaps irreparable . . . thousands of pounds . . . heritage.'

`Blab, blah, blah,' said Flight sneeringly. `At least you can patch up a bloody painting. These people talk half the time out of their arses.'

'George!'

`Sorry, Marion,' said Flight sheepishly. He glanced towards Rebus, who winked back at him.

Later, after she had gone to bed, the two men sat together drinking a final brandy.

`I've decided to retire,' said Flight. `Marion's been nagging me for ages. My health's not what it was.'

'Not serious, I hope?'

Flight shook his head. `No, nothing like that. But there's a security firm, they've offered to take me on. More money, nine till five. You know how it is.'

Rebus nodded. He'd seen some of the best of his elders drawn like moths to a lightbulb when security firms and the like came to call. He drained his glass.

`When will you be leaving?' Flight asked.

`I thought I'd go back tomorrow. I can come back down again when they need me to give evidence.'

Flight nodded. `Next time you come, we've got a spare bedroom here.'

`Thanks, George.' Rebus rose to his feet.

`I'll drive you back,' said Flight. But Rebus shook his head.

`Call me a cab,' he insisted. `I don't want you done for D and D.' Think what it would do to your pension.'

Flight stared into his brandy glass. `You've got a point,' he said. `Okay then, a cab it is.' He slipped a hand into his pocket. 'By the way, I've got you a little present.'

He held the clenched fist out to Rebus, who placed his own open palm beneath it. A slip of paper dropped from Flight's hand into his. Rebus unfolded the note. It was an address. Rebus looked up at Flight and nodded his understanding.

`Thanks, George,' he said.

`No rough stuff, eh, John?'

`No rough stuff,' agreed Rebus.