Tooth & Nail

Catching a Bite

The telephone woke Rebus. He could not locate it for a moment, then realised that it was mounted on the wall just to the right of his headboard. He sat up, fumbling with the receiver.

`Hello?'

`Inspector Rebus?' The voice was full of zest. He didn't recognise it. Took his Longine (his father's Longine actually) from the bedside table and peered through' the badly scratched face to find that it was seven fifteen. `Did I wake you, up? Sorry. It's Lisa Frazer.'

Rebus came to life. Or rather his voice did. He still sat slumped and jangling on the edge of the bed, but heard himself say a bright, `Hello, Dr Frazer. What can I do for you,

`I've been studying the notes you gave me on, the Wolfman case. Working through most of the night, to be honest. I just couldn't sleep, I was so excited by them. I've made some preliminary observations.'

Rebus touched the bed, feeling its residual warmth. How long since he'd slept with a woman? How long since he'd woken up the following day regretting nothing?

'I see,' he said.

Her laughter was like a clear jet of water. `Oh, Inspector, I'm sorry, I've wakened you. I'll call back later.'

`No, no. I'm fine, honestly. A bit startled, but fine. Can we meet and talk about what you've found?'

`Of course.'

`But I'm a bit tied up today.' He was trying to sound vulnerable, and thought on the whole that it was probably working. So he played his, big card. `What about dinner?'

`That would be nicer Where?'

He rubbed at a shoulder-blade. `I don't know. This is your town, not mine. I'm a tourist, remember.'

She laughed. `I'm not exactly a local myself, but I take your point. Well in that case,_ dinner's on me.' She sounded set on, this. `And I think I know just the place. I'll come to your hotel. Seven thirty?"

‘I look forward to it.'

What a very pleasant way to start the day, thought Rebus, lying down again and plumping up the pillow. He'd just closed his eyes when the telephone rang again.

`Yes?'

`I'm in reception and you're a lazy git. Come down here so I can put my breakfast on your tab.'

Cli—chick. Brrrr. Rebus slapped the receiver back into its cradle and got out of bed with a growl.

`What kept you?'

`I didn't think they'd appreciate a stark naked guest in the dining-room. You're early.'

Flight shrugged. `Things to do.' Rebus noticed that Flight didn't look well. The dark rings around his eyes and his pale colouring were not due simply to lack of sleep.' His flesh had a saggy quality, as though' magnets on the floor were drawing it down. But then he wasn't feeling so great himself He thought he'd probably picked up a bug on the tube. His throat was a little sore and his head throbbed, Could it be true that, cities made you sick? In one of the essays Lisa Frazer had given him someone had made that very claim, stating that most serial killers were products of their environment. Rebus couldn't really comment on that, but he did know that there was more mucus in his nostrils than usual. Had he brought enough handkerchiefs with him?

`Things to do,' Flight repeated.

They sat at a table for two. The dining-room was quiet, and the Spanish waitress took their order briskly, the day not yet having had enough time to wear her down.

`What do you want to do today?' Flight seemed to be asking this only in order to get the conversation rolling, but Rebus had specific plans for the day and told him so.

`First off I'd quite like to see Maria Watkiss's man, Tommy.' Flight smiled at this and looked down at the table. `Just to satisfy my own curiosity,' Rebus continued. `And I'd like to talk to the dental pathologist, Dr Morrison.'

`Well, 'I know where to find both of them,' said Flight. `Go on.'

`That's about it. I'm seeing Dr Frazer this evening Flight looked up at this news, his eyes widening in appreciation to go over her findings on the killer's' profile.'

'Uh huh.' Flight sounded unconvinced.'

`I've been reading those books she lent me. I think there may be something in it, George.' Rebus used the Christian name carefully, but Flight seemed to have no objections.

The coffee had, arrived. Flight poured and drank a cup of it, then smacked his lips. `I don't,' he said.

`Don't what?'

`Don't think there's anything in all this 'psychology stuff. It's too much like guesswork and not enough like science. I like something tangible. A dental pathologist, now that's tangible. That's something you can get—'

'Your teeth into?' Rebus smiled. `The pun's bad enough, but I don't agree anyway. When was the last time a pathologist gave you a precise time of death? They always hedge their bets.'

'But they deal in facts, in physical evidence, not in mumbo-jumbo.'

Rebus sat back. He was thinking of the character in a Dickens book, he'd read a long time ago, a schoolteacher who wanted facts and, nothing but. `Come on, George,' he said, `this is the twentieth century.'

`That's right,' said Flight. `And we don't believe in soothsayers any more.' He looked up again. `Or, do we?'

Rebus paused to pour some coffee. He felt his cheeks tingling. Probably, they were turning red. Arguments did that to him; even casual disagreements like this were sometimes enough. He was careful to make his next utterance in a soft, reasonable voice.

`So what are you saying?'

'I'm saying policework is plodding, John.' (Still on first name terms, thought Rebus, that's good.) `And shortcuts, seldom work. I'm saying don't let your Hampton do your thinking for you.' Rebus thought about. protesting, but realised he wasn't exactly sure what Flight meant. Flight smiled.

`Rhyming slang,'. he explained. `Hampton Wick, prick. Or maybe it's dick. Anyway, I'm just warning you not to let a good looking woman interfere with your professional judgment.'

Rebus was still about to protest, but saw that there was little, point. Having, voiced his thoughts, Flight seemed content. What's more, maybe he was right. Did Rebus want to see Lisa Frazer because of the case, or because she was Lisa Frazer? Still, he felt the need to defend her.

`Listen,' he said, `like I say, I've been reading the books she gave me and there are some good things in them.' Flight looked unconvinced, goading Rebus into ploughing on. And as he fell for it, beginning to speak, he saw that Flight had played the same trick on him as he himself had played on the motorcycle messenger last night. Too late: he had to defend Lisa Frazer, and himself, even though everything he now said sounded stupid and half-baked to his own ears, never mind to Flight's.

`What we're dealing with is a man who hates women.' Flight looked at him in amazement, as though this were too obvious to need saying. `Or,' Rebus went on quickly, `who has to take 'out his revenge on women because he's too weak, too scared to take it out on a man." Flight admitted this possibility with a twitch of the head. 'A lot of so-called serial killers,' continued Rebus, his hand unconsciously grasping the butter-knife, `are very conservative—small c—very ambitious, but thwarted. They feel rejected from the class immediately above 'them, and they target this group.'

`What? A prostitute, a shop assistant, an office worker? You're saying they're the same social group? You're saying the Wolfman's social group is lower than a tart's? Leave off, John.'

`It's just a general rule,' Rebus persisted, wishing he'd' never started this conversation. He twisted the knife in his hand. `Mind you, one of the earliest serial killers was a French nobleman.' His voice fell away. Flight was looking impatient. 'All I'm saying is what's in those books. Some of it may make sense, it's just that we don't have enough on the Wolfman yet to allow us to see what sense it's all making.'

Flight finished another cup of coffee. `Go on,' he said, without enthusiasm. `What else do the books say?'

`Some serial killers crave publicity,' said Rebus. He paused, thinking of the killer who had taunted him five years ago, who had led them all a merry chase. `If the Wolfman gets in touch with us, we've a better chance of catching him.'

`Perhaps. So what are you saying?'

`I'm saying we should set some snares and dig some pits. Get Inspector Farraday to pass on a few tidbits to the press all about how we suspect the Wolfman's gay, or a transvestite. It can be anything, so ? HYPERLINK “http://long.as/”??long as? it jars his conservatism, and maybe it'll force him into the open.'

