Tooth & Nail

Underground

`And this,' said George Flight, `is where the Wolfman was born.'

Rebus looked. It was a depressing location for a birth. A cobblestoned alley, a cul-de-sac, the buildings three storeys high, every window either boarded up or barred and grilled. The black bags of rubbish looked to have been languishing by the side of the road for weeks. A few had been impaled on the steel spiked fencing in front of the shut-up windows, and these bags leaked their rank contents the way a cracked sewage pipe would.

`Nice,' he said.

`The buildings are mainly disused. Local bands use the basement of one of them as a practice room, and make quite a racket while they're about it.' Flight pointed to a barred and grilled window. `And I think that's a clothing manufacturer or distributor. Anyway, he hasn't been back since we started taking an interest in the street.'

`Oh?' Rebus sounded interested, but Flight shook his head.

`Nothing suspicious in that, believe me. These guys use slave labour, Bangladeshis, mostly illegal immigrants. The last thing they want is policemen sniffing around. They'll move the machines and set up again somewhere else.'

Rebus nodded. He was looking around the cul-de-sac, trying to remember, from the photographs he had been sent, just where the body had been found.

`It was there.' Flight was pointing to a gate in the iron railings. Ah yes, Rebus remembered now. Not at street level, but down some stone steps leading to a basement. The victim had been found at the bottom of the steps, same modus operandi as last night, down to the bite marks on the stomach. Rebus opened his briefcase and brought out the manila folder, opening it at the sheet he needed.

`Maria Watkiss, age thirty-eight. Occupation: prostitute. Body found on Tuesday 16th January by council workmen. Estimated that victim had been murdered two to three days prior to being discovered. Rudimentary attempt had been made to conceal body.'

Flight nodded towards one of the impaled bin-liners. `He emptied a bag of rubbish out over her. It pretty well covered the body. The rats alerted the workmen.'

`Rats?'

`Dozens of them, from all accounts. They'd had a bloody good feed, had those rats.'

Rebus was standing at the top of the steps. `We reckon,' said Flight, `the Wolfman must have paid her for a knee trembler and, brought her down here. Or maybe she brought him. She worked out of a pub on Old Street. It's a five minute walk. We interviewed the regulars, but nobody saw her leave with anyone.'

`Maybe he was in a car?'

`It's more than possible. Judging by the physical distance between the murder sites, he must' be pretty mobile.'

'It says in the report that she was married.'

`That's right. Her old man, Tommy, he knew she was on the game. It didn't bother him, so long as she handed over the cash.'

`And he didn't report her missing?'

Flight wrinkled his nose. 'Not Tommy. He was on a bender at the time, practically comatose with drink when we went to see him. He said later that Maria often disappeared for a few days, told us she used to go off to the seaside with one or two of her regular johns'

`I don't suppose you've been able to find these . . . clients?)

'Leave it out.' Flight laughed as though this were the best joke he'd heard all week. `For the record, Tommy thought one of them might be called Bill or Will. Does that help?'

`It narrows things down,' Rebus said with a smile.

`In any event,' said Flight, `I doubt Tommy would have come to us for help if she hadn't come back. He's got form as long as your inside leg. To tell you the truth, he was our first suspect.'

`It follows.' Every policeman knew it as a universal truth: most murders happen in the family.

`A couple of years back,' Flight was saying, `Maria was beaten up pretty badly. A hospital case, in fact. Tommy's doing. She'd been seeing another man and he hadn't been paying for it, if you understand my meaning. And a 'couple of years before that, Tommy served time for aggravated assault. It would have been rape if we could have got the woman into the witness box, but she was scared seven colours shitless. There were witnesses, but we were never going to pin rape on him. So aggravated assault it was. He got eight months.'

`A violent man then.'

`You could say that.'

`With a record of particular violence against women.'

Flight nodded. `It looked good at first. We thought we could pin Maria's murder on him and make it stick. But nothing added up. He had an alibi for openers. Then there were the bite marks: not his size, according to the dentist.'

`You mean Dr Morrison?'

`Yes, that's right. 'I call him the dentist to annoy Philip.' Flight scratched at his chin. The elbow of his leather jacket gave a creak. `Anyway, nothing added up. And then when the second murder came along, well, we knew we were working in a different league from Tommy.'

`You're absolutely sure of that?'

`John, I'm not absolutely sure what colour of socks I've put on in the morning, I'm sometimes not even sure that I've put socks on at all. But I'm fairly sure this isn't Tommy Watkiss's work. He gets his kicks from watching Arsenal, not mutilating dead women.'

Rebus's eyes had not left Flight's. `Your socks are blue,' he said. Flight looked down, saw that this was indeed the case, and smiled broadly.

`They're also different shades,' Rebus added.

`Bloody hell, so they are.'

'I'd still like to talk to Mr Watkiss,' Rebus continued. `No hurry, and if it's all right with you.'

Flight shrugged. `Whatever you say, Sherlock. Now, shall we get out of this shit-hole, or is there anything else you want to see?'

`No,' said Rebus. `Let's get out of here.' They started back towards the mouth of the cul-de-sac, where Flight's car waited. `What's this part of town called again?''

'Shoreditch. Remember your nursery rhymes? “When I am rich, say the bells of Shoreditch”.'

Yes, Rebus had a vague memory. A memory of his mother, holding him on her knee, or maybe it was his father, singing him songs and bouncing the knee in time. It had never happened that way, but he had a memory of it all the same. They were at the end of the cul-de-sac now. A larger road flowed past, busy with daytime traffic. The buildings were black with grime, windows thick with the stuff. Offices of some kind, warehouses. No shops, save one selling professional kitchenware. No houses or even flats in the upper storeys by the look of it. No one to hear a muffled scream at the dead of night. No one to see, from an unwashed window, the killer slinking away, dappled with blood.

Rebus stared back into the cul-de-sac, then up at the corner of the first building, where a barely legible plaque bore the cul-de-sac's name: Wolf Street E1.

This was the reason why the police had come to call the killer Wolfman. Nothing to do with the savagery of his attacks, or the teeth marks he left at the scene, but simply because, as Flight had said, this was so far as they could know his place of birth, the place where he had defined himself for the very first time. He was the Wolfman. He could be anywhere, but that was relatively unimportant. What was more important was that he could be anyone, anyone at all in this city of ten million faces, ten million secret lairs.

