Tooth & Nail

Fibs

`You've got to be kidding!'

Rebus was too tired to be truly angry, but there was enough exasperation in his voice to worry the caller on the other end of the telephone, delegated to order Rebus to Glasgow.

`That case isn't supposed to be heard until the week after next.)

'They moved it,' says the voice.

Rebus groaned. He lay back on his hotel bed with the receiver pressed to his ear and checked his watch. Eight thirty. He'd slept soundly last night, waking at seven, dressed quietly so as not to disturb Lisa and had left her a note before making his exit. His nose had led him to the hotel with only a couple of wrong turnings along the way and now he had walked into this telephone call.

`They brought it forward,' the voice is saying. `It starts today. They need your testimony, Inspector.'

As if Rebus didn't know. He knows that all he has to do is go into the witness box and say he saw Morris Gerald Cafferty (known in the protection game as `Big Ger') accept one hundred pounds from the landlord of the City Arms pub in Grangemouth. It's as easy as that, but he needs to be there to say it. The case against Cafferty, boss of a thuggish protection and gaming racket, is not airtight. In fact, it's got more punctures than a blind dressmaker's thumb.

He resigns himself to it. Must it be? Yes, it must be. But there was still the problem of logistics.

`It's all been taken care of,' says the voice. `We did try phoning you last night, but you were never there. Catch the first available shuttle from Heathrow. We'll have a car meet you and bring you into Glasgow. The prosecution reckons he'll call you about half past three, so there's time enough. With any luck, you can be back in London by tonight.'

`Gee, thanks,' says Rebus, voice so thick with irony the words hardly escape into the air.

`You're welcome,' says the voice.

He found that the Piccadilly Line went to Heathrow, and Piccadilly Circus tube was right outside the hotel. So things started well enough, though the tube ride itself was slow and stifling. At Heathrow, he picked up his ticket and had just enough time for a dash into the Skyshop. He picked, up a Glasgow Herald, then saw the row of tabloids on another shelf: SECRET LIFE OF GAY WOLFMAN; SICK KILLER `NEEDS HELP' SAY POLICE; CATCH THIS MADMAN

Cath Farraday had done well. He bought a copy of all three papers as well as the Herald and made for the Departure Lounge. Now that his mind was working, he saw all around him people reading the same headlines and the stories below them. But would the Wolfman see the stories? And if so, would he or she make some kind of move? Hell, the whole thing might be about to crack open, and here he was heading four hundred miles north. Damn the judicial system, the judges and advocates and solicitors and all. The Cafferty case had probably been brought forward so that it would not interfere with a golf game or a school sports day. Some spoilt child's involvement with an egg-and-spoon race might be behind this whole breathless journey. Rebus tried to calm down, sucking in gulps of air and releasing them slowly. He didn't like flying as it was. Never since his days in the SAS, when they had dropped him from a helicopter. Jesus! That was no way to calm yourself.

'Will passengers for British Airways Super Shuttle flight —'

The voice was cool and precise, triggering a mass movement. People rose to their feet, checked their baggage and made for the gate just mentioned. Which gate? He'd missed the announcement. Was it his flight?' Maybe he should phone ahead so they would have the car waiting. He hated flying. That was why he had come down by train on Sunday. Sunday? And today was Wednesday. It felt like over. a week had passed. In fact, he'd been in London only two full days.

Boarding. Oh, Christ. Where was his ticket? He'd no luggage, nothing to worry about there. The newspapers wriggled beneath his arm, trying to break free and fall in a mess on the floor. He pushed them back together again, squeezing them tightly with his elbow. He had to calm down, had, to think about Cafferty, had to get everything straight in his mind, so that the defence could find no chink in his story. Keep to the facts, forget about the Wolfman, forget about Lisa, Rhona, Sammy, Kenny, Tommy Watkiss, George Flight . . . Flight! He hadn't notified Flight. They would wonder where he was. He'd have to phone when he landed. He should phone now, but then he might miss the shuttle. Forget it. Concentrate on Cafferty. They would have his notes ready for him when he arrived, so he could go through them before he entered the witness box. There were only the two witnesses, weren't there? The frightened publican, whom they had more or less coerced into giving evidence and Rebus himself. He had to be strong, confident and believable. He caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror as he made for the Departure Gate. He looked like he'd spent a night on the tiles. The memory of the night made him smile. Everything would be all right.

He should phone Lisa, too, just to say . . . what? Thank you, he supposed. Up the ramp now, the narrow doorway in front of him, flanked by smiling steward and stewardess.

`Good morning, sir.'

`Good morning.' He saw they were standing by a stack of complimentary newspapers. Christ, he could have saved himself a few bawbees.

The aisle was narrow too. He had to squeeze past businessmen who were stuffing coats, briefcases and bags into the luggage lockers above their seats. He found his own window seat and fell into it, wrestling with the seatbelt and securing it. Outside, the groundcrew were still working. A plane took off smoothly in the distance, the dull roar perceptible even from here. A plump middle-aged woman sat beside him, spread her newspaper out so that half of it fell onto Rebus's right leg, and began to read. She had offered no greeting, no acknowledgment of his existence.

FYT, madam, he thought to himself, still staring out of the window. But then she gave a loud 'tsk', prompting him to turn towards her. She was staring at him through thick-lensed spectacles, staring and at the same time rapping a finger against the newspaper.