Rebus let go of the knife and waited for Flight's response. But Flight wasn't about to be rushed. He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. `Not a bad idea that,' he said at last. `But I'm willing, to bet you didn't get it from your books.'

Rebus shrugged. `Maybe not exactly.'

`I thought not. Well, let's see what Cath says to it.' Flight rose from his chair. 'Meantime, on a less lofty plane of existence, I think I can take you straight to Tommy Watkiss. Come on. And by the way, thanks for breakfast.'

`My pleasure,' said Rebus. He could see Flight was unconvinced by his defence, such, as it had turned out to be, of psychology. But then was it Flight he was trying to convince, or himself? Was it Flight he was trying to impress, or Dr Lisa Frazer?

They were passing through the foyer now, Rebus carrying his briefcase. Flight turned to him.

`Do you,' he said, `know why we're called the Old Bill?' Rebus shrugged, offering no answer. `Some say it's because we're named after a certain London landmark. You can try guessing on the way there.' And with that Flight pushed hard at the rotating door which served as the hotel's entrance.

The Old Bailey was not quite what Rebus had expected. The famous dome was there, atop which blindfolded Justice held her scales, but a large part of the court complex was of much more modern design. Security was the keynote. X-ray machines, cubicle-style doors which allowed only one person at a time into the body of the building and security men everywhere. The windows were coated with adhesive tape so that any explosion would not send lethal shards of glass flying into the concourse. Inside, ushers (all of them women) dressed in flapping black cloaks ran around trying to gather up stray juries.

`Any jurors for court number four?'

'Jurors for court number twelve, please!'

All the time a PA system announced , the names of missing single jurors. It was the busy beginning of another judicial day. Witnesses smoked cigarettes, worried-looking barristers, weighed down by documents, held whispered dialogues with dull-eyed, clients, and. police officers waited nervously to give evidence.

`This is where we win or lose, John,' said Flight. Rebus couldn't be sure whether he was referring to the court rooms or to the concourse itself On floors above them were administrative, offices, robing rooms, restaurants. But this floor was where cases were held and decided. Through some doors to their left was the older, domed part of the Old Bailey, a darker, more forbidding place than this bright marbled. gallery. The place echoed with the squealing of leather soled shoes, the clack-clack-clacking of heels on the solid floor and the constant murmur of conversation.

`Come on,' said Flight. He was leading them towards one of the courtrooms, where he had a word with the guard and one of the clerks before ushering Rebus into the court itself.

If stone and black leather predominated in the concourse, then the courtroom belonged to wood panelling and' green leather. They sat on two chairs, just inside the door, joining DC Lamb, already seated there, unsmiling arms folded. He did not greet them, but leaned across to whisper, `We're going to nail the cunt', before stiffening into his former position.

On the other side of the room sat the twelve jurors, looking bored already, faces numb and unthinking. To the back of the court stood the defendant, hands resting on the rail in front of him, a man of about forty with short, wiry silver and black hair, his, face like something hewn from stone, his open-necked shirt a sign of arrogance. He had the dock to himself, there being no police officer, on guard.

Some distance in front of him, the lawyers sorted through their papers, watched by assistants and solicitors. The defence counsel was a thick-set and tired-looking man, his face grey (as was his hair), gnawing on a cheap ballpoint. The prosecutor, however, was much more confident looking, tall (if stout), dressed immaculately and with the glow of the righteous upon him.' His pen was an intricate fountain affair and he wrote with a flourish, his mouth set as defiantly as any Churchill impersonator. He reminded Rebus of how television liked to think of QCs, Rumpole aside.

Directly overhead was the public gallery. He could hear the muffled shuffling of feet. It had always worried Rebus that those in the public gallery had a clear view of the jury. Here, the court had been designed in such a way that they stared directly down and onto the jurors, making intimida?tion and identification that much easier. He'd dealt with several cases of jurors being approached at day's end by some relative of the accused, ready with a wad of notes or a clenched fist.

The judge looked imperious as he pored over some papers in front of him, while just below him the Clerk of Court spoke in hushed tones into a telephone receiver. From the time it was taking to begin proceedings, Rebus realised two things. One was that the case was continuing, not beginning; the other was that some Point of Law had been placed before the judge, which the judge was now considering.

`Here, seen this?' Lamb was offering a tabloid to Flight. The newspaper had been folded to quarter of its size and Lamb tapped one column as he passed it to his superior.

Flight read quickly, glancing up at Rebus once or twice, then handed the paper to Rebus with a hint of a smile.

`Here you go, expert.'

Rebus read through the unattributed piece. Basically, it concerned itself with the progress or lack of it on the Jean Cooper murder inquiry. But the closing paragraph was the killer. 'The team investigating what have come to be known as the “Wolfman Murders” are being assisted by an expert on serial killers, drafted in from another police force.'

Rebus stared at the newsprint without really seeing it. Surely Cath Farraday wouldn't have? But then how else had the newspaper got to know? He kept his eyes on the page, aware' that both Flight and Lamb were looking, at him. He couldn't believe it: him, an expert! Whether it was true or not—and it wasn't—didn't really matter now. What mattered was that results would be expected from him, results above the norm. Yet he knew he couldn't deliver and in not delivering he would be made to look a laughing stock No wonder those two pairs of eyes burned into his head. No hard-working policeman liked to be usurped by `experts'. Rebus didn't like it himself. He didn't like any of it!

Flight saw the pained expression on Rebus's face and felt sorry for the man. Lamb, however, was smirking, enjoying Rebus's agony. He accepted his newspaper from Rebus and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

`Thought you'd be interested,' he said.

The judge finally looked up, his attention fixed on the jury. `Members of the jury,' he began, `it has been brought to my attention in the case of Crown versus Thomas Watkiss that the evidence of Police Constable Mills contained a passage which may have lodged in your minds, influencing your objectivity.'

So, the man in the dock was Tommy Watkiss, Maria's husband. Rebus studied him again, shaking his mind clear of the news story. Watkiss' face was a curious shape, the top half much wider than the cheekbones and jaw, which fell almost to a point. He had the look of an old boxer who had suffered one dislocated jaw too many. The judge was going, on about some cock-up in the police case. The arresting constable had given evidence stating, that his first words on reaching the accused had been `Hello, Tommy, what's going on here?' By giving this in evidence, he had let the jury know that Watkiss was well known to the local constabulary, something which might well influence their judgment. The judge was therefore ordering the jury to be dismissed.

`Good on ya, Tommy!' came a cry from the public gallery, quickly silenced by a glare from the judge. Rebus wondered where he had heard the voice before.

As the court rose, Rebus stepped forward a few paces and turned to look up at, the balcony. The spectators had risen, too, and in the front row Rebus could see a young man dressed in bike leathers and carrying a crash-helmet, grinning towards Watkiss. He raised his fist in a gesture of triumph, then turned and began to climb the steps to the gallery's exit. It was Kenny, Samantha's boyfriend. Rebus walked back to where Flight and Lamb were standing, watching him, curiously, but Rebus directed his attention towards the dock. The look on Watkiss's face was one of pure relief. DC Lamb, on the other hand, seemed ready to kill.

`Luck of the fucking Irish,' he spat.

`Tommy's no more Irish than you are, Lamb,' Flight said phlegmatically.

`What was the charge?' Rebus asked, his mind still confused by the newspaper story, by Kenny's presence in this place and by his actions. The judge was leaving by a green padded leather door to the side of the jury box.