`Where next?' he said, opening the passenger door.

'Kilmore Road,' said Flight. He exchanged a glance with Rebus, acknowledging the irony.

'Kilmore Road it is,' said Rebus, getting into the car.

The day had started early. Rebus, waking after three hours sleep and unable to drop off again, switched on the radio in his room and listened to the morning news programme as he dressed. Not knowing exactly what the day would bring, he dressed casually: caramel cord trousers, light jacket, shirt. No tweeds or tie today. He wanted a bath, but the facilities on his floor of the hotel were locked. He would have to ask in reception. Near the stairs there stood an automatic shoeshine machine. He polished the toes of both well-worn black shoes before starting down to breakfast.

The restaurant area was busy, most of the customers looking like businessmen or tourists. The day's newspapers had been arranged across one vacant table and Rebus lifted a Guardian before being directed to a table laid for one by the harassed waitress.

Breakfast was mainly help yourself, with juices, cereals and fruit crammed onto a large central display. A pot of coffee appeared, unasked for, on his table, as did a toast-rack filled with cool half. slices of lightly tanned bread. Not so much toasted as wafted in front of a lightbulb, Rebus thought to himself as he smeared a portion of butter across one pitiful triangle.

The Full English Breakfast consisted of one slice of bacon, one warm tomato (from a tin), three small mush?rooms, a sickly egg and a curious little sausage. Rebus wolfed down the lot. The coffee wasn't quite strong enough, but he finished the pot anyway and asked for a refill. All the time he was flicking through the paper, but only on a second examination did he find anything about the previous night's murder: a short, bare-bones paragraph near the foot of page four.

Bare bones. He looked around him. An embarrassed looking couple were trying to hush their two vociferous children. Don't, thought Rebus, don't stifle them, let them live. Who could know what might happen tomorrow? They might be killed. The parents might be killed. His own daughter was here in London somewhere, living in a flat with his ex-wife. He should get in touch. He would get in touch. A businessman at a corner table rustled his tabloid noisily, drawing Rebus's attention towards the front cover.

WOLFMAN BITES AGAIN

Ah, that was more like it. Rebus reached for a final half-slice of toast, only to find that he'd run out of butter. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder from behind, causing him to drop the toast. Startled, he turned to see George Flight standing there.

`Morning, John.'

`Hello, George. Sleep okay?'

Flight pulled out the chair across from Rebus and sat down heavily, hands in his lap.

`Not really. What about you?'

`I managed a few hours.' Rebus was about to turn his near-arrest on Shaftesbury Avenue into a morning anecdote, but decided to save it. There might come a time when they would need a funny story. `Do you want some coffee?'

Flight shook his head. He examined the food on display. `Some orange juice wouldn't go amiss though.' Rebus was about to rise, but Flight waved him down and rose himself to fetch a glassful, which he promptly downed. He squeezed his eyelids' together. `Tastes like powdered,' he said. `Better give me some of that coffee after all.'

Rebus poured another cup. `Seen that?' he said, nodding towards the corner table. Flight glanced at the tabloid and smiled.

`Well, it's their story now as much as ours. Only difference is, we'll keep things in perspective.'

`I'm not sure just what that perspective is.'

Flight stared at Rebus, but said nothing. He sipped at the coffee. `There's a conference, in the Murder Room at eleven o'clock. I didn't think we'd be able to make it, so I left Laine in charge. He likes being in charge.'

`And what are we going to be doing?'

`Well, we could go up to the Lea and check on the house-to-house. Or we could visit Mrs Cooper's place of employment.' Rebus didn't look enthusiastic. `Or I could give you a tour of the other three murder scenes.' Rebus perked up. `Okay,' said Flight, `the scenic route it is. Drink up, Inspector. There's a long day ahead.'

Just one thing,' said Rebus, lifting the cup halfway to his mouth. `Why the nursemaid treatment? I'd have thought you'd have better things to do with your time than act as my chauffeur?'

Flight examined Rebus closely. Should he tell Rebus the real reason, or invent some story? He opted for invention and shrugged. `Just easing you into the case, that's all.'

Rebus nodded slowly, but Flight knew he didn't wholly believe him.

Out at the car, Rebus glanced in through the back window, seeking the teddy bear.

`I killed it,' Flight said, unlocking the driver's door. `The perfect murder.''

`So what's Edinburgh like?'

Rebus knew Flight wasn't talking about the tourist Edinburgh, home to the Festival and the Castle. He was talking about criminal Edinburgh, which was another city altogether. .

`Well,' he replied, `we've still got a drug problem, and loan sharks seem to be making a comeback, but other than that things are fairly quiet at the moment.'

`But,' Flight reminded him, `you did have that child killer a few years back.'

Rebus nodded.

`And you solved it.' Rebus made no reply to this. They'd managed to keep out of the media the fact that it had been personal, had not exactly been `serial'.

`Thousands of man hours solved it,' he said casually.

`That's not what the chiefs think,' said Flight. `They think you're some kind of serial killer guru.'

`They're wrong,' said Rebus. `I'm just a copper, the same as you are. So who exactly are the chiefs? Whose idea was it?'

But Flight shook his head. `I'm not exactly sure. I mean, I know who the chiefs are—Laine, Chief Superintendent Pearson—but not which one of them is responsible for your being here.'

`It was Laine's name on the letter,' said Rebus, knowing this didn't really mean anything.

Then he watched the midday pedestrians scurrying along the pavements. The traffic was at a standstill. He and Flight had come just over three miles in the best part of half an hour. Roadworks, double (and triple) parking, a succession of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings and some maddening tactics from selfish drivers had reduced their progress to a crawl. Flight seemed to read his mind.

`We'll be out of this in a couple of minutes,' he said. He was thinking over what Rebus had said, just a copper, the same as you are. But Rebus had caught the child killer, hadn't he? The files on the case credited him with the collar, a collar which had earned him the rank of Inspector. No, Rebus was just being modest, that was it. And you had to admire him for that.