`Nobody's safe these days,' she said, as Rebus examined the news story and saw that it was some fanciful piece about the Wolfman. `Nobody, I won't let my daughter out these nights. A nine o'clock curfew I told her, until they catch him. Even then you can never be sure. I mean, he could be anybody.'

Her look told Rebus that he, too, was not beyond suspicion. He smiled reassuringly.

`I wasn't going to go,' she went on, `but Frank—that's my husband—he said it was all booked so I should.'

`Visiting Glasgow, are you?'

'Not exactly visiting. My son lives there. He's an accountant in the oil industry. He paid for my ticket, so I could, see how he's getting on. I worry about him, what with being so far away and everything. I mean, it's a rough place Glasgow, isn't it? You read about it in the papers. Anything could happen up there.'

Yes, thought Rebus, his smile fixed, so unlike London, There was a sound like an electronic doorbell, and the Fasten Seatbelts sign came on, next to where the No Smoking sign was already lit. Jesus,' Rebus could kill for a cigarette. Was he in Smoking or No Smoking? He couldn't make out, and couldn't remember which he'd plumped for at the ticket desk. Was smoking allowed on airplanes these days anyway? If God had meant man to smoke at 20,000 feet, wouldn't he have given us all longer necks? The woman next to him looked to have no neck' at all. Pity the poor serial killer who tried cutting his way through that throat.

That was a terrible thing to think, God, please forgive me. As penance, he began to concentrate on the woman's conversation, right up until take-off, when even she was forced, to stop talking for a moment or two. Rebus, taking advantage of the situation, tucked his newspapers into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, leaned his head against the back of his own seat, and promptly fell asleep.

George Flight tried Rebus's hotel again from the, Old Bailey, only to be told that Rebus had ‘left in a hurry' earlier in the morning after asking how best to get to Heathrow.

`Looks like he's done a runner,' DC Lamb commented. `Frightened off by our consummate professionalism, I shouldn't wonder.'

`Leave off, Lamb,' growled Flight. `Mind you, it is a bit mysterious. Why would he leave without saying anything?'

`Because he's a Jock, with all due respect, sir. He was probably worried you were going to drop a bill into his lap.'

Flight smiled obligingly, but his thoughts were else?where. Last night Rebus had been seeing that psychologist, Dr Frazer, and now he was in a hurry to leave London. What had happened? Flight's nose twitched. He liked a good honest mystery.

He was in court to have a quiet word with Malcolm Chambers. Chambers was prosecuting counsel in a case involving one of Flight's snouts. The snout had been incredibly stupid, had been caught red-handed. Flight had told the man there was little he could do, but he would do what he could. The snout had given him a lot of very useful tips in the past year, helping put a few fairly nasty individuals behind bars. Flight guessed he owed the man a helping hand. So he would talk to Chambers, not to influence the prosecutor—that was unthinkable, naturally—but to fill in some details on the snout's useful contribution to police work and to society, a contribution which would come to a sad end should Chambers push for the maximum sentence.

Et cetera.

Dirty job, but someone had to do it and besides, Flight was proud of his network of informers. The idea of that network suddenly splintering was . . . well, best not to consider it. He wasn't looking forward to going to Chambers, begging bowl in hand. Especially not after the farce involving Tommy Watkiss. Watkiss was back out on the street, probably telling the story in pubs up and down the East End to a laughing chorus of hangers-on. All about how the arresting constable had said, `Hello, Tommy, what's going on here?' Flight doubted Chambers would ever forget it, or let Flight forget it. What the hell, best get the begging over and done with.

`Hello there.' It was a female voice, close behind him. He turned to face the cat like eyes and bright red lips, of Cath Farraday.

`Hello, Cath, what are you doing here?'

She explained that she was at the Old Bailey to meet with the influential crime reporter from one of the more upmarket dailies.

`He's halfway through covering a fraud case,' she explained, `and never strays too far from the courtroom.'

Flight nodded, feeling awkward in her presence. From the corner of his eye he could see that Lamb was enjoying his discomfort, so he tried to be brave and steeled himself to meet the full force of her gaze.

`I saw the pieces you placed in today's press,' he said.

She folded her arms. `I can't say I'm optimistic about their chances of success.'

`Do the reporters know we're spinning them a yarn?'

`One or two were a bit suspicious, but they've got a lot of hungry readers out there starving for want of another Wolfman story.' She unfolded her arms and reached into her shoulder-bag. `Ergo, they've got a lot, of hungry editors, too. I think they'll take any tidbit we throw them.' She had brought a pack of cigarettes from her bag, and, without offering them out, lit one, dropped the pack back into her bag and snapped the bag shut.

`Well, let's hope something comes of it.'

`You said this was all Inspector Rebus's idea?'

`That's right.'

`Then I'm doubtful. Having met him, I wouldn't, say psychology was his strong point.'

`No?'' Flight sounded surprised.

`He doesn't have a strong point,' broke in Lamb.

`I wouldn't go that far,' said Flight protectively. But Lamb merely gave that insolent grin of his. Flight’s was part embarrassed, part furious. He knew exactly what Lamb's grin was saying: don't think we don't know why you're sticking so close to him, why you two are so chummy.

Cath had smiled at Lamb's interruption, but when she spoke her words were directed at Flight: she did not deign to consort with the lower ranks. `Is Rebus still around?'