Unknown

`The usual,' said Lamb, calming quickly. `Rape. When his old woman snuffed it, he needed somebody else on the game. So he tried to “persuade" a girl on his street that she could make a few bob. When that didn't work, he lost his rag and had a go at her. Bastard. We'll get him at the retrial. I still think he did for his old woman.'

`Then find the evidence,' said Flight. `Meantime, I can think of a. certain Police Constable who needs a good kick up the arse.'

`Yeah,' said Lamb. He was grinning evilly at the thought, then took the hint and 'left the courtroom in search of the unfortunate PC Mills.

'Inspector Flight.' It, was the prosecuting counsel, striding briskly towards them with documents and books cradled in his left arm, his right arm outstretched. Flight took the well-groomed hand and shook it.

`Hello, Mr Chambers. This is Inspector Rebus. He's come down from Scotland to help us on the Wolfman investigation.

Chambers looked interested. 'Ah, yes, the Wolfman. I look forward to prosecuting that particular case.'

`I just hope we can give you the opportunity,' said Rebus.

`Well,' said Chambers, `meanwhile it's tricky enough landing the little fish like our friend.' He glanced back in the direction of the dock, which now stood empty. `But we try,' he said with a sigh, `we try.' Then, he paused, and added in an undertone, directed' at Flight. `Get this, George, I don't like being royally shafted by my own team. Okay?'

Flight blushed. Chambers had dressed him ? HYPERLINK “http://down.in/”??down in? a way no Superintendent or Chief Constable could ever have done, and he knew it. `Good day, gentlemen,' he said, moving away, `and good luck, Inspector Rebus.'

`Thanks,'' Rebus called to the retreating figure. Flight watched as Chambers pushed open the doors of the court, the tail of his wig flicking from side to side, robes flapping behind him When the doors were closed, Flight chuckled.

`Arrogant prick. But he's the best there is.'

Rebus was beginning to wonder if anyone in London was second-rate. He'd been introduced to the `top' pathologist, the `best' prosecuting counsel, the `crack' forensic team, the `finest' police divers. Was it part of the city's own arrogance?

`I thought the best lawyers all went in for commercial work these days,' Rebus said.

`Not necessarily. It's only the really greedy bastards who go in for City work. Besides, this sort of stuff is like a drug to Chambers and his ilk. They're actors, bloody good ones at that.'

Yes, Rebus had known a few Oscar-winning advocates in his, time, and had lost a few cases more to their technique than to the strength of their defence. They might earn a quarter of the riches earned by their brothers in the commercial sector,' might take home a scant £50,000 each year, but they endured for the sake of their public.

Flight was moving towards the doors. `What's more,' he said, `Chambers studied for a time in the USA. They train them to be actors over there. They also train them to be hard-nosed bastards. I'm told he came out top of his class. That's why we like having him on our side.' Flight paused, `Do you still want a word with Tommy?'

Rebus shrugged. `Why not?'

Out in the concourse, Watkiss was standing by one of the large windows, relishing a cigarette and listening to his solicitor. Then the two men started to walk away.

'Tell you what,' said Rebus, `I've changed my mind. Let's skip Watkiss for the moment.'

`Okay,' said Flight. `You're the expert after all.' He saw the sour look on Rebus's face and laughed. 'Don't worry about it,' he said. `I know you're no expert.'

`That's very reassuring, George,' Rebus said without conviction. He stared after Watkiss, thinking. And I'm not the only one leaving court without conviction.

Flight laughed again, but behind his smile he was still more than a little curious about Rebus's action in the courtroom, walking out into the court like that to peer up at the public gallery. But if Rebus didn't want to talk about it, then that was his privilege. Flight could bide his time. `So what now?' he asked.

Rebus was rubbing his jaw. `My dental appointment,' he said.

Anthony Morrison, who insisted that they call him Tony, was much younger than Rebus had been anticipating. No more than thirty-five, he had an, underdeveloped body, so that his adult head seemed to have outgrown the rest of him. Rebus was aware that he was staring at Morrison with more than common. interest. The scrubbed and shiny face, the tufts of bristle on chin and cheekbone where a razor had failed to fulfil its duties, the trimmed hair and keening eyes in the street, he would have taken Morrison for a sixth-year pupil. Certainly, for a pathologist, albeit a dental patholo?gist, the man was in stark contrast to Philip Cousins.

On learning that Rebus was Scottish, Morrison had started on about the debt modern-day pathology owed to the Scots, `men like Glaister and Littlejohn and Sir Sydney Smith' though the latter, Morrison had to admit, had been born in the Antipodes. He then said that his own father had been a Scotsman, a surgeon, and asked if Rebus knew that the, earliest British Chair of Forensic Medicine had been founded in Edinburgh. Rebus, swept away by the welter of facts, said that this was news to him.

Morrison showed them into his office with an enthusiastic bounce to his walk. Once inside, however, the dentist's demeanour changed from social to professional.

`He's been busy, again,' he said without preamble, leading them to the wall behind his desk, where several ten by eight colour and black and white photographs had been pinned. They showed precise close-ups of the bite marks left on Jean Cooper's stomach. Arrows had been drawn in, leading from particular spots on certain photographs out to where pinned notes gave Morrison's technical summary of his findings.

`I know what to look for now, of course,' he said, `so it didn't take long to establish that, these are probably the same teeth used in the previous attacks. A pattern is also emerging, however, perhaps a disturbing one.' He ? HYPERLINK “http://went.to/”??went to? his desk and returned with more photographs. `These are from victim number one. You'll notice that the indents left by the teeth are less marked. They grow a little more marked by victims two and three. And now—' he pointed to, the current crop of pictures.

`They've got even deeper,' Rebus answered. Morrison beamed at him.

`Quite right.!

'So he's becoming more violent.'

`If you can term an attack made on someone who's already dead “violent”, then yes, Inspector Rebus,' he's getting more violent, or perhaps more unstable would be a better way of phrasing it.' Rebus and Flight exchanged a glance. `Apart from the change in the relative depth of the bite marks, there's little I can add to my, previous findings. The teeth are quite likely to be prosthetic—'

Rebus interrupted. `You mean false?' Morrison nodded. `How can you tell?'

Morrison beamed again. The prodigy who liked to show off in front of his teachers. `How can I best explain this to a layman?' He seemed to consider his own question for a moment. `Well, one's own teeth—your own, for example, Inspector Rebus—and by the way, you should get them seen to—they get a little ragged over time. The cutting edge gets chipped and worn. The edge on false teeth is more likely to be smoother, more rounded. Less of an edge to the front teeth especially, and less chips and cracks.'

Rebus, lips closed, was running his tongue over his teeth. It was true, they had the serrated feel of a workman's saw. He hadn't visited a dentist in ten, years or more, had never felt the need. But now Morrison had commented on them. Did they really look so awful?

`So,' Morrison continued, `for that reason, as well as for several others, I would say the killer has false. teeth. But he also has very curious teeth indeed.'

`Oh?' Rebus tried to speak without showing Morrison any more of his own decaying mouth.

`I've already explained this to Inspector Flight,' Morri?son paused so that Flight could nod agreement of this, `but briefly, the upper set has a greater biting curve than the lower set. From my measurements, I conclude that the person in possession of these teeth must have quite a strangely shaped face. I did draw some sketches, but I've managed to come up with something better. I'm glad you've come this afternoon.' He walked over to a cupboard and opened it. Rebus looked' to Flight, who merely shrugged. Morrison was turning towards them again, his right hand supporting a large object covered by an inverted brown-paper bag.