A couple of minutes later, they had moved a further fifteen yards and were about to pass a narrow junction with a No Entry sign at its mouth. Flight glanced up this sidestreet. `Time to take a few liberties,' he said, turning the steering-wheel hard. One side of the street was lined with market-stalls. Rebus could hear the stall-holders sharpening their patter against the whetstone of passing trade. Nobody paid the slightest attention to a car travelling the wrong way down a one-way street, until a boy pulling a mobile stall, from one side of the road to the other halted their progress. A meaty fist banged on the driver's side window. Flight rolled down the window, and a head appeared, extraordinarily pink and round and totally hairless.

'Oi, what's your fucking game then?' The words died in his throat. `Oh, it's you Mister Flight. Didn't recognise the motor.'

`Hello, Arnold,' Flight said quietly, his eyes on the ponderous movement of the stall ahead. `How's tricks?'

The man laughed nervously. `Keeping me nose clean, Mister Flight.'

Only now did Flight deign to turn his head towards, the man. `That's good,' he said. Rebus had never heard those two words sound so threatening. Their road ahead was now clear. `Keep it that way,' Flight said, moving off.

Rebus stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

'Sex, offender,' Flight said. `Two previous. Children. The psychiatrists say he's okay now, but I don't know. With that, sort of thing, one hundred percent sure isn't quite sure enough. He's been working the market now for a few weeks, loading and unloading. Sometimes he gives me good gen. You know how it is.'

Rebus could imagine. Flight had this huge, strong-looking man in the palm of his hand. If Flight told the market-traders what he knew about Arnold, not only would Arnold lose his job, but he'd be in for a good kicking as well. Maybe the man was all right now, maybe he was, in psychiatric parlance, `a fully integrated member of society'. He had paid for his crimes, and now was trying to go straight. And what happened? Policemen, men like Flight and like Rebus himself (if, he was being honest), used his past against him to turn him into an informant.

`I've got a couple of dozen snitches,' Flight went on. `Not all like Arnold. Some are in it for the cash, some simply because they can't keep their gobs shut. Telling what they know to somebody like me makes them feel important, makes them feel like they're in the know. A place this size, you'd be lost without a decent network of snitches.'

Rebus merely nodded, but Flight was warming to his subject.

`In some ways London is too big to take in. But in other ways it's tiny. Everyone knows everyone else. There's north and south of the river, of course, those are like two different countries. 'But the way the place divides, the loyalties, the same old faces, sometimes I feel like a village bobby on his bicycle.' Because Flight had turned towards him, Rebus nodded again. Inside he was thinking: here we go, the same old story, London is bigger, better, rougher, tougher and more important than anywhere else. He had come across this attitude before, attending courses with Yard men or hearing about it from visitors to London. Flight hadn't, seemed the type, but really everybody was the type. Rebus, too, in his time had exaggerated the problems the police faced in Edinburgh, so that he could look tougher and more important in somebody's eyes.

The facts still had to be faced. Police work was all about paperwork and computers and somebody stepping forward with the truth.

`Nearly there,' said Flight. 'Kilmore Road's the third on the left.'

Kilmore Road was part of an industrial estate and therefore would be deserted at night. It nestled in a maze of back streets about two hundred yards from a tube station. Rebus had always looked on tube stations as busy places, sited in populous areas, but this one stood on a narrow back street, well away from high road, bus route or railway station.

`I don't get it,' he said. Flight merely shrugged and shook his head.

Anyone coming out of the tube station at night found themselves with a lonely walk through the streets, past net curtained windows where televisions blared. Flight showed him that a popular route was to cut into the industrial estate and across the parkland behind it. The park was flat and lifeless, boasting a single set of goalposts, two orange traffic cones substituting for the missing set. On the other side of the park three hi-rise blocks and some lo-rise, housing sprang up. May Jessop had been making for one of those houses, where her parents lived. She was nineteen and had a good job, but it kept her late at her office, so it wasn't until ten o'clock that her parents started to worry. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. Her father rushed to answer, relieved, only to find a detective there, bearing the news that May's body, had been found.

And so it went. There seemed no connection between the victims, no real geographical link other than that, as Flight pointed out, all the killings had been committed north of the river, by which he meant north of the Thames. What did a prostitute, an office manageress and the assistant in an off-licence have in common? Rebus was damned if he knew.

The third murder had taken place much further west in North Kensington. The body had been found beside a railway line and Transport Police had handled the investigation initially. The body was that of Shelley Richards, forty-one years old, unmarried and unemployed. She was the only coloured victim so far. As they drove through Notting Hill, Ladbroke Grove and North Ken (as Flight termed it) Rebus was intrigued by the scheme of things. A street of extraordinarily grand houses would suddenly give way to a squalid, rubbish-strewn road with boarded-up windows sand bench-bound tramps, the wealthy and the poor living almost cheek by jowl. It would never happen in Edinburgh; in Edinburgh, certain boundaries were observed. But this, this was incredible. As Flight put it, `race riots one side, diplomats the other'.

The spot where Shelley Richards had died was the loneliest, the most pathetic so far. Rebus clambered down from the railway line, down the embankment, lowered himself over the brick wall and dropped to, the ground. His trousers were smeared with green moss. He brushed them with his hands, but to little effect. Too get to the car where Flight was waiting he had to walk under, a railway bridge. His footsteps echoed as he tried to avoid the pools of water and the rubbish, and then he stopped, listening. There was a noise all around him, a sort of wheezing, as if the bridge itself were drawing its dying breath. He looked up and saw the dark outlines of pigeons, still against the supporting girders. Cooing softly. That was what he could hear, not wheezing at all. There was a sudden rumble of thunder as a train passed overhead and the pigeons took to the wing, flapping around his head. He shivered and walked back out into sunlight.

Then, finally, it was back to the Murder Room. This was, in fact, a series of rooms covering most of the top floor of the building. Rebus reckoned there to be about twenty men and women working flat out when Flight and he entered the largest of the rooms. There was little to differentiate the scene from that of any murder investigation anywhere in the country. Officers were busy on telephones or working at computer terminals. Clerical staff moved from desk to desk with seemingly endless sheafs of paper. A photocopier was spewing out more paper in a corner of the room and two deliverymen were wheeling a new five-drawer filing cabinet into position beside the three which already stood against one wall. On another wall was a detailed street map of London, with the murder sites pinpointed. Coloured tapes ran from these sites to spaces on the wall where pictures, details and notes had been pinned. A duty roster and progress chart took up what space was left. All very efficient, but the faces told Rebus their own story: everyone here, working hard as they were, was waiting for the Lucky Break.