Flight shrugged. `I wish I knew, Cath. I've heard he was last seen heading off towards Heathrow, but he didn't take any luggage with him.'

'Oh well.' She didn't sound disappointed. Flight sud?denly shot a hand into the air, waving. Malcolm Chambers acknowledged the signal and came towards them, walking as though no effort whatsoever was involved.

Flight felt the need for introductions. `Mr Chambers, this is Inspector Cath Farraday. She's the Press Liaison Officer on Wolfman.'

`Ah,' said Chambers, taking her hand momentarily in his. `The woman responsible for this morning's lurid headlines?'

`Yes,' said Cath. Her voice had taken on a new, soft, feminine edge, an edge Flight couldn't recall having heard before. `Sorry if they spoiled your breakfast.'

The impossible happened: Chambers's face cracked into a smile. Flight hadn't seen him smile outside of the courtroom in several years. This really was a morning for surprises. `They did not spoil my breakfast,' Chambers was saying, `I found them highly entertaining.' He turned to Flight, indicating by this that Cath was dismissed. `Inspec?tor Flight, I can give you ten minutes, then I'm due in court. Or would you prefer to meet for lunch?'

'Ten minutes should suffice.'

`Excellent. Then come with me.' He glanced towards Lamb, who was still feeling slightly snubbed by Cath. 'And. bring your young man with you if you must.'

Then he was gone, striding on noisy leather soles across the floor of the concourse. Flight winked at Cath, then followed, Lamb silent and furious behind him. Cath grinned, enjoying. Lamb's discomfort and the performance Chambers had just put on. She'd heard of him, of course. His courtroom speeches were reckoned to be just about the most persuasive going, and he had even collected what could only be described as `groupies': people who would attend a trial, no matter how convoluted or boring, just to hear his closing remarks. Her own, little coterie of news reporters seemed bland by comparison.

So Rebus had scuttled off home, had he?' Good luck to him.

`Excuse me.' A short blurred figure stood before her. She narrowed her eyes until they were the merest slits and peered at a middle-aged woman in a black cloak. The woman was smiling. `You're not on the jury for court eight by any chance?' Cath Farraday smiled and shook her head. `Oh well,' sighed the usher, moving off again.

There was such a thing in law as a hung jury, but there were also ushers who would happily see some individual jurors, the rogue jurors, hung. Cath turned on her pointed heels and went off to fulfil her appointment. She wondered if Jim Stevens would remember he was meeting her? He was a good journalist, but his memory was like a sieve at times and seemed especially bad now he was to be a father.

Rebus had time to kill in Glasgow. Time to visit the Horseshoe. Bar, or walk through Kelvinside, or even venture down to the Clyde. Time enough to look up an old friend, always supposing he'd had any. Glasgow was changing. Edinburgh had grown corpulent these past few years, during which time Glasgow had been busy getting fit. It had a toned, muscular look to it, a confident swagger rather than the drunken stagger which had been its public perception for so long.

It wasn't all good news. Some of the city's character had seeped' away. The shiny new shops and wine bars, the bright new office blocks, all had a homogenous quality to them. Go to any prosperous city in the world and you would find buildings just like them. A golden hue of uniformity. Not that Rebus was grieving; anything was better than the old swampland Glasgow had been in the 50s, 60s and early 70s. And the people were more or less the same: blunt, yet wonderfully dry in their humour. The pubs, too, had not changed very much, though their clientele might come more expensively and fashionably dressed and the menu might include chilli or lasagne along with the more traditional fare.

Rebus ate two pies in one pub, standing at the bar with his left foot resting on the polished brass rail. He was biding his time. The plane had landed on schedule, the car had been waiting the journey into Glasgow had been fast. He arrived in the city centre at twenty minutes past twelve, and would not be called to give his evidence until around three.

Time to kill

He left the pub and took what he hoped might be a shortcut (though he had no ready destination in mind) down a cobbled lane towards some railway arches, some crumbling warehouse buildings and a rubble-strewn wasteland. There were a lot of people milling about here, and he realised that what he had thought were piles of rubbish lying around on the damp ground were actually articles for sale. He had stumbled upon a flea market, and by the look of the customers it was where the down and outs did their shopping. Dank unclean clothes lay in bundles, thrown down anywhere. Near them stood the vendors, shuffling their, feet, saying nothing, one or two stoking up a makeshift fire around which others clustered for warmth. The atmosphere was muted. People might cough and hack and wheeze, but they seldom spoke. A few punks, their resplendent mohicans as out of place as a handful of parrots in a cage of sparrows, milled around, not really looking like they meant to buy anything. The locals regarded them with suspicion. Tourists, the collective look said just bloody tourists.

Beneath the arches themselves were narrow aisles lined with stalls and trestle tables. The smell in here was worse, but Rebus was curious. No out-of-town hypermarket could have provided such a range of wares: broken spectacles, old wireless sets (with this. or that knob missing), lamps, hats, tarnished cutlery, purses and wallets, incomplete sets of dominoes and playing cards. One stall seemed to sell nothing but pieces of used soap, most of them looking as though they had come from public conveniences. Another sold false teeth. An old man, hands shaking almost uncontrollably, had found a bottom set he liked, but could not find a top set, to match. Rebus wrinkled his face and turned away. The mohicans had opened a game of Cluedo.