'Behold,' he said, lifting the bag from the object. 'I bring you the head of the Wolfman!'

There was silence in the room, so that the traffic noise from outside became conspicuous. Neither Rebus nor Flight could think of anything immediately to say. Instead, they, walked across to meet with the chuckling Morrison, who was regarding his creation with a measure of glee. There was a squeal of suddenly braking tyres. outside.

`The Wolfman,' Morrison repeated. He was holding the cast of a human head, constructed so far as Rebus could ascertain from pale pink plaster. `You can ignore the idea from the nose upwards, if you prefer,' said Morrison. `It's fairly speculative, based on mean measurements taking into account the jaw. But the jaw itself is, I believe, pretty accurate.'

And a strange jaw it was. The upper teeth jutted out from the mouth, so that the lips over, them and the skin below the nose was stretched and bulging. The lower jaw seemed tucked in beneath in what seemed to Rebus a Neanderthal display, to the extent that it almost disappeared, The chin had a narrow, pinched look and the cheekbones' were swollen in a line with the nose, but concave as the face extended downwards. It was an extraordinary face, the like of which Rebus could not recall having encountered in the real world. But then this was not the real world, was it? It was a reconstruction, depending upon a measure of averages and guesswork. Flight, was staring at it in fascination, as though committing, the face to memory. Rebus had the chilling. notion that Flight would release a photograph to the papers and charge the first poor soul he came across possessing such a physiognomy,

`Would you call that deformed?' Rebus asked.

`Heavens, no,' said Morrison with a laugh. `You haven't seen some of the medical cases I've had to deal with. No, this couldn't be termed deformed.'

`Looks like my idea of Mr Hyde,' commented Flight. Don't mention Hyde to me, Rebus thought to himself `Perhaps,' said Morrison, laughing again. `What about you, Inspector Rebus? What are your thoughts?'

Rebus examined the cast again. `It looks prehistoric.'

'Ah! said Morrison enthusiastically. `That was what I thought at first. The jutting upper jaw especially.'

`How do you know that is the upper jaw?' asked Rebus. `Couldn't it be the other way round?'

`No, I'm pretty sure this is correct. The bites are fairly consistent. Apart from victim three, that is.'

`Oh?'

`Yes, victim three was a strange one. The lower set, that is the smaller set, seemed more extended than the upper set. As you can see from this cast, the killer would have had to make an extraordinary contortion of his face to produce such a bite!

He mimed the bite for them, opening his mouth wide, lifting his head, and pushing out his lower jaw, then making a biting motion, the lower jaw doing most of the work.

`In the other bites, the killer has bitten more like this.' Again he put on a dumb show, this time drawing his lips back from his upper, jaw and biting down sharply so that the upper teeth closed over the lower teeth, the teeth themselves snapping together.

Rebus shook his head. This wasn't making things clearer. If anything, he was growing more confused. He nodded towards the cast. `You really believe the man we're looking for looks like this?'

`The man or woman, yes. Of course, I may have exaggerated a little with this cast, but I'm more or less convinced.'

Rebus had stopped listening after the first sentence. `What do you mean, or woman?' he asked.

Morrison shrugged his shoulders theatrically. `Again, this is something I've discussed with Inspector Flight. It just seemed to me that, purely on the dental evidence you understand, this head could as easily belong to a woman as to a man. The large upper set of teeth seems to me very male, judging from size and what have you, but the lower set, just as equally, seems very female. A man with a woman's chin, or a woman with a masculine upper jaw?' He shrugged again. `Take your pick.'

Rebus looked to Flight, who was shaking his head slowly. `No,'' Flight said, `it's a man.'

Rebus had never considered the possibility that a woman might be behind the killings. It had never entered his head. Until now.

A woman? Improbable, but why impossible? Flight was dismissing it out of hand, but on what grounds? Rebus had read last night that a growing number of multiple murderers were women. But could a woman have stabbed like, that? Could a woman so completely have overwhelmed victims of similar height, similar strength?

`I'd like to get some photographs of this,' Flight was saying. He had taken the cast from Morrison and was studying it again.

`Of course,' Morrison said, `but remember, it's only my idea of the look of the killer's head.'

`We appreciate it, Tony. Thanks for all your work.' Morrison shrugged modestly. He had fished for a compliment and had hooked one.

Rebus could see that Flight was convinced by this whole piece of theatre, the unveiling of the head and so on. To Rebus it was more showmanship than tangible truth, more the stuff of courtroom melodrama. He still felt that to trap the Wolfman they had to get inside his head, not play with plaster mock-ups of it.

His or her head.

`Would the bite marks be enough to identify the killer?'

Morrison considered this. Then nodded. `I think so, yes. If you can bring me the suspect, I think I, can show that he or she is the Wolfman,'

Rebus persisted, `But would it stand up in court?'

Morrison folded his arms and smiled. `I could blind the jury with science.' His face became serious again. `No, on its own I don't think my evidence would ever be enough to convict. But as part of a larger body of such evidence, we might be in with half a chance.'

`Always supposing the bastard makes it to trial,' Flight added grimly. `Accidents have been known to happen in custody.'

`Always supposing,' Rebus corrected, `we catch him in the first place.'

That, gentlemen,' said Morrison, `I leave entirely in your capable hands. Suffice to say, I look forward to introducing my friend here to the real thing.' And he tipped the plaster head backwards and forwards and backwards again, until it seemed to Rebus that the head was mocking them, laughing' and rolling its sightless eyes.

As Morrison showed them out, he rested a hand on Rebus's forearm. `I'm serious about your teeth,' he said, `you should get them seen to. I could look at them myself if you like?'

When he returned to headquarters Rebus went straight to the wash-room and, in front of a soap-spattered mirror, examined his mouth. What was Morrison talking about?' His teeth looked fine. Okay, one of them had a dark line running down it, a crack perhaps, and a few were badly stained from too many cigarettes and too much tea. But they looked strong enough, didn't they? No need for drills and piercing, grinding implements. No need for a dentist's chair, sharp needles, and a spitting out of blood.

Back at his designated desk he doodled on his notebook. Was Morrison just the nervous type, or was he hyperactive? Was he perhaps mad? Or was he merely dealing with the world in his own idiosyncratic way?

So few serial killers were women. Statistically it was unlikely. Since when had he believed in statistics? Since he had started to read psychology textbooks, last night in his hotel room after the disastrous visit to Rhona and Samantha. Kenny what the hell was Kenny doing running, around with Tommy Watkiss? His daughter's `gentleman'. A smiling villain? Forget it, John. You don't control that part of your life any more. He had to smile at this: what part of his life did he control? His work gave his life what meaning it had. He should admit defeat, tell Flight he could be of no help and return to Edinburgh, where he could be sure of his villains and his crimes: drug pedlars, protection racketeers, domestic violence fraud.

A murder each month, regular as the moon. It was only a saying, wasn't it, regular as the moon? He unhooked a calendar from the wall. Portraits of Italy, donated to the station by Gino's Sandwich Bar. Time of the month. Had there been a full moon around 16th January when Maria Watkiss was found? No, but then they reckoned she might have lain undiscovered for two or three days. Thursday 11th January had been the full moon. The full moon affected the Wolfman in the movies, didn't it? But they had named the killer Wolfman after Wolf Street, not because he, or she, killed by, the light of the full moon. Rebus was more confused than ever. And weren't women supposedly affected by the moon, something to do with their time of the month?