Flight was immediately in tune with the glaze of efficiency in the office, firing off questions. How did the meeting go? Any word from Lambeth? (He explained to Rebus that the police lab was based there.) Any news on last night? What about house-to-house? Well, does anyone know anything?

There were shrugs and shakes of the head. They were simply going through the motions, waiting for that Lucky Break. But what if it didn't come? Rebus had an answer to that you made your own luck.

A smaller room off this main office was being used as a communications centre, keeping the Murder Room in touch with the investigation, and off this room were two smaller offices yet, each crammed with three desks. This was where the senior detectives worked. Both were empty.

`Sit down,' Flight said. He picked up the telephone on his desk, and dialled. While he waited for an answer, he surveyed with a frown the four-inch high pile of paper which had appeared in his in-tray during the morning. `Hello, Gino?' he said into the mouthpiece. `George Flight here. Can I ' order some sandwiches? Salami salad.' He looked to Rebus for confirmation that this would be acceptable. `On brown bread, please, Gino. Better make it four rounds. Thanks.' He cut the connection and dialled again. Only two numbers this time: an internal call. 'Gino has a cafe round the corner,'' he explained to Rebus. `He makes great sandwiches, and he delivers.' Then: `Oh, hello. Inspector Flight here. Can we have some tea? A decent sized pot should do it. We're in the office. Is it wet milk today or that powdered crap? Great, thanks.' He dropped, the receiver back into its cradle and spread his hands, as if some feat of magic had just been performed. `This is your lucky day, John. We've got real milk for a change.'

`So what now?'

Flight shrugged, then slapped a hand on the bulging in tray. `You could always read through this little lot, keep yourself up-to-date with the investigation.'.

`Reading about it isn't going to do any good.'

`On the contrary,' said Flight, `it helps you answer any awkward, questions that may be asked by those on high. How tall was the victim? What colour was her hair? Who found her? It's all in there.'

Unknown

`She was five feet seven and her hair was brown. As to who found her, I don't give a tinker's cuss.'

Flight laughed, but Rebus was being serious. `Murderers don't just appear,' he continued. `They're created. To create a serial killer, takes time. It's taken this guy years to make himself what he is. What's he been doing during that time? He may well be a loner, but he's probably got a job, maybe even a wife and kids. Somebody must know something. Maybe his wife wonders where he goes at night, or how blood got onto the, tips, of his shoes, or where her kitchen knife disappeared to.'

`All right, John.' Flight spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of peace-making. Rebus realised that his voice had been getting .louder. `Calm down a little. For a start, when you go on like that, I can hardly make out a word you're saying, but I get your point. So what are we supposed to do?'

`Publicity. We need the public's help. We need anything they've got.'

`We already get dozens of calls a day. Anonymous tip offs, nutters who want to confess, people snitching on their next door neighbour, people with grudges, maybe even a few with genuine suspicions. We check them all out. And we've got the media on our side. The Chief Super will be interviewed a dozen times today. Newspapers, magazines, radio, TV. We give them what we can, and we tell them to spread the word. We've got the best bloody Liaison Officer in the country working round the clock to make sure the public knows what we're dealing with here.'

There was a knock on the already open door and a WPC carried a tray into the room and left it on Flight's desk. `I'll be mother, shall I?' he said, already starting to pour the tea into two plain white mugs.

`What's the Liaison Officer's name?' Rebus asked. He knew a Liaison Officer himself. She too, was the best there was. But she wasn't in London, she was back in Edinburgh . . .

'Cath Farraday,' said Flight. `Detective Inspector Cath Farraday.' He sniffed, the milk carton, before pouring a dollop into his tea. `If you stick around long enough, you'll get to meet her. She's a bit of a cracker is our Cath. Mind you, if she heard me talking about her like that, she'd have my head on a plate.' Flight chuckled.

`And salad on the side,' came a voice from just outside the door. Flight, flinching, spilt tea down his shirt and jumped to his feet. The door was swinging open now, to reveal a platinum blonde woman leaning against the jamb, her arms folded, one leg casually crossed over the other. Rebus's gaze was drawn to her eyes, which were slanted like a cat's. They made her whole face seem, narrower than it was. Her lips were thin, lined with a thin coat of bright red lipstick. Her hair had a hard, metallic look to it, reflecting the look of the woman herself. She was. older than either of the men in the, room by several years and if age hadn't withered her, the frequent use of cosmetics had. Her face was lined and puffy. Rebus didn't like a lot of make-up on a woman, but plenty of men did.

`Hello, Cath,' said Flight, trying to regain at least an outer shell of composure. `We were just—'

`—talking-about me. I know.' She unfolded her arms and took a couple of steps into the room, extending a hand to Rebus. `You must be Inspector Rebus,' she said. `I've heard all about you.'

`Oh?' Rebus looked to Flight, whose attention, however, was fixed on Cath Farraday.

`I hope George here is giving you an easy ride.'

Rebus shrugged. `I've had worse.'

Her eyes became more feline still. `I'll bet,' she said. She lowered her voice. `But watch your back, Inspector. Not everyone's as nice as George. How would you feel if someone from London suddenly started to poke his nose into one of your cases, hmm?'

`Cath,' said Flight, `there's no need for . . . '

She raised a hand, silencing, him. `Just a friendly warning, George,' one Inspector to another. We've got to look after our own, haven't we?' She glanced at her watch. `Must be going. I've a meeting with Pearson in five minutes. Nice to have met you, Inspector. Bye, George.'

And then she was gone, the door left wide, open, a strong perfume lingering in the room. Both men were silent for a moment. Rebus was the first to speak.

'I believe your description was “a cracker” George. Remind me never to let you arrange a blind date for me.'

It was late afternoon and Rebus' sat in Flight's office alone, a pad of paper in front of him on the desk. He tapped his pen like a drumstick against the edge of the table and stared at the two names he had written so far.

Dr Anthony Morrison. Tommy Watkiss.

These were people he wanted to see. He drew 'a thick line beneath them and wrote two more names: Rhona. 'Samantha. These, too, were people he wanted, to see, though for personal reasons.