`Hey, pal,' they called to the stall-holder, `there's nae weapons here. Where's the dagger an' the gun an' that?'

The man looked at the open box. `You could improvise,' he suggested.

Rebus smiled and moved on. London was different to, all this. It felt more, congested, things moved too quickly, there seemed pressure and stress everywhere. Driving a car from A to B, shopping for groceries, going out for the evening, all were turned into immensely tiring activities. Londoners appeared to him to be on very short fuses indeed. Here, the people were stoics. They used their humour as a barrier against everything Londoners had to take on the chin. Different worlds. Different civilisations. Glasgow had been the second, city of the Empire. It had been the first city of Scotland all through the twentieth century.

`Got a fag, mister?'

It was one of the punks. Now, up close, Rebus saw she was a girl. He'd assumed the group had been all male. They all looked so similar.

`No, sorry, I'm trying to give up—'

But she had already started to move away, in search of someone, anyone, who could immediately gratify. He looked at his watch. It was gone two, and it might take him half an hour to get from here to the court. The punks were still arguing about the missing Cluedo pieces.

`I mean, how can you play a game when there's bits missing? Know what I mean, pal? Like, where's Colonel Mustard? An' the board's nearly torn in half, by the way. How much d'ye want for it?'

The argumentative punk was tall and immensely thin, his size and shape accentuated by the black he wore from tip to toe. 'Twa ply o' reek,' Rebus's father would have called him. Was the Wolfman fat or thin? tall or short? young or old? did he have a job? a wife? a husband even? Did someone close to him know the truth, and were they keeping quiet? When would he strike next? And where? Lisa had been unable to answer any of these questions. Maybe Flight was right about psychology. So much of it was guesswork, like a game where some of the pieces are missing and nobody knows the rules. Sometimes you ended up playing a game completely different to the original, 'a game of your own devising.

That was what Rebus needed: a new set of rules in his game against the Wolfman. Rules which would be to his benefit. The newspaper stories were the start of it, but only if the Wolfman made the next move.

Maybe Cafferty would get off this time, but there'd always be another. The board was always prepared for a fresh start.

Rebus gave his evidence and was out of the court by four. He handed the file on the case back to his driver, a balding middle-aged detective sergeant, and settled into the passen?ger seat.

`Let me know what happens,' he said. The driver nodded.

`Straight back to the airport, Inspector?' Funny how a Glaswegian accent could be made to sound so sarcastic. The sergeant had managed somehow to make Rebus feel his inferior. Then again, there was little love lost between east and west coasts. There might have been a wall dividing the two, such was their own abiding cold war. The driver was repeating his question, a little louder now.

`That's right,' said Rebus, just as loudly. `It's a jet-setting life in the Lothian and Borders Police.'

His head was fairly thrumming by the time he got back to the hotel in Piccadilly. He needed a quiet night, a night alone. He hadn't managed to contact Flight or Lisa, but they could wait until tomorrow. For now, he wanted nothing.

Nothing but silence and stillness, lying on the, bed and staring at the ceiling, his mind nowhere.

It had been one hell of a week, and the week was only halfway through. He took two paracetamol from the bottle he had brought and washed them down with half a glass of tepid tap-water. The water tasted foul. Was it true that London, water had passed through seven sets of kidneys before reaching the drinker? It had an oily quality in his mouth, not the sharp clear taste of the water in Edinburgh. Seven sets of kidneys. He looked at his cases, thinking of the amount of stuff he had brought with him, useless stuff, stuff he would never use. Even the bottle of malt sat more or less untouched.

There was a telephone ringing somewhere. His tele?phone, but he managed to ignore the fact for fully fifteen seconds. He growled and clawed at the wall with his hand, finally finding the receiver and dragging it to his ear. `This had better be good.'

`Where the fuck have you been?' It was Flight's voice, anxious and angry.

`Good evening to you too, George.'

`There's been another killing.'

Rebus sat up and swung his legs off the bed. `When?'

`The body was discovered an hour ago. There's something else.' He paused. `We caught the killer.'

Now Rebus stood up.

`What?'

`We caught him as he was running off.'

Rebus's knees almost failed him, but he locked them. His voice was unnaturally quiet. `Is it him?'

`Could be.'

`Where are you?'

`I'm at HQ We've brought him here. The murder took place in a house off Brick Lane. Not too far from Wolf Street.'

`In a house?' That was a surprise. The other murders had all taken place out of doors. But then, as Lisa had said, the pattern kept changing.'

`Yes,' said Flight. `And that's not all. The killer was found with money on him stolen from the house, and some jewellery and a camera.'

Another break in the pattern. Rebus sat down on the bed again. `I see what you're getting at,' he said. `But the method— ?’

'Similar, to be sure. Philip Cousins is on his way. He was at a dinner somewhere.'

`I'm going to the scene, George. I'll come to see you, afterwards.'

`Fine.' Flight sounded as though he had hoped for this. Rebus was scrabbling for paper and a pen.

`What's the address?'

`110 Copperplate Street.'

Rebus wrote the address on the back of his travel ticket from the trip to Glasgow.

`John?'

`Yes, George?'

`Don't go off again without telling me, okay?'

`Yes, George.' Rebus paused. `Can I go now?'

`Go on then, bugger off. I'll see you here later.'