May Jessop had died on Monday 5th February, four days before another full moon. Shelley Richards had died on Wednesday 28th February, nowhere near a full moon. Morrison had said her case was unusual, the bites had seemed different. And then Jean, Cooper had died on the night of Sunday 18th March, two days before the vernal equinox.

He threw the calendar onto the desk. There was no pattern, no neat mathematical solution. Who was he trying to kid? This, wasn't the movies. The hero didn't stumble upon the answer. There were no shortcuts. Maybe Flight was right. It was all plodding routine and forensic evidence. Psychology was no shortcut, barking at the moon was no shortcut. He couldn't know when the Wolfman would strike again. He knew so little.

Flight wandered exhaustedly into the room and fell onto a chair, causing it to creak in protest.

`I finally got through to Cath,' he said. `I put your idea to her, and she's giving' it some thought!

'That's big of her.'

Flight gave him a warning look and Rebus raised his hands in apology. Flight nodded towards the calendar. `What are you up to?'

`I don't know, nothing much. I thought there might be some pattern to the dates, when the Wolfman struck.'

`You mean like the stages of the moon, the equinox, that sort of thing?' Flight was smiling. Rebus nodded slowly. `Hell, John, I've been through all that and more.' He went to a particular manila folder and tossed it towards Rebus. `Take a look. I've tried number patterns, distance between murder, sites, possible means of transport—the Wolfman's pretty mobile, you know, I think he must have a car. I've tried linking the victims, checking which school they went to, which libraries they used, whether they liked sports or discos or classical bloody music. Know what? They don't have anything in common, not a single thing linking the four of them save the fact that they were women.'

Rebus flicked through the file. It was an impressive amount of slogging, all to no end save that of clarification. Flight hadn't climbed the ladder to his present rank by a fluke, or by keeping in with his superiors, or by signifying greatness. He had got there by sheer hard work,

`Point taken,' said' Rebus. Then, because this didn't seem quite enough. `I'm impressed. Have you shown this lot to anyone else?'

Flight shook his head. 'It's guesswork, John. Straw-clutching. That's all. It would just confuse the issue. Besides, do you remember the story of the boy who cried wolf? One day, there really was a wolf there, but by then no one believed him because he'd given them so much crap before.'

Rebus smiled. `Still, it's a lot of work.'

`What, did you expect?' Flight asked. `A chimpanzee in a whistle? I'm a good copper, John. I may be no expert, but I'd never claim to be.'

Rebus was about to remonstrate, then frowned. `What's a whistle?" he said.

Flight threw back his head and laughed. `A suit, you plonker. Whistle and flute, suit. Rhyming slang. God sakes, John, we're going to have to educate you. Tell you what, why don't we go out for a meal ourselves tonight? I know a good Greek restaurant in Walthamstow.' Flight paused, a gleam in his eye. `I know it's good,' he said, ‘cos I've seen a lot of bubbles coming out of it.' His smile was inviting. Rebus thought quickly. Bubbles? Was the food gassy? Did they serve champagne? Rhyming slang. Bubbles.

`Bubble and squeak,' he said. Then a pause. `Greeks, right?'

`Right!' said Flight. `You're catching on fast. So what about it? Or Indian, Thai, Italian, you decide.'

But Rebus was shaking his head. `Sorry, George, prior engagement.'

Flight pulled his head back. `No,' he said, `you're seeing her, aren't you? That bloody psychiatrist. I forgot you told me at breakfast. You bloody Jocks, you don't waste any time, do you? Coming down here, stealing our women.' Flight sounded in good humour, but Rebus thought he detected something a little deeper down, a genuine sadness that the two of them couldn't get together for a meal.

`Tomorrow night, eh, George?'

`Yeah,' said Flight. `Tomorrow night sounds fine. One word of advice though?'

`What?'

`Don't let her get you on the couch.'

`No,' said Dr Lisa Frazer, shaking her head vigorously. `That's psychiatrists. Psychiatrists have couches, not psychologists. We're like chalk and cheese.'

She looked stunning, yet there was no alchemy involved in the process. She was dressed simply and wore no make-up. Her hair had been brushed straight back and tied with a band. Still, casually, elegantly, simply, she was stunning. She had been dead, on time at the hotel and had walked with him, her arm linked in his, along Shaftesbury Avenue, past the scene of his run-in with the patrol car. The early evening was warm, and Rebus felt good walking with her. Men were glancing towards them, okay, be honest, towards her. There might even have been a wolf whistle or two. It made Rebus feel good all the same. He was wearing his tweed jacket with an open-necked shirt and had the sudden fear that she would lead him to some fancy restaurant where men were not admitted without ties. That would be just his luck. The city teemed with nightlife, teenagers mostly, drinking from cans and calling to each other across the busy road. The pubs were doing good business and buses chugged grime into the air. Grime which would be falling unseen on Lisa Frazer. Rebus felt valiant. He felt like stopping all the traffic, confiscating, all the keys so that she could walk unsullied through the streets.

Since when did he think like that? Where had this tiny unpolished stone of romance come from? What desperate corner of his soul? Self-conscious, John. You're becoming too self-conscious. And if a psychologist didn't spot it, nobody would. Be natural, Be calm. Be yourself.

She brought him into Chinatown, a few streets off Shaftesbury Avenue, where the telephone boxes were shaped like oriental temples, supermarkets sold fifty year-old eggs, gateways were decorated like relics from Hong Kong and the street names were given in Chinese as well as English. There were a few tourists about, but mainly the pedestrianised walkway was filled with scuttling Chinese, their voices shrill. It was a different world, like something you would expect to ? HYPERLINK “http://find.in/”??find in? New York but never dream of finding in England. Yet he could look back along the street and still see the theatres on Shaftesbury Avenue, the red buses chug-chugging, the punks yelling obscenities at the tops of immature voices.

`Here we are,' she said, stopping outside a restaurant on the corner, of the street. She pulled open the door, gesturing for him to precede her into the air-conditioned chill. A waiter was upon them at once, showing them to a dimly-lit booth. A waitress smiled with her eyes as she handed them each a menu. The waiter returned with a wine list, which he placed beside Rebus.?

'Would you like a drink while you are deciding?' Rebus looked to Lisa Frazer for guidance. `Gin and tonic,' she said without hesitation.

`And the same for me,' said Rebus, then regretted it. He wasn't all that keen on gin's chemical smell.

`I'm very excited about this case, Inspector Rebus.'

`Please, call me, John. We're not in the station now.'

She nodded. `I'd like to thank you for giving me the chance to study the files. I think I'm already forming an interesting picture.' She reached into her clutch-purse and produced a collection of a dozen index cards held together with an outsize paper-clip. The cards were covered in lines of tiny neat handwriting. She seemed ready to start reading them. `Shouldn't we at least order first?' Rebus asked. She appeared not to understand, then grinned.

`Sorry,' she said. `It's just that I'm . . .'

'Very excited. Yes, you said.'

`Don't policemen get excited when they find what they think is a clue?''

`Almost never,' said Rebus, appearing to study the menu, `we're born pessimists. We don't get excited until the guilty party has been sentenced and locked up.'

`That's curious.' She held her own menu still closed. The index cards had been relegated to the table-top. `I'd have thought to enjoy police work you would need a level of optimism, otherwise you'd never think you were going to solve the case.'