Flight had gone off to see Chief Inspector Lame on another floor of the building. The invitation did not extend to Rebus. He picked up the last remaining quarter of his salami sandwich, but thought better of it and tossed it into the office's metal bin. Too salty. And what kind of meat was salami anyway? He now had a craving for more tea. He thought Flight had dialled 18 to order up the first pot, but decided against trying it. He didn't want to make a fool of himself, did he? It would be just his, luck to get through to Chief' Superintendent Pearson.

Just a friendly warning. The point was not lost on Rebus. He crumpled up his list and threw that, in the bin too, then got up out of his chair and made for the main office. He knew he should be doing something, or should at least seem to be doing something. They had brought him four hundred miles to help them. But he couldn't for the life of him see any gaps in their investigation. They were doing everything they could, but to no avail. He was just another straw to be clutched at. Just another chance for that elusive Lucky Break.

He was studying the wall-map, when the voice sounded, behind him.

`Sir?'

He turned to see one of the Murder Room team standing there. `Yes?'

`Someone to see you, sir.'

`Me?'

'Well, you're the most senior detective around, at the moment, sir.'

Rebus considered this. `Who is it?'

The officer checked the scrap of paper in, his hand. `A Dr Frazer, sir.'

Rebus considered a. moment longer. `All right,' he said, turning back towards the tiny office. `Give me a minute and then send him in.' He stopped. 'Oh, and bring some tea, will you?'

`Yes, sir,' said the officer. He waited until Rebus had left the room, then turned to the others, seated at their desks and smiling at him. `The cheek of these fucking jocks,' he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. `Remind me to piss in the teapot before I take it in.'

Dr Frazer turned out to be a woman. What was more, as she entered the office, she was attractive enough to have Rebus, half-rise from his desk in welcome.

`Inspector Rebus?'

`That's right. Dr Frazer, I presume?'

`Yes.' She showed a row of perfect teeth as Rebus invited her to take a seat. `Though. I'd better explain.' Rebus fixed his eyes on her own and nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on hers for fear that otherwise they would be drawn down to her slim tanned legs, to that point where, an inch above the knee, her cream skirt began, hugging her thighs. He had taken her body in with single sweeping glance. She was tall, almost as tall as him. Her legs were bare and long, her body supple. She was wearing a jacket to match the skirt and a plain white blouse, set off by a single string of pearls. There was a slight, exquisite scar on her throat just above the pearls and her face was tanned and without make-up, her jaw square, her hair straight and black, tied back with a black band, so that a shock of it fell onto one shoulder. She had brought a soft black leather briefcase into the room, which she now held up in her lap, running her fingers around the handles as she, spoke.

`I'm not a medical doctor.' Rebus registered slight surprise. `I'm a doctor courtesy of my Ph.D. I teach psychology at University College.'

`And you're American,' said Rebus. `Canadian actually.'

Yes, he should have known. There was a soft lilt to her accent, something few Americans possessed. And she wasn't quite as nasal as the tourists who stopped in Princes Street to get a picture of the Scott Monument.

`I'm sorry,' he said, `so, what can I do for you, Dr. Frazer?'

'Well, 'I did talk to someone on the telephone this morning and I told them of my interest in the Wolfman case.'

Rebus could see it all now. Another nutter with some crazy idea about the Wolfman, that's probably what the Murder Room had thought. So they'd decided to play a joke on him, arranged a meeting without letting him know, and then Flight, forewarned, had made himself, scarce. Well, the joke was on them. Rebus could always find time for an attractive woman, crazy or not. After all, he had nothing better to do, had he?

`Go on,' he said.

`I'd like to try to put together a profile of the Wolfman.'

`A profile?'

`A psychological profile. Like an identikit, but building up a picture of the mind rather than the face. I've been doing some research on criminal profiling and I think I can use similar criteria to help you come to a clearer understanding of the killer.' She paused. `What do you think?'

`I'm wondering what's in it for you, Dr Frazer.'?

`Perhaps I'm just being public spirited.' She looked down into her lap and smiled. `But really what I'm looking for is validation of my methods. So far I've been experimenting with old police cases. Now I want to tackle something real.'

Rebus sat back in his chair and picked up the pen again, pretending to study it. When he looked up, he saw that she was studying him. She was a psychologist after all. He put down the pen. `It isn't a game,' he said, `and this isn't' a lecture theatre. Four women are dead, a maniac is loose somewhere and right now we're quite busy enough following up all the leads and the false trails we've got. Why should we make time for you, Dr Frazer?'

She coloured, her cheekbones blushed a deep red. But she seemed to have no ready answer. Rebus hadn't much to add, so he too sat in silence. His mouth was sour and dry, his throat coated in a layer of resin. Where was the tea?

Eventually she spoke. `All I want to do is read through the material on the case.'

Rebus found some spare sarcasm. `That's all?' He tapped the mound of paperwork in the in-tray. `No problem then, it'll only take you a couple of months.' She was ignoring him, fumbling with the briefcase. She produced a slim orange, folder.

`Here,' she said stonily. `Just read this. It'll only take you twenty minutes. It's one of the profiles I did of an American serial killer. If you think it has no validity in helping to identify the killer or target where he might have struck next, fair enough, I'll leave.'

Rebus took the file. Oh God, he thought, not more psychology! Relating . . . involving motivating. He'd had his fill of psychology on the management training courses, But then again, he didn't want her to leave. He didn't want to be left sitting .here on his own with everyone in the Murder Room smirking at their little trick. He opened the folder, drew out a typed and bound thesis about twenty-five pages long, and began to read. She sat watching him, waiting for a question perhaps. Rebus read with his chin held up, so, that she wouldn't see the sagging folds of flesh on his neck, and with his shoulders back, making the best of his admittedly not very muscular chest. He cursed his parents for not feeding him up as a child. He, had grown skinny, and when eventually he had started to put weight on, it had been to his gut and his backside, not his chest and, arms.

Backside. Chest. Arms. He gazed hard at the words in front of him, but aware of her, body, resting in his line of peripheral vision, just above the top edge of the paper. He didn't, even know her first name. Perhaps he never would. He frowned as though, deep in thought and read through the opening page.