Rebus put down the telephone and felt an immense weariness take control of him, weighting his legs and arms and head. He took several deep breaths and rose to his feet, then walked to the sink and splashed water on his face, rubbing a wet hand around his neck and throat. He looked up, hardly recognising himself in the wall-mounted mirror, sighed and spread his hands either side of his face, the way he'd seen Roy Scheider do once in a film.

`It's showtime.'

Rebus's taxi driver was full of tales of the Krays, Richardson and Jack the Ripper. With Brick Lane their destination, he was especially vociferous on the subject of `Old Jack'.

`Done his first prossie on Brick Lane. Richardson, though, he was evil. Used to torture people in a scrapyard. You knew when he was electrocuting some poor bastard, 'cos the bulb across the scrap yard gates kept flickering.' Then a low chuckle. A sideways flick of the head. 'Krays used to drink in that pub on the corner. My youngest used to drink in there. Got in some terrible punch-ups, so I banned him from going. He works in the City, courier sort of stuff, you know, motorbikes.'

Rebus, who had been slouching in the, back seat, now gripped the headrest on the front passenger seat and yanked himself forward. `Motorbike messenger?'

`Yeah, makes a bleeding packet. Twice What I take home a week, I'll tell you that. He's just bought himself a flat down in Docklands. Only they call them “riverside apartments” these days. That's a laugh. I know some of the guys who built them.' Every bloody shortcut in the book. Hammering in screws instead of screwing them. Plaster?board so thin you can almost see your neighbours, never mind hear them.'

`A friend of my daughter works as a courier in the City.'

`Yeah? Maybe. I know him What's his name?'

`Kenny '

`Kenny?' He shook his head. Rebus stared at where the silvery hairs on the driver's neck disappeared into his shirt collar. `Nah, I don't know a Kenny, Kev, yes, and a couple of Chrisses, but not Kenny.'

Rebus sat back again. It struck him that he didn't know, what Kenny's surname was. `Are we nearly there?' he asked.

`Two minutes, guv. There's a lovely shortcut coming up should save us some time. Takes us right past where Richardson used to hang out.'

A crowd of reporters had gathered outside in the narrow street. Housefront, pavement, then road, where the crowd stood, held back by, uniformed constables. Did nobody in London possess such a thing as a front garden? Rebus had yet to see a house with .a garden, apart from the millionaire blocks in Kensington.

`John!' A female, voice, escaping from the scrum of newsmen. She pushed her way towards him. He signalled for the line of uniforms to break momentarily, so as to let her through.

`What are you doing here?'

Lisa looked a little shaken. `Heard a newsflash,' she gasped. `Thought I'd come over.'

`I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Lisa.' Rebus was thinking of Jean Cooper's body. If this were similar . . .

`Any comment to make?' yelled one of the newsmen. Rebus was aware of flashguns, of the bright homing lamps attached to video cameras. Other reporters were shouting now, desperate for a story that would reach the first editions.

`Come on then,' said Rebus, pulling Lisa Frazer towards the door of number 110.

Philip Cousins was still dressed in dark suit and tie, suitably funereal. Isobel Penny was in black, too, a full length dress with long, tight sleeves. She did not look funereal. She looked divine. She smiled at Rebus as he entered the cramped living-room, nodding in recognition.

`Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, 'they said you might drop by.'

`Never one to miss a good corpse,' Rebus replied drily. Cousins, stooping over the body, looked up at him.

`Quite.'

The smell was there, clogging up Rebus's nostrils and lungs. Some people couldn't smell it, but he always could. It was strong and salty, rich, clotting, cloying. It smelt like nothing else on earth. And behind it lurked another smell, more bland, like tallow, candle-wax, cold water. The two contrasting smells of life and death.' Rebus was willing to bet that Cousins could smell it, but he doubted Isobel Penny could.

A middle-aged woman lay on the floor, an ungainly twist of legs and arms. Her throat had been cut. There were signs of a struggle, ornaments shattered and knocked from their perches, bloody handprints smeared across one wall. Cousins stood up and sighed.

`Very clumsy,' he said. He glanced towards, Isobel Penny, who was sketching on her notepad. `Penny,' he said, 'you look quite delightful this evening. Have I told you?'

She smiled again, blushed, but said nothing. Cousins turned to Rebus, ignoring Lisa Frazer's silent presence. `It's a copycat,' he said with another sigh, `but a copycat of little wit or talent. He's obviously read the descriptions in the newspapers, which have been detailed but inaccurate. I'd say it was an interrupted burglary. He panicked, went for his knife, and realised that if he made it look like our friend the Wolfman then he might just get away with it.' He looked down at the corpse again. `Not terribly clever. I suppose the vultures have gathered?'

Rebus nodded. `When I came in there were about a dozen reporters outside. Probably double that by now. We know what they want to hear, don't we?'

`I fear, they are going to be disappointed.' Cousins checked his watch. `Not worth going back to dinner. We've probably missed the port and cheese. Damned fine table, too. Such a pity.' He waved his hand in the direction of the body. `Anything you'd like to see? Or shall we wrap this one up, as it were?'

Rebus smiled. The humour was as dark as the suit, but any humour was welcome. The smell in the air had been distilled now to that of raw steak and brown sauce. He shook his head. There was nothing more to be done in here. But outside, outside he was about to create an outrage. Flight would hate him for it, in fact everybody would hate him for it. But hate was fine. Hate was an emotion, and without emotion, what else was left? Lisa had already staggered, out into the tiny hallway, where a police officer was trying awkwardly to comfort her. As Rebus came out of the room, she shook her head and straightened up.