Still studying the menu, Rebus decided that he'd let her order for both of them. He glanced up at her. `I try not to think about solving or not solving,' he said. `I just get on with the job, step by step.'

The waiter had returned with their drinks.

`You are ready to order?'

`Not really,' said Rebus, `could we have a couple more minutes?'

Lisa Frazer was staring across the table at him. It wasn't a large table. Her right hand rested on the rim of her glass, barely an inch from his left hand. Rebus could sense the presence of her knees almost touching his own under the table. The other tables in the restaurant all seemed larger than this one, and the booths seemed better lit.

`Frazer's a Scottish name,' he said. It was as good a line as any.

`That's right,' she replied. `My great grandfather came from a place called Kirkcaldy.'

Rebus smiled. She had pronounced the word the way it looked. He corrected her, then added, `I was born and brought up not far from there. Five or six miles, to be precise.'

`Really? What a coincidence. I've never been there, but my grandaddy used to tell me it was where Adam Smith was born.'

Rebus nodded. `But don't hold that against it,' he said. `It's still not a bad wee town.' He picked up his glass and swirled it, enjoying the sound of the ice chinking on the glass. Lisa was at last studying her menu. Without looking up, she spoke.

`Why are you here?' The question was sudden, catching Rebus off-balance. Did she mean here in the restaurant, here in London here on this planet?

`I'm here to find answers.' He was pleased with this reply; it seemed to deal with all three possibilities at once. He lifted his glass. `Here's to psychology.'

She raised her own glass, ice rattling like musical chimes. `Here's to taking things one step at a time.' They both drank. She studied her menu again. `Now,' she said, `what shall we have?'

Rebus knew how to use a pair of chopsticks, but perhaps tonight had just been the wrong time to try. He suddenly found himself unable to pick up a noodle or a sliver of duck without the thing sliding out of his grasp and falling back to the table, splashing sauce across the tablecloth. The more it happened, the more frustrated he became and the more frustrated he became, the more it happened. Finally, he asked for a fork.

`My coordination's all gone,' he explained. She smiled in understanding (or was it sympathy?) and poured more tea into his tiny cup. He could see that she was impatient to tell him what she thought she had discovered about the Wolfman. Over a starter of crabmeat soup the talk had been safe, guarded, had been of pasts, and futures, not the, present. Rebus stabbed his fork into an unresisting' slice of meat. `So what have you found?'

She looked at him for confirmation that this was her cue.

When he nodded, she put down her chopsticks, then pushed aside the paper-clip from her index cards and cleared her, throat, not so much reading from the cards, more using them as occasional prompts.

`Well,' she said, `the first thing I found revealing was the evidence of salt on the bodies of the victims. I know some people think it may be sweat, but I'm of the opinion that these are tear stains. A lot can be learned from any killer's interpersonal relationship with his or her victim.' There it was again: his or her. Her. `To me the tear stains indicate feelings of guilt in the attacker, guilt felt, moreover, not in reflection but at the actual time of the attack. This gives the Wolfman a moral dimension, showing that he is being driven almost against his will. There may well be signs of schizophrenia here, the Wolfman's dark side operating only at certain times.'

She was about to rush on but already Rebus needed time to catch up. He interrupted. `You're saying most of the time the Wolfman may seem as normal as you or me?'

She nodded briskly. `Yes, exactly. In fact, I'm saying that between times the Wolfman doesn't just seem as normal as anyone else, he is as normal, which is why he's been hard to catch. He doesn't wander around the streets with the word “Wolfman” tattooed across his forehead.'

Rebus nodded slowly. He realised that by seeming to concentrate on her words, he had an excuse for staring at her, face, consuming it with eyes more proficient than any cutlery. `Go on,' he said.

She flipped one card over and moved to the next, taking a deep breath. `That the victim is abused after death indicates that the Wolfman feels no need to control his victim. In some serial killers, this element of control is important Killing is the only time when these people feel in any kind of control of their lives. This isn't the case with the Wolfman. The murder itself is relatively quick, occasioning little pain or suffering. Sadism, therefore, is not a feature. Rather, the Wolfman is playing out a scenario upon the corpse.'

Again the rush of words, her energy, her eagerness to share her findings, all swept past Rebus. How could he concentrate when she was so close to him, so close and so beautiful? `What do you mean?'

`It'll become clearer.' She stopped to take a sip of tea. Her food was barely touched, the mound of rice in the bowl beside her hardly dented. In her own way, Rebus realised, she was every bit as nervous as he was, but not for the same reasons. The restaurant, though hectic, might have been empty. This booth was their territory. Rebus took a gulp of the still-scalding tea. Tea! He could kill for a glass of cold white wine.

`I thought it interesting,' she was saying now, `that the pathologist, Dr Cousins, feels the initial attack comes from behind. This makes the attacks non-confrontational and the Wolfman is likely to be like this in his social and working life. There's also the possibility that he cannot look his victims in the eye, out of fear that their fear would destroy his scenario.'

Rebus shook his head. It was time to own up. `You've lost me.'

She seemed surprised. `Simply, he's taking out revenge and to him the victims represent the individual against whom he's taking his revenge. If he confronted them face to face, he'd realise they're not the person he bears the grudge against in the first place.'

Rebus still felt a little bit lost. `Then these women are stand-ins?'

`Substitutes, yes.'

He nodded. This was getting interesting, interesting enough for him to turn his gaze from Lisa Frazer, the better to concentrate on her words. She was still only halfway through her cards.

`So much for the Wolfman,' she said, flipping to the next card. `But the chosen location can also say a lot about the inner life of the attacker, as can age, sex, race and class of the victims. You'll have noticed that they are all women, that they are mostly older women, women approaching middle age, and that three out of four have been white. I'll admit that I can't make much out of these facts as they stand. In fact, it was just the failure of pattern that made me think a little harder about location. You see, just when a pattern looks to be emerging, an element arises that destroys the precision: the killer attacks a much younger woman, or strikes earlier in the evening, or chooses a black victim.'

Or, Rebus was thinking, kills outside the pattern of the full moon.

Lisa continued, `I started to give some consideration to the spatial pattern of the attacks. These can determine where the killer may strike next, or even where he lives.' Rebus raised his eyebrows. `It's true, John, it's been proved in several cases.'

`I don't doubt it. I was raising my eyebrows at that phrase “spatial pattern”.' A phrase he'd heard before, on the loathed management course.

She smiled. `Jargon, yes. There's, a lot of it about. What I mean is the pattern of the murder sites. A canal path, a railway, line, the vicinity of a tube station. Three out of four take place near travel systems, but again the fourth case defeats the pattern. All four take place north of the river. At least there's some evidence of a pattern there. But—and this is my point—the non-emergence of a pattern seems to me in itself a conscious act. The Wolfman is making sure you have as little as possible to go on. This would indicate a high level of psychological maturity.'

`Yes, he's as mature as a hatter all right'

She laughed. `I'm being serious.'

`I know you are.'

`There is one other possibility!

'What's that?'

`The Wolfman knows how not to leave a trail because he is familiar with police work.'

`Familiar with it?'

She nodded. `Especially the way you go about investigating a series of murders.'

`You're saying he's a copper?'

She laughed again, shaking her head. `I'm saying he may, have prior convictions.'

`Yes, well,' he, thought of the file George Flight, had shown him a few hours earlier, `we've checked on over a' hundred ex-offenders already. No luck there.'

`But you can't possibly have talked to every man who has ever been convicted of rape, violent assault or the like.'