By page five he was interested and by page ten, he felt there might be something in it after all. A lot of it was speculative. Be honest, John, it was almost all conjecture, but there were a few points where she made a telling deduction. He saw what, it was her mind worked in a different orbit from a detective's. They circled the same sun, however, and now and then the satellites touched. And what harm could come from letting her do a profile for the Wolfman? At worst, it would lead them up another dead end. At best, he might enjoy some female company during his stay in. London. Yes, some pleasant female company. Which reminded him: he wanted to telephone his ex-wife and arrange a visit. He read through the final pages quickly.

`All right,' he, said, closing the thesis, `very interesting.'

She seemed pleased. `And useful?'

He hesitated before replying. `Perhaps.'

She wanted more from him than that. `But worth letting me have a go on the Wolfman?'

He nodded slowly, ruminatively, and her face lit up. Rebus couldn't help returning her smile. There was a knock at the door. `Come in,' he called.

It was Flight. He was carrying a tray, swimming with spilt tea, `I believe you asked for some refreshment,' he said. Then he caught sight of Dr Frazer, and Rebus delighted in the stunned look on his face.

`Christ,' said Flight, looking from woman to Rebus to woman, before realising that he had somehow to justify his outburst. `They told me you were with someone, John, but they didn't, 'I mean, I didn't know . . . ' He tumbled to a halt, mouth still open, and placed the tray on the desk before turning towards her. `I'm Inspector George Flight,' he said, reaching out a hand.

'Dr Frazer,' she replied, `Lisa Frazer.'

As their hands met, Flight looked towards Rebus from the corner of his eye. Rebus, beginning to feel a little more at home in the metropolis, gave him a slow, cheerful wink.

`Christ.'

She left him a couple of books to read. One, The Serial Mind, was a series of essays by various academics. It included `Sealing the Bargain. Modes of Motivation in the Serial Killer' by Lisa Frazer, University of London. Lisa: nice name. No mention of her doctorate though. The other book was an altogether heavier affair, dense prose linked by charts and graphs and diagrams: Patterns of Mass-Murder by Gerald Q MacNaughtie.

MacNaughtie? That had to be a joke of some kind.) But on the dustjacket Rebus read that Professor MacNaughtie was Canadian by birth and taught at the University of Columbia. Nowhere could he find out what the Q stood for. He spent what was left of the office day working through the books, paying most attention to Lisa Frazer's essay (which he read twice) and to the chapter in MacNaughtie's book concentrating on `Patterns of Mutilation'. He drank tea and coffee and two cans of fizzy orange, but the taste in his mouth was sour and as he read on he began to feel physically dirty, made grubby by tale after tale of casual horror. When he got up to visit the bathroom at a quarter to five, everyone in the outer office had already quit for the day, but Rebus hardly registered the fact. His mind was elsewhere.

Flight, who had left him to his own devices for most of the afternoon, came into the office at six. `Fancy a jar?' Rebus shook his head. Flight sat down on the edge of the chair. `What's the matter?'

Rebus waved a hand over the books. Flight examined the cover of one. `Oh,' he said, `not exactly bedtime reading, I take it?'

`Not exactly. It's just . . . evil.'

Flight nodded. `Got to keep a perspective though, John, eh? Otherwise they'd go on getting away with it. If it's so horrible, we all shy away from the truth, then everybody gets, away with murder. And worse than murder.'

Rebus looked up. `What's worse than murder?'

`Lots of things. What about someone who tortures and rapes a six-month old child and films the whole thing so he can show it to similarly minded individuals?'

Rebus's words were barely audible. `You're kidding.' But he knew Flight was not.

`Happened three months ago,' Flight said. `We haven't caught the bastard, but Scotland Yard have got the video—and a few more besides. Ever seen a thalidomide porn film?' Rebus shook his head wearily. Flight leaned down so that, their heads were nearly touching. `Don't go soft on me, John,' he said quietly, `that's not going to solve anything. You're in London now, not the Highlands. The top deck of a midday bus isn't safe here, never mind a tow-path after dark. Nobody sees any of it. London gives you a thick skin and temporary blindness. You and I, can't afford to be blind. But we can afford the occasional drink. Coming?'

He was on his feet now, rubbing his hands, lecture over. Rebus nodded and rose slowly' to his feet. `Only a quick one though,' he said. `I've got an appointment this evening.'

An appointment reached by way of a packed tube train. He checked his watch: 7.30 pm. Did the rush hour never stop? The compartment smelt of vinegar and stale air, and three not-so-personal stereos battled it out above the roar of speeding and juddering. The faces around Rebus were blank. Temporary blindness. Flight was right. They shut it all out because to acknowledge what they were going through was to realise the monotony, the claustrophobia and the sheer agony of it all. Rebus was depressed. And tired. But he was also a tourist, so it had to be savoured. Thus the tube journey instead of a closeted taxi ride. Besides, he'd been warned about how expensive the black cabs were and, he had checked in his A-Z, and found that his destination was only a quarter of an inch from an Underground station.

So Rebus travelled through the Underground and tried hard. not to look out of place, not to gawp at the buskers and the beggars, not to pause in a busy conduit the better to read this or that advertising poster. A tramp actually entered his carriage at one stop and as the doors closed and the train pulled away again he began to rave, but his audience were deaf and dumb as well as blind and they successfully ignored his existence until the next stop where, daunted, he slouched from the carriage onto the platform. As the, engine pulled away, Rebus could hear his voice again, coming from the next carriage along. It had been an astonishing performance, not by, the tramp but, by the passengers. They had closed off their minds, refusing involvement. Would they do the same if they saw a fight taking place? Saw a thick-set man stealing a tourist's wallet? Yes, they probably would. This wasn't an environment of good, and evil, it was a moral vacuum and that frightened Rebus more than anything else.

But there were compensations of a sort. Every beautiful woman he saw reminded him of Lisa Frazer. Squeezed into one compartment on the Central Line, he found himself pressed against a young blonde girl. Her blouse was undone to the cleft of her breasts, giving the taller Rebus an occasionally breathtaking view of slopes and swells. She glanced up from her paperback and caught him staring. He looked away quickly, but felt her cold gaze focusing on the side of his head.

Every man is a rapist, hadn't someone said, that once? Traces of salt . . . Bite marks on the . . . The train slowed into another station: Mile End, his stop. The girl was getting out, too. He lingered on the platform until she was gone, without really knowing why, then headed up, towards ground level and a taste of fresh air.