`I'm fine,' she said.

`The first one always hits you hard,' said Rebus. `Come on, I'm going to try out a spot of psychology on the Wolfman.'

The huddle of reporters and cameramen had become a sizeable crowd, now including the interested and the curious amateurs. The line of uniformed policemen had locked arms in a small but unbreakable chain. The questions began. Over here! Can we ask you who you are? You were at the canal, weren't you? A statement—Anything to say—Wolfman—Is it—The Wolfman? Is it—Just a few words if—

Rebus had walked to within a few inches of them, Lisa by his side. One of the reporters had leaned close to Lisa, asking for her name.

`Lisa, Lisa Frazer.'

`Are you working on the case, Lisa?'

`I'm a psychologist.'

Rebus cleared his throat noisily. The reporters were like mongrels in a dogs' home, calming quickly when they realised it was their turn at last for the feeding bowl. He raised his arms, and they fell quiet.

`A short statement, gentlemen,' said Rebus.

`Can we just ask who you are first?'

But Rebus shook his head. It didn't matter, did it? They would know soon enough. How many Scottish coppers were working on Wolfman? Flight would know, Cath Farraday would know and the journalists would find out. That didn't matter. Then' one of them, unable to hold back, asked the question.

`Have you caught him?' Rebus tried to catch the man's eye, but every eye was silently asking the same thing. `Is it the Wolfman?'

And this time Rebus nodded. `Yes,' he said emphatically. `It's the Wolfman. We've caught him.' Lisa looked at him in dumb surprise.

More questions, yelled now, screeched, but the chain in front of them would not break and somehow they, did not think simply to walk around it. Rebus had turned away and saw Cousins and Isobel. Penny standing just outside the door of the house, rigid, unable to believe what they had just heard. He winked at them and walked with Lisa to where his cab still waited. The driver folded his evening paper and, stuck it down the side of his seat.

`You fairly got them going, guv. What did you say?'

`Nothing much,' said Rebus, settling back in his seat and smiling towards Lisa Frazer. `Just a few fibs.'

`Fibs!'

So this was what Flight looked like when he was angry. `Fibs!'

He seemed unable to believe what, he was hearing. `You call that a few fibs? Cath Farraday's going apeshit trying to calm those bastards down. They're like fucking animals. Half of them are. ready to go to print on this! And you call it “fibs”? You're off your trolley, Rebus.'

So it was back to `Rebus', was it? Well then, so be it. Rebus remembered that they'd promised they'd have dinner together this evening, but somehow he doubted the invitation still stood.

George Flight had been interviewing the murderer. His cheeks were veined with blood, his tie unknotted and hanging loose around his half unbuttoned shirt. He paced what floor, there was in the small office. Rebus knew that outside the closed door people were listening in a mixture of fear and amusement: fear at Flight's anger, amusement that Rebus was its sole recipient.

`You're the fucking limit.' Flight's anger had peaked; his voice had dropped by half a decibel. `What gives you the right—?’

Rebus slapped the desk with his hand. He'd had enough of this. `I'll tell you what gives me the right, George. The mere fact of the Wolfman gives me the right to do anything I think best.'

`Best!' Flight sounded freshly outraged. `Now I've heard it all. Giving the papers a, crock of shit like that is supposed to be “best”? By Christ, I'd hate, to see your idea of “worst”.'

Rebus's voice was every bit the equal of Flight's now, and rising. `He's out there somewhere and he's laughing his head off at us. Because he seems to know how we'll play every round, he's knocking hell out of us.' Rebus grew quiet. Flight was listening now, and that was what he wanted. `We need to get him riled, get him to lift his head over the trench he's hiding in so he can see what the fuck is going on. We need him angry, George. Not angry at the world. Angry at us. Because when he raises his head, we'll be ready to bite it off.

`We've already accused him of being everything from gay to a cannibal from Pluto. Now we're telling everyone he's been caught.' Rebus was reaching his point, his defence. He lowered his voice still further. `I don't think he'll be able to take that, George. Really I don't. I think he'll have to make contact. Maybe with the papers, maybe directly with us. Just to let us know.'

`Or kill again,' countered Flight. `That would let us know.'

Rebus shook his head. `If he kills again, we keep it quiet. Total media blackout. He gets no publicity. Everybody still thinks he's been caught. Sooner or later, he'll have to show himself.'

Rebus was completely calm now, and so was Flight. Flight rubbed both hands over his cheeks and down to his jaw. He was staring into space, thinking it over. Rebus did not doubt the plan would work. It might take time, but it would work. Basic SAS training: if you can't locate your enemy, make the enemy come to you. Besides, it was the only plan they had.

`John, what if the publicity doesn't bother him? Publicity or the lack of it?'

Rebus shrugged. He had no answer to that. All he had were case histories and his own instincts.

Finally, Flight shook his head. `Go back to Edinburgh, John,' he said tiredly. `Just do it' Rebus stared at him, not blinking, willing him to say something else. But George Flight simply walked to the door, opened it, and closed it behind him.

That was it then. Rebus released his breath in a long hiss. Go back to Edinburgh. Wasn't that what everyone had wanted all along? Laine? Lamb and the rest of them? Flight too, maybe. Even Rebus himself. He'd told himself he could do no good here. Well, he was doing no good, so why not go home?

