Tooth & Nail

Churchill

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

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

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

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

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

Unknown

`Excuse me, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Right you are.' The head disappeared, but only momentarily. `Can I get you a coffee or something?'

`Coffee would hit the spot,' said Rebus. `Thanks.'

`Milk? Sugar?'

`Just milk.'

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

`Come in,' he called.

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

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

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

`Please. Sit down.'

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

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

`Yes,' she said.

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

'Jan Crawford.'

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

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

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

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

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

Rebus nodded.

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

`Can what, Miss Crawford?'

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

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

`What do you mean, Jan?'

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

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

The kind of scar you made with a knife.

The first intended kill of the Wolfman.

`What do you think?'

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

`What do you think then?'

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

`Well?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Maybe. What matters is one did.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Maybe not,' Rebus conceded.

`What if she won't go public?'

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

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

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

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

`I could even get Lisa Frazer to give her some psychological tests?' Rebus suggested, not altogether with?out tongue in cheek. Flight smiled faintly.

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

'You don't like him then?'

`Whatever gives you that idea?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Do you have your car with you?'

Bennett was wary again. `Yes, sir.'

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

`To the West End, yes, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Sorry, sir?'

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

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

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

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

`Dillon's?'

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

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

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

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

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

Slash the throat.

Gouge the anus.

Bite the stomach.

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

There are clues everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`It's me, John.'

`Hello? I can't hear you!'

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

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

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

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

`Me too.'

`Oh?'

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

`Lamb?'

`That's it.'

Rebus's hate for Lamb intensified.

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

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

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

`Hello,' he murmured, kissing her.

`Hello,' she said, returning the kiss.

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

`Yes.'

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

'Fame at last.'

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

`So,' she asked, `how goes the investigation?’

‘A few interesting developments.'

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

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

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

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

`are you sorry?’

'You mean sorry it happened?' She nodded.

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

`What about you?'

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

`I went looking for you this morning at the university.'

She sat back, the better to study his face. `Really?'

He nodded.

`What did they say?'

`I spoke to some secretary,' he explained. `Glasses on a string around her neck, hair in a sort of a bun.'

`Millicent. But what did she tell you?'

'She just said you hadn't been around much.'

`What else?'

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

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

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

She was crawling away from him towards the bag.

`So what did you buy?'

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

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

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

`Do you approve?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Hello, Rhona.'

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

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

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

`I've caught you at a bad time,' he said. `Sorry.'

`No need to apologise.'

'Is Sammy in?'

`She's out with Kenny.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Is it any good?'

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

`A pint of that then, please.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`I said, have you got that?'

`Yes, sir.'

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

'Yes, sir.'

`It's a lead, you say?'

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

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

`Watkiss,' said Laine. `The address is Pedro Tower, Churchill Estate, E5, I think that's Hackney.'

`Thank you, sir,' said Rebus.

`Oh by the way,' said Laine, 'Inspector Rebus?'

`Yes, sir?'

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

`Bit rough is it then, sir?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Fair enough,' said Rebus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Yeah?'

`Is this Pedro Tower?'

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

`Thank you.'

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

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

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

Why was he here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scared because he was getting old.

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

And by God he felt it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Never mind that,' said his Samaritan.

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

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

They didn't bother phoning the police.

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

And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner.

`All the best, eh?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

`You all right there, Jock?'

He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. `I'm all right. Oh yes, I'm quite all right.'

`Great. By the way, this one's from Harry at the bar.'

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

Unknown

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

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

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

`Mummy shouted at me.'

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

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

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

'Art? Fuck art!'

"How dare you!'

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

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

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

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

Sweetness . . . Oranges and lemons say the bells of . . .

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

Daddy's name: Johnny.

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

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

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

Back in his house.

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

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

`Only a game, sweet.'

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

`Where do you want me, love?'

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

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

And the Wolfman, showing teeth, smiles.