Taste of monoxide, more like. Three lanes of traffic were jammed in either direction, the result of an articulated lorry failing to reverse through the narrow gates of some building. Two exasperated constables were trying to untie this Gordian Knot and for the first time it struck Rebus how silly their tall rounded hats looked. The Scottish-issue flat caps were more sensible. They also made less of a target at football matches.

Rebus wished the constables a silent `Good luck' and made for Gideon Park—not a park but a road—and for number 78, a three-storey house which, according to the front door's entry system, had been split somehow into four flats. He pressed the second-from-bottom buzzer and waited. The door was opened by a tall skinny teenage girl, her long straight hair dyed black, three earrings in each ear. She smiled and gave him an unexpected hug.

`Hello, Dad,', she said.

Samantha Rebus led her father up a narrow staircase to the first-floor flat she shared with her mother. If the change in his daughter was striking, then the change in Rebus's ex-wife was doubly so. He had never seen her looking so good. There were strands of grey in her hair, but it had been cut fashionably short and there was a healthy suntanned look to her face, a gleam to her eyes. They studied one another without words, then embraced quickly.

'John.'

'Rhona.'

She had been reading a book. He looked at its cover: To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf. `Tom Wolfe's more my style,' he said. The living-room was small, cramped even, but a, lot of clever work with shelves and wall-mirrors gave the impression of space. It was a strange sensation, seeing things he recognised, that chair, a cushion-cover, a lamp, things from his life with Rhona, now transported to this pokey flat. But he praised the interior decoration, the snug feel of the place and then they sat down to drink tea. Rebus had brought gifts: record tokens for Samantha, chocolates for Rhona—received with a knowing, coded look between the two women.

Two women. Samantha was no longer a child. Her figure might retain a child's suppleness, but her way of moving, her actions, her face were all fully formed and adult.

`You look good, Rhona.'

She paused, accepting the compliment. `Thank you, John,' she said at last. He noted her inability to say the same of him. Mother and daughter shared another of their secret looks. It was as though their time together had led to a kind of telepathy between them, so that during the course of the evening Rebus was to do most of the talking, nervously filling the many silent gaps in the conversation.

None of it was very important anyway. He spoke of Edinburgh, without going into detail about his work. This wasn't easy, since work apart he did very little. Rhona asked about mutual friends and he had to admit that he saw none of the old crowd. She talked about her teaching, of property prices in London. (Rebus heard nothing in her tone to suggest that he should pay something towards a bigger place for his kin. After all, it had been her idea to leave him. No real grounds, except, as, she'd put it, that she'd loved a man but married a job.) Then Samantha told him about her secretarial course.

`Secretarial?' said Rebus, trying to sound enthusiastic. Samantha's reply was cool.

`I told you about it in one of my letters.'

`Oh.' There was another break in the conversation. Rebus wanted to burst out: I read your letters, Sammy! I devour your letters! And I'm sorry I so seldom write back, but you know what a lousy letter-writer I am, how much effort it takes, how little time and energy I have. So many cases to solve, so many people depending on me.

But he said nothing. Of course he said nothing. Instead, they played out this little sham scenario. Polite chit-chat in a tiny living-room off Bow Road. Everything to say. Saying nothing. It was unbearable. Truly unbearable. Rebus moved his hands to his knees, spreading the fingers, ready to rise to his feet in the expected manner of one about to leave. Well, it's been nice seeing you, but there's a starched hotel bed waiting for me, and a machine to dispense ice, and another to shine shoes. He started to rise.

And the buzzer sounded. Two short, two long. Saman?tha fairly flew to the stairs. Rhona smiled.

`Kenny,' she explained.

`Oh?'

`Samantha's current gentleman.'

Rebus nodded slowly, the understanding father. Sammy was sixteen. She'd left school. A secretarial course at college. Not a boyfriend, a gentleman. `What about you, Rhona?' he said.

She opened her mouth, forming a reply, when the thump of feet climbing the stairs closed it for her. Samantha's face was flushed as she led her gentleman by his hand into the room. Instinctively, Rebus stood up.

`Dad, this is Kenny.'

Kenny was clad in black leather zip-up jacket and black leather trousers, with boots reaching almost to his knees. He squeaked as he moved and in his free hand he carried an upturned crash-helmet, from which poked the fingers of a pair of black leather gloves. Two fingers were prominent, and ? HYPERLINK “http://appeared.to/”??appeared to? be pointing directly at Rebus. Kenny removed his hand from Samantha's grip and held it out towards her father.

`Wotcher.'

The voice was abrupt, the tone deep and confident. He had lank black hair, almost parted at centre, some residual acne on cheeks and neck, a day's growth of stubble. Rebus shook the hot hand with little, enthusiasm.

`Hello, Kenny,' Rhona said. Then, for Rebus's benefit `Kenny's a motorcycle messenger.'

`Oh,' said Rebus, taking his seat again.

`Yeah, that's right,' Kenny enthused, `down the City.' He turned to Rhona. `Made a fair old packet today, Rhona,' he said, winking. Rhona smiled warmly. This young gentleman, this lad of eighteen or so (so much older, so much more worldly than Samantha) had obviously charmed his way into mother's heart as well as daughter's. He turned now to Rebus with that same winning way. `I make a hundred quid on a good day. Course, it used to be better,' back at Big Bang. There were a lot of new companies then, all of them trying to show off how much dosh they had. Still, there's a killing to be made if you're fast and reliable. A lot of the customers ask for me by name now. That shows I'm getting somewhere.' He sat down on, the sofa beside Samantha and waited, as did they all, for Rebus to say something.

He knew what was expected of him. Kenny had thrown down a gauntlet, and the message was, just you dare disapprove of me now. What did the kid want? A pat on the ego? Rebus's permission to deflower his daughter? A few tips on how to avoid speed-traps? Whatever, Rebus wasn't about to knuckle under.

`Can't be good for your lungs,' he said instead. `All those exhaust fumes.'

Kenny seemed perplexed by this turn in the conversation. `I keep myself fit,' he said, sounding slightly piqued. Good, thought Rebus, I can nettle this little bastard. He knew Rhona was warning him to lay off, warning him with her piercing eyes, but Rebus kept his attention on Kenny.

`Must be a lot of prospects for a lad like you.'