The answer was simple: the case had grabbed him by the throat. There was no escaping it. The Wolfman, faceless, bodiless, had pressed a blade to Rebus's ear and was holding it there, ready to slice. And besides, there was London itself, full of its own. stories. Rhona. Sammy. Sammy and Kenny. Rebus had to remind himself that he was still interested in Kenny.

And Lisa.

Above all there was Lisa. The taxi had dropped her off at her flat. She had been quite pale, but insisted she was all right, insisted he go on without her. He should ring her, check she really, was okay. What? And tell her, he was leaving? No, he had to confront Flight. He opened the door and went into the Murder Room. Flight was not there. The curious faces looked at him from their desks, their telephones, their wallcharts and photographs. He looked at no one, but especially not at Lamb, who was grinning from behind a manila file, his eyes peering over at Rebus.

Flight was in the hallway outside, deep in discussion with the Duty Sergeant, who nodded and moved off. Rebus saw Flight sag, leaning his back against the wall, rubbing his face again. He approached slowly, giving George Flight an extra moment or two of peace and quiet.

`George,' he said. Flight looked up, smiled weakly.

`You never give up John, do you?'

`I'm sorry, George. I should have checked with you before I pulled a stunt like that. Block the story if you want.'

Flight gave a short humourless laugh. `Too late. It's been on the local radio news already. The other stations can't just sit back. It'll be on every local news report by midnight. It's your snowball, John. You started it running down the hill. All we can do now is watch it getting bigger and bigger.' He stabbed a finger into Rebus's chest. `Cath is going to be after your guts, lad. She's the one they'll blame, the one who'll have to apologise, who'll have the job of gaining their trust all over again.' Flight now wagged the finger backwards and forwards, then grinned. `And if anyone can do it, Inspector Cath Farraday can.' He checked his watch. `Right, I've let the bugger stew long enough. Time to get back to the interview room.)

'How's it going?'

Flight shrugged. `Singing like Gracie Fields. We couldn't stop him if we wanted to. He thinks we're going to pin all the Wolfman killings on him, so he's telling us everything he knows, and some things he's probably making up besides.'

`Cousins said it was a copycat, done to disguise a cocked up burglary.'

Flight nodded. `I sometimes think Philip's in the wrong game. This guy's a petty thief, not the bloody Wolfman. But I'll tell you what is interesting. He's told us he sells the stuff on to a mutual friend.'

'Who?'?

'Tommy Watkiss.'

`Well, well.'

`Coming?' Flight pointed along the corridor, towards the stairwell. Rebus shook his head.

`I want to make a couple of phone calls. I might catch you up later.'

`Suit yourself.'

Rebus watched Flight go. Sometimes it was only brute stubbornness that kept humans going, long after their limbs and intellect had told them to quit. Flight was like a footballer playing in extra time. Rebus hoped he could see the game out to its end.

They watched him as he walked back through the Murder Room. Lamb in particular seemed to peer at him from behind a report, eyes gleaming with amusement. There was a noise coming from his office, a strange tapping noise. He pushed open the door and saw on his desk a small toy, a grotesque plastic jaw atop two oversized feet. The jaw was bright red, the teeth gleaming white, and the feet walked to a clockwork whirr while the jaws snapped shut, then open, shut then open. Snap, snap, snap. Snap, snap, snap.

Rebus, furious at the joke, walked to the desk, lifted the contraption and pulled at it, his own teeth bright and gritted, until it snapped in two. But the feet kept on moving, stopping only when the spring had run down. Not that Rebus was noticing. He was staring at the two halves, the upper and lower jaws. Sometimes things weren't what they seemed. The punk at the Glasgow flea market had turned out to be a girl. And at the flea market they had been selling teeth, false plastic teeth. Like a supermarket pick-n-mix counter. Any size you liked. Christ, he should have seen it sooner!

Rebus walked quickly back through the Murder Room.

Lamb, doubtless responsible for the joke, seemed ready to say something until he saw the look on, Rebus's face, an urgent, don't-mess-with-me look. He ran along the corri?dor and down the stairs, down towards the euphemism known as an Interview Room. `A man is helping police with their enquiries.' Rebus loved those euphemisms. He knocked and entered. A detective was changing the tape in a recording machine. Flight was leaning across the table to offer a cigarette to a dishevelled young man, a young man with yellow bruising on his face and skinned knuckles.

`George?' Rebus tried to sound composed. `Could I have a word?'

Flight pushed back his chair noisily, leaving the cigarette packet with the prisoner. Rebus held open the door, indicating for Flight to move outside. Then he thought of something, and caught the prisoner's eye.

`Do you know somebody called Kenny? he asked.

`Loads.'

`Rides a motorbike?'

The young man shrugged again and reached into the packet for a cigarette. There was no answer forthcoming, and Flight was outside waiting, so Rebus closed the door.

`What was that all about?' asked Flight.

`Maybe nothing,' said Rebus. `Do you remember when we went to the Old Bailey, how someone shouted out when the case was stopped?'

'Someone in the public gallery.'

`That's right. Well, I recognised the voice. It's a teenager called Kenny. He's one of those motorcycle messengers.'

`So?'

'He's going out with my daughter.'

`Ah. And that bothers you?' Rebus nodded.

`Yes, a bit.'

`And that's what you want to see me about.'