`Agreed. But there's something you seem to have overlooked the teeth marks. Those are very palpable clues. If the Wolfman is being so clever, why does he leave us a neat set of bite marks every time?'

She blew on her tea, cooling it. `Maybe,' she said, `the teeth are a—what do you call it—a red herring?'

Rebus thought about this. `It's' possible,' he conceded, `but there's something else.' I visited a dental pathologist today. From the marks made by the teeth, he said he couldn't rule out the possibility that the Wolfman is a woman.'

`Really?' Her eyes opened wide. `That's very interesting. I'd never even considered it.'

`Neither had we." He scooped more rice into his bowl. `So tell me why does he, or she, bite the victims?'

`I've given that a lot of thought.' She flipped to her final card. `The bite is always on the stomach, the female stomach, carrier of life. Maybe the Wolfman has lost a child, or maybe he was abandoned and consequently adopted and resents the fact. I don't know. A lot of serial killers have fragmented upbringings.!

'Mmm. I read all about it in those books you gave me.'

`Really? You read them?'

`Last night.'

`And what did you think?'

`I thought they were clever, sometimes ingenious.'

`But do you think the theories are valid?'

Rebus shrugged. `I'll tell you if and when we catch the Wolfman.'

She toyed with her food. again, but ate nothing. The meat in her bowl had a cold, gelatinous look. `What about the anal attacks, John. Do you have any theories there?'

Rebus considered this. `No,' he said finally, `but I know what a psychiatrist might say.'

`Yes, but you're not with a psychiatrist, remember. I'm a psychologist.'

`How can I forget? You said in your essay that there are thirty known serial killers active in the USA. Is that true?'

'I wrote that essay over a year ago. By now, there are probably more. Frightening, isn't it?''

He shrugged, the shrug disguising a shiver. `How's the food?' he asked.

`What?' She looked at her bowl. `Oh, I'm not really very hungry. To tell you the truth, I feel a little bit . . . deflated, I suppose. I was so excited at what I thought I'd managed to piece together, but in telling it all to you, I see that really there's not very much there at, all.' She was thumbing through the index cards.

`There's plenty there,' said Rebus. `I'm impressed, honest. Every little bit helps. Arid you stick to the known facts, I like that. I was expecting more jargon.' He remembered the terms from one of her books, the one by MacNaughtie. `Latent psychomania, Oedipal urgings, gobbledygook.'

`I could give you plenty of that stuff,' she said, `but I doubt it would help.'

`Exactly.'

'Besides, that's more in line with psychiatry. Psycholo?gists prefer drive theories, social learning theory,' multipha?sic personalities.' Rebus had clamped his hands over his ears.

She laughed again. He could make her laugh so easily. Once upon a time he'd made Rhona laugh too, and after Rhona a certain Liaison Officer back in Edinburgh. 'So what about policemen?' he asked, closing off the memory. `What can psychologists tell about us?'

`Well,' she said, relaxing, into her seat, 'you're extrovert, tough-minded, conservative.'

`Conservative?'

`With a small c’

'I read last night that serial killers are conservative, too.'

She nodded, still smiling. 'Oh yes,' she said, `you're alike in a lot of ways. But by conservative I mean specifically that you don't like anything that changes the status, quo. That's why you're reticent about the use of psychology. It interferes with the strict guidelines you've set yourselves. Isn't that so?'

`Well, I suppose I could argue, but I won't. So what happens now you've studied the Wolfman?'

`Oh, all I've done so far is scratch the surface.' Her hands were still on the index cards. `There are other tests to, be done, character analyses and so on. It'll take time.' She paused. `What about you?'

`Well, we'll plod along, checking, examining, taking it—'

`Step by step,' she interrupted.

`That's right, step by step. Whether I'll be on the case much longer or not. I can't say. They may send me ? HYPERLINK “http://back.to/”??back to? Edinburgh at the end of the week.'

`Why did they bring you to London in the first place?'

The waiter had come to clear away their dishes. Rebus sat back, wiping his lips with the serviette.

'Any coffees or liqueurs, sir?'

Rebus looked to Lisa. `I think I'll have a Grand Marnier,' she said.

`Just coffee for me,' said Rebus. 'No, hold on, what the hell, I'll have the same.' The waiter bowed and moved off, his arms heavy with crockery.

`You didn't answer my question, John.'

`Oh, it's simple enough. They thought I might be able to help. I worked on a previous serial killing, up in Edinburgh.'

`Really?' She sat forward in her chair, the palms of her hands pressed to the tablecloth. `Tell me.'

So he told her. It was a long story, and he didn't know exactly why, he gave her as many details as he did—more details than she needed to know, and more, perhaps, than he should be telling to a psychologist. What would she make of him? Would she find a trace of psychosis or paranoia in his character? But he had her complete attention, so he spun the tale out in order to enjoy that attention the more.

It took them through two cups of coffee, the paying of the bill, and a balmy night-time walk through Leicester Square, across Charing Cross Road, up St Martin's Lane and along Long Acre towards Covent Garden. They walked around Covent Garden itself, Rebus still doing most of the talking. He stopped by a row of three telephone boxes, curious about the .small white stickers covering every available inch of space on the onside of the booths; Stern corrective measures, French lessons; O and A specialist TV; Trudy, nymphet, Spank me, S/M chamber; Busty blonde—all of them accompanied by telephone numbers.

Lisa studied, them, too. `Every one a psychologist,' she said. Then: `That's quite a story you've just told, John. Has anyone written it up?'

Rebus shrugged. `A newspaper reporter wrote a couple of articles' Jim Stevens, Christ, hadn't he moved to London, too? Rebus thought again of the newspaper story Lamb had shown him, the unattributed newspaper story.

`Yes,' Lisa was saying, `but has anyone looked at it from your point of view?'

`No.' She looked thoughtful at this. `You want to turn me into a case study?'

`Not necessarily,' she said. 'Ah, here we are.' She stopped. They were standing outside a shoe shop in a narrow, pedestrianised street. Above the rows of shops were two storeys of flats. `This is where I live,' she said. 'Thank you for this evening. I've enjoyed it.'

`Thank you for the meal. It was great.'

`Not at all.' She fell silent. They were only two or three feet apart. Rebus shuffled his feet. `Will you be able to find your way back?' she asked. `Should I point you in the right direction?'

Rebus looked up and down the street. He was lost. He had not been keeping track of their meanderings. `Oh, I'll be all right.' He smiled and she smiled back but did not speak. `So this is it then,' he persisted. `No offer of a coffee?'

She looked at him slyly. 'Do you really want a coffee?'

He returned the look. `No,' he admitted, `not really.'

She turned from him and opened the door to the side of the shoe shop. The shop claimed to specialise in handmade and non-leather shoes. Beside the door to the flats was an entryphone boasting six names. One of them read simply `L Frazer'. No `Dr', but then, he supposed she wouldn't want to be disturbed by people needing a medical doctor, would she? There were times when a qualification was best kept under wraps.

Lisa drew the mortice key out of the lock. The stairwell was brightly lit, its plain, stone painted cornflower blue. She turned back towards him.

`Well,', she said, `since you don't want a coffee, you'd better come on up . . . '

She later explained, running a hand over his chest as they lay together in bed, that she saw no point in the little games people played, the slow edging towards a moment when both would admit that what they really wanted was to make love.

So instead she led Rebus up to her first floor flat, took him into the darkened room, undressed and got into bed, sitting with her knees tucked up in front of her.