Kenny cheered up immediately. `Yeah,' he said, `I might even set up' my own fleet. All you need's—' He fell silent as he belatedly noticed that use of `lad' as though he were dressed in shorts and school-cap. But, it was too late to go back and correct it, way too late. He had to push on, but now it all sounded like pipe-dreams and playground fantasies. This rozzer might be from Jockland, but he was every bit as oily as an East End old-timer. He'd have to watch his step. And what was happening now? This Jock, this rough-looking tosser in the ill-fitting gear, the com?pletely uncoordinated gear, this `man at C&A' type, was reminiscing about a grocery shop from his youth. For a time, Rebus had been the grocer's `message boy'. (He explained that in Scotland `messages' meant `groceries'.) He'd run about on a heavy-framed black bicycle, with a metal rectangle in front of the handlebars. The box of groceries would be held in this rectangle and off he would pedal to do his deliveries.

`I thought I was rich,' Rebus said, obviously coming to a punch line'. `But when I wanted more money, there wasn't any to be had. I had to wait till I was old enough to get a proper job, but I loved running around on that bike, doing errands and delivering messages to the old folk. Sometimes they'd even give me a tip, a piece of fruit or a jar of jam.'

There was silence in the room. A police siren sped past outside. Rebus sat back and folded his arms, a sentimental smile spread across his face. And then it dawned on Kenny: Rebus was comparing the two of them! His eyes widened. Everyone knew it. Rhona knew it. Sam knew it. For tuppence, he'd get up and stick the nut on the copper, Sam's dad or not. But he held back and the moment passed. Rhona got up to make more tea, and the big bastard got up, and said he had to be going.

It had all happened so fast. Kenny was still trying to ?unravel Rebus's story and Rebus could see it. The poor half-educated runt was trying to work out just how far Rebus had put him down. Rebus could answer that as far as was necessary. Rhona hated him for it, of course, and Samantha looked embarrassed. Well to hell with them. He'd done his duty, he'd paid his respects. He wouldn't bother them any more. Let them live in the cramped flat visited by this gentleman, this mock adult. Rebus had more important things to do. Books to read. Notes to make And another busy day ahead. It was ten o'clock. He could be back at his hotel by eleven. An early night, that's what was needed. Eight hours' sleep in the last two days. No wonder he was ratty, looking for a fight.

He began to feel a little bit ashamed. Kenny was too easy a target. He'd crushed a tiny fly beneath a tower-block of resentment. Resentment, John, or plain jealousy?' That was not a question for a tired man. Not a question for a man like John Rebus. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might start getting some answers. He was determined to pay for hi keep now that he had been brought to London. Tomorrow the task began in earnest.

He shook. Kenny's hand again and gave him a man-to-man half-wink before leaving the flat. Rhona offered to see him to the, door. They went into the hall, leaving Samantha and Kenny in the living-room, behind a closed door.

`It's okay,' Rebus said quickly. `I'll see myself out.' He started downstairs, aware that to linger was, to invite a argument with Rhona. What was the point? `Better go keep an eye on Lothario,' he called, unable to resist the parting shot.

Outside, he remembered that Rhona liked her loves young, too. Perhaps she . . . but no that thought was unworthy of him. `Sorry, God,' he said, turning with steady stride back towards the Underground.

Something is going wrong.

After the first killing, she had felt horror, remorse, guilt. She had begged forgiveness; she would not kill again.

After a month, a month of not being found, she grew more optimistic, and grew hungry too. So she killed again. This had satisfied for another month, and so it had gone on, But now, only, twenty-four hours after the fourth time, she had felt the urge again. An urge more powerful and focused than ever. She would get away with it, too. But it would be dangerous. The police were still hunting. Time had not elapsed. The public was wary. If she killed now, she would break her patternless pattern, and perhaps that would give the police some clue that she could not predict.

There was only one solution. It was wrong; she knew it was wrong. This wasn't her flat, not really. But she did it anyway. She unlocked the door and entered the gallery. There, tied up, on the floor, lay the latest body. She would store this one. Keep it out of sight of the police. Examining it, she realised that now she would have more time with it, more time in which to play. Yes, storage was the answer. This lair was the answer. No fear of being found. After all, this was a private place, not a public place. No fear. She walked around the body, enjoying its silence. Then she raised the camera to her eye.

`Smile please,' she says, snapping her way through the film. Then she has an idea. She loads another, film cartridge and photographs one of the paintings, a landscape. This is the one she will carve, just as soon as she has finished playing with her new toy. But now she has a record of it, too. A permanent record. She watches the photograph develop but then starts to scratch across the plate, smearing the colours and the focus until the picture becomes a chemical swirl, seemingly without form, God, her mother would have hated that.

`Bitch,' she says, turning from the wall filled with paintings. Her face is creased with anger and resentment. She picks up a pair of scissors and goes to her plaything again, kneels in front of it, takes, a firm hold of the head and brings the scissors down towards the face until they hover a centimetre away from the nose. `Bitch,' she says again, then carefully snips at the nostrils, her hand shaking. `Long nosehairs,' she wails, `are so unbecoming. So unbecoming.'

At last she rises again and crosses to the opposite wall—lifts an aerosol and shakes it noisily. This wall—she calls it her Dionysian wall—is covered in spray-painted black slogans: DEATH TO ART, KILLING IS AN ART, THE LAW IS AN ARSE, FUCK THE RICH, FEEL THE POOR. She thinks of something else to say, something worth the diminishing space. She sprays with a flourish. .

`This is art,' she says, glancing over her shoulder towards the Apollonian wall with its framed paintings. `This is fucking art. This is fuck art.'' She sees that the doll's eyes are open and throws herself down to within an inch of those eyes, which suddenly screw themselves, shut. Carefully, she uses both hands to prise apart the eyelids. Faces are close now, so intimate. The moment is always so intimate. Her breath is fast. So is the doll's. The doll's mouth struggles against the tape holding it shut. The nostrils flare.

`Fuck art,' she hisses to the doll. `This is fuck art.' She has the scissors in. her hand again now, and slides one blade into the doll's left nostril. `Long nosehairs, Johnny, are so unbecoming in a man. So unbecoming in a man.' She pauses, as though listening to something, as though considering, this statement. Then she nods. `Good point,' she says, smiling now.'

`Good point.'