Rebus managed a weak smile. `No, no, nothing like that.'

`So what's on your mind?'

`I was in Glasgow today, giving evidence. I had a bit of free time and went to a flea market, the sort of place tramps go to do their messages—'

'Messages?'

`Their shopping,' Rebus explained.

`And?'

`And there was a stall selling false teeth. Odds and sods. Top sets and bottom sets, not necessarily matching.' He paused to let those final three words sink home. `Is there someplace like that in London, George?'

Flight nodded. `Brick Lane for one. There's a market there every Sunday. The main road sells fruit, veg, clothes. But there are streets off, where they sell anything they've got. Bric-a-brac, old rubbish. It makes for an interesting walk, but you wouldn't buy anything.'

`But you could buy false teeth there?'

`Yes,' said Flight after a moment's thought. `I don't doubt it.'

`Then he's been cleverer than we thought, hasn't he?'

`You're saying the bite marks aren't real?'

`I'm saying they're not the Wolfman's teeth. The lower set smaller than the upper? You end up with a pretty strange jaw, as Doctor Morrison showed us, remember?'

`How can I forget? I was going to feed the pictures to the press.'

`Which is probably exactly what the Wolfman wanted. He goes to Brick Lane market, or at least to somewhere like it, and buys any upper and lower set. They don't match, but that doesn't matter. And he uses them to make those damned bite marks.'

Flight seemed dismissive, but Rebus knew the man was hooked. `He can't be that clever.'

`Yes he can,' persisted Rebus `He's had everything worked out from the start . . . from before the start! He's been playing with us like we, were clockwork, George.'

`Then we have to wait until Sunday,' Flight said thoughtfully. `Search every stall at every market, find the ones selling, false teeth there can't be many and ask.'

`About the person who bought a set of teeth without trying them for size!' Rebus burst out laughing. It was ridiculous. It was absolutely mad. But he was sure it was true, and he was sure the stall-holder would, remember, and would give a description. Surely most of the customers would try for size. It was the best lead they'd had so far, and it might just be the only one they'd need.

Flight was smiling too, shaking his head at the dark comic reality of it. Rebus held a closed fist in front of him, and Flight brought his open palm to rest beneath it. When Rebus opened his hand, the plastic chattering teeth fell into Flight's palm.

`Just like clockwork,' said Rebus. `What's more, we've got Lamb to thank.' He thought about this. `But I'd rather he didn't get to know.'

Flight nodded. `Anything you say, John. Anything you say.'

Back at his desk, Rebus sat in front of a fresh sheet of paper. The Wolfman had been too clever. Too clever by half. He thought of Lisa, of her notion that the killer might have a criminal record. It was possible. Possible, too, that the Wolfman simply knew how the police worked. So, he might be a policeman. Or work in forensics. Or be a journalist. A civil rights campaigner. Work in the law. Or write bloody scripts for television. He might just have done his reading. There were plenty of case histories in libraries and bookshops, plenty of biographies of murderers, tracing how they were caught. By studying them, you could learn how not to get caught. However hard Rebus tried he just couldn't whittle away at the list of possibilities The teeth might be yet another dead end. That was why they had to make the Wolfman come to them.

He threw down his pen and reached for the telephone, trying Lisa's number. But the phone just rang and rang and rang. Maybe she'd taken a couple of sleeping pills, or gone for a walk, or was a heavy sleeper.

`You stupid prick.'

He looked towards the open door. Cath Farraday was standing there, in her favourite position, against the jamb, arms folded. As if to let him know she'd been there for some time.

`You incredibly stupid little man.'

Rebus pinned a ' smile to his face. `Good evening, Inspector. How can I help you?'

`Well,' she said, coming into the room, `you can start by keeping your gob shut and your brain in gear. You never speak to the press. Never!' She was rearing over him now, looking ready to butt him in the face'. He tried to avoid her eyes, eyes sharp enough to cut a man open, and found himself staring instead at her hair. It, too, looked danger?ous.

`Do you understand me?'

'FYTP,' said Rebus, speaking without thinking.

`What?'

`Loud and clear,' he said. `Yes, loud and clear.'

She nodded slowly, not seeming completely convinced, then threw a newspaper onto the desk. He hadn't noticed the paper till now, and glanced towards it. There was a photograph on the front, not large bu large enough. It showed him talking to the reporters, Lisa standing nerv?ously by his side. The headline was larger: WOLFMAN CAUGHT? Cath Farraday tapped the photograph.

`Who's the bimbo?'

Rebus felt his cheeks growing red. `She's a psychologist She's helping on the case.'

Cath Farraday looked at Rebus as though he were something more than merely stupid, then shook her head and turned to leave. `Keep the paper,' she said. `There are plenty more where it came from.'

She sits with the newspaper in front of her. There are several more piled on the floor. She has the scissors in her hand. One of the reports mentions who the policeman is Inspector John Rebus. The report calls him an `expert' of serial murders. And another report mentions that standing to his left is a 'police psychologist, Lisa Frazer'. She cut around the photograph, then cuts another line, splitting Rebus from Frazer. Time and again she does this, until she, has two new neat piles, one of John Rebus, one of Lisa Frazer She takes one of the photographs of the psychologist and snips off her head. Then, smiling, she sits down to write a letter. A very difficult letter, but that doesn't matter. She has all the time in the world.

All the time.