`Well?' she said. So he had undressed, too, and joined her. She lay now with her arms reaching behind her to grab at the bedposts, her body dusky in the light cast from a street lamp outside. Rebus ran his tongue back up along the inside of her leg, the inner thigh, her legs supple. She smelt of jasmine, tasted of flowers more pungent still. Rebus was self-conscious at first. His own body had become an embarrassment, while hers was in fine, toned condition. (Squash and swimming, she told him later, and a strict diet.) He ran his fingers over the ripples, the corrugations in her flesh. There was some sagging to the skin above her stomach, some creasing to the sides of her breasts and to her throat. He looked down and saw his own distended chest. There was still some muscle to his stomach, but there was also excessive fleshiness; not supple, tired and ageing. Squash and swimming: he would take up some exercise, join a health club. There were enough of them in Edinburgh.

He was eager to please. Her pleasure became his only goal, and he worked tirelessly. There was sweat in the room now. A lot of sweat. They were working well together, moving fluidly, each seeming to sense what the other was about to do. When he moved slightly too quickly and bumped his nose on her chin, they laughed quietly, rubbing foreheads.' And when later he went in search of her fridge and cold liquid, she came too, popping an ice cube into her mouth before kissing him, the kiss extending downwards as she sank to her knees in front of him.

Back in bed, they drank chill white wine from the bottle and kissed some more, then began all over again.

The air between them had lost its nervous charge and they were able to enjoy themselves. She moved on top, rearing above him, her rhythm increasing until all he could do was he back and watch with his eyes closed, imagining the room in diffuse light, a cold spray of water, a smoothness of skin.'.

Or a woman. The Wolfman could be a woman. The Wolfman was playing with the police, seemed to know the way they thought and worked. A woman? A woman officer? Cath Farraday came to mind with her Teutonic face, that wide but angular jaw.

Jesus, here he was with Lisa, thinking of another woman! He felt a sudden pang of guilt, hitting him in the stomach a moment before a very different reaction arched his back and his neck, while her hands pressed down upon his chest, her knees clamped to his hips.

Or a woman. Why the teeth? Leaving. not a single, clue except those bites. Why? Why not a woman? Why not r a policeman? Or . . . or . . .

`Yes, yes.' Her breath escaped with a hiss, the word losing all meaning, as she repeated it ten, twenty, thirty times. Yes what?

`Yes, John, yes, John, yes . . . '

Yes.

It had been another busy day for her, a day spent pretending to be what she's not, but now she was out again, prowling. She is beginning to like the way she can move so smoothly through the two worlds. Earlier this evening she was the guest at a dinner party in Blackheath. Mock-Georgian elegance, stripped pine doors, talk of school fees and fax machines, of interest rates and foreign property—and the Wolfman. They asked for her opinion. Her opinion was reasoned, intelligent, liberal. There was chilled Chablis and an exquisite bottle of Chateau Montrose: the '82. She could not choose between the two, so enjoyed a glass of both.

One guest was late arriving, a journalist on one of the better dailies. He apologised. They asked for tidbits from the next day's news, and he supplied them generously. The sister paper to his own was a downmarket tabloid. He told them the next day's front page would have a headline reading SECRET LIFE OF GAY WOLFMAN. Of course, as the journalist knows, this is nothing more than a ruse, to try to bait the killer. And she knows too, naturally. They smile at one another across the table, as she lifts more pasta expertly with her fork. How stupid of them to run a story like that gay Wolfman indeed! She chuckles into her oversized wine glass. The conversation turns to motorway traffic, wine acquisition, the state of Blackheath Common. Blackheath, of course, is where they buried the plague victims, piling the corpses high. Black Death. Black Heath. One letter separates the two. She smiles at this, too, discreetly.

The meal over, she took a taxi back across the river and got out at the beginning of her street. She intended to go straight home, but walked past her door and kept on walking. She shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be out here, but it feels right. After all, the toy in the gallery must be lonely. It's always so cold in the gallery. So cold Jack Frost could bite off your, nose.

Her mother must have told her that. Her mother. Long nosehairs, Johnny, are so unbecoming in a gentleman. Or her father, singing nonsense songs while she hid herself in the garden. `Fuck art,' she hisses quietly to herself.

She knows where to go, too. Not far. The intersection of one road with a much larger one. There are many like it in London. Traffic lights, and a few women wandering back and forth, sometimes crossing at the lights so that the drivers can see them, can see their legs and their white bodies. If a car window is rolled down, a woman may lean down close to the driver so that they can discuss terms. Professional, but not very discreet. She knows that sometimes the police will make a rudimentary attempt to close down business, knows too that policemen are among the whores' best customers. That's why it's dangerous for her to come here. Dangerous but necessary: she has an itch, and women like these go missing all the time, don't they? No one gets suspicious. No one starts alarm bells ringing. Alarm bells are the last thing you need in this part of the city. Like with her first victim, by the time they got to her she was a meal for rats. Animal feed. She chuckles again, and makes to walk past one of these women, but stops.

`Hello, love,' says the woman. `Anything you want?'

`How much for the night?'

`For you, love, a hundred.'

`Very well.' She turns and starts back towards her own street, her own house, so much safer there than out here. The woman follows noisily a yard or two behind, seeming to understand. She does not let the woman catch up until she is at the front door and the key, is in the lock. The gallery beckons. Only it doesn't look like a gallery any more.

It looks like a butcher's block.

`Nice place you've got, love.'

She puts a finger to her lips. `No talking.' The woman begins to look suspicious, looks as though she's thinking twice about being here. So she goes to her and grabs at a breast, planting a clumsy, smeared kiss across puffy lips. The prostitute looks startled for a second, then manages a rehearsed smile.

`Well, you're certainly not a gentleman,' she says.

She nods, pleased' with this remark. The front door is locked now. And she goes to the door of the gallery, slips the key in, unlocks it.

'In here, love?' The woman is removing her coat as she walks across the threshold. The coat is down past her shoulders by the time she sees the room itself. But by then, of course, it's too late, far too late.

She moves in on her, like a trained worker on a production line. Hand over the mouth, good pressure on the knife and a quick backward arc before the thrust. She has often wondered if they see the knife, or are their eyes closed in terror by then? She imagines them with eyes bulging open, focussing on the knife as, point directed towards them, it swings back and then flies forward towards their face. She can find out, can't she? All she needs is a strategically placed wall-mirror. Must remember that for next time.

Gurgle, gurgle. The gallery is such a marvellous setting, poised between Apollo and Dionysus. The body slips to the floor. Time for the real work now. Her brain is humming—mummydaddymummydaddy mummydaddymummydaddy—as she crouches to her task.

`It's only a game,' she whispers, her voice a mere tremble at—the back of her throat. `Only a game.' She hears the woman's words again: certainly not a gentleman. No, certainly not. Her laughter is harsh and abrupt. Suddenly, she feels it again. No! Not already! Next time. The knife twitches. She hasn't even finished with this one. She can't possibly do another tonight! It would be madness. Sheer madness. But the craving is there, an absolute and unappeasable hunger. This time with a mirror. She covers her eyes with a bloodstained, hand.

Unknown

`Stop!' she cries. `Stop it, daddy!—Mummy! Make it stop! Please, make it stop!'

But that's the problem, as, she knows only too well. Nobody can make it stop, nobody will make it stop. On it must go, night after night now. Night after night. No letting up, no pausing for breath.

Night after night after night.