Tooth & Nail

Know This, Womin

He woke up in his hotel room, which was something in itself, bearing in mind that he had no idea how he'd got there. He was lying on his bed, fully clothed, his hands pressed between his legs. Beside him lay the carrier-bag full of books. It was seven o'clock and by the quality of the light streaming in through the uncurtained window, it was morning rather than evening. So far so good. The bad news was that his head seared with two kinds of pain, bad when he opened his eyes, unbearable when he closed them. With eyes closed, the world spun at an awkward tilt. With eyes opened, it merely floated on a different. plane.

He groaned, attempted to unglue his furred tongue from the roof of his mouth. Staggered to the sink and ran the cold tap for some moments, then, splashed his face and cupped his hand, lapping water from it the way a mongrel might. The water was sweet, chlorinated. He tried not to think of kidneys . . . seven sets of kidneys. Knelt by the toilet-pan and retched. The big white telephone receiver to God. What was the score? Seven brandies, six dark rums he'd lost count after that. He squeezed an inch-long strip of toothpaste onto his brush and scrubbed at his teeth and gums. Then, only then, did he have the courage to examine himself in the wall-mirror.

There were two kinds of pain. One from the hangover, the other from, the mugging. He'd lost twenty quid, maybe thirty. But the loss to his pride was above price. He held in his head a good description of a couple of the gang and especially the leader. This morning, he would give what he knew to the local station. His message would be clear: seek out and destroy. Who was he kidding? They'd rather protect their own villains than help an intruder from north of the border. Our man from north of the border. Jockland. Jock. But to let the gang get away with it was worse. What the hell.

He rubbed his jaw. It felt worse than it looked. There was a pale mustard bruise down one cheek and a graze on his chin. Good thing training shoes were all the rage. In the early 70s it would have been a steel-capped Airwear boot and he would not have been so chipper.

He was running out of clean clothes. Today, he would have either to buy some new bits and pieces or else find himself a laundrette. He had come to London intending to stay no more than two or three days. He'd thought that after that the Met would come to see that he could add nothing to the case. But instead here he was, coming up with possible leads, making himself' useful, getting beaten up, turning into an over-protective father, having a holiday romance with a psychology lecturer.

He thought about Lisa, about the way the secretary at University College had acted. Something jarred about the whole incident. Lisa, who slept so soundly, the sleep of a clear conscience. What was that smell? That smell creeping into his room? The smell of cooking fat mingled with toast and coffee. The smell of breakfast. Somewhere downstairs they were busy perspiring over the griddles, breaking eggs to sizzle beside thick sausages and grey-pink bacon. The thought sent Rebus's stomach on a tiny rollercoaster ride. He was hungry, but the thought of fried food repelled him. He felt his just-cleaned mouth turning sour.

When had he last eaten? A sandwich on the way to Lisa's. Two packets of crisps in the Fighting Cock. Christ, yes, he was hungry. He dressed quickly, making a mental note of what needed buying—shirt, pants, socks—and headed down to the dining-room clutching three paracetamol tablets in his hand. A fistful of dullers.

They weren't quite ready to start serving, but when he announced that he needed only cereal and fruit juice, the waitress (a different face each day) relented and showed him to a table set for one.

He ate two small packets of cereal. A cereal killer. Smiled grimly and went to the trestle table to help himself to more juice. Lots more juice. It had a funny artificial smell to it, and a' taste best described as `wersh'. But it was cold and wet and the vitamin C would help his head. The waitress brought him two daily papers. Neither contained anything of interest. Flight had not yet used Rebus's idea of the detailed description. Maybe Flight had passed it on to Cath Farraday. Would she sit on it out of spite? After all, she hadn't been too happy about his last little stunt, had she? Maybe she was holding, back on this one, just to show him that she could. Well, sod them. He didn't see anyone coming up with better ideas, with any ideas at all, come to that. Nobody wanted to make a mistake; they'd all rather sit on their hands than be seen to get it wrong. Jesus Christ.

When the first customer proper of the morning ordered bacon, eggs and tomatoes, Rebus finished his orange juice and left the restaurant.

In the Murder Room, he sat at one of the typewriters and prepared detailed descriptions of the gang members. His typing had never been proficient at the best of times, but today's hangover was compounded by an electronic type?writer of infernal complexity. He couldn't get the thing to set a reasonable line length, the tabs appeared not to work and every time he pressed a wrong key the thing bleeped at him.

`Bleep yourself,' he said, trying again to set it for single space typing.

Eventually, he had a typed description. It looked like the work of a ten-year-old, but it would have to do. He took the sheets of paper through to his office. There was a note from Flight on his desk.

`John, I wish you wouldn't keep disappearing. I've run a check on missing persons. Five women have been reported missing north of the river in the past forty-eight hours. Two of these could be explicable, but the other three look more serious. Maybe you're right, the Wolfman's getting hungrier. No feedback from the press stories yet though. See you when you've finished shagging the Prof.'

It was signed simply `GF'. How did Flight know where he'd been yesterday afternoon? An inspired guess, or something more cunning and devious? It didn't really matter. What mattered were the missing women. If Rebus's hunch were true, then the Wolfman was losing some of his previous control and that, meant that sometime soon he was bound to make a mistake. They need only goad him a little more. The Jan Crawford story might just' do that particular trick. Rebus had to sell the idea to Flight—and to Farraday. They had to be made to see that it was the right move at the right time. Three missing women. That would bring the count to seven. Seven murders. There was no telling where it would stop. He rubbed at his head again. The hangover was returning with a steel-tipped vengeance.

`John?'

She was standing in the doorway, trembling, her eyes wide.

`Lisa?' He rose slowly to his, feet. `Lisa, what is it? What's wrong?'

She stumbled towards him. There were tears in her eyes and her hair was slick with sweat. `Thank God,' she said, clinging to him. `I thought I'd never . . . I didn't know what to do, where to go. Your hotel said you'd already left. The Sergeant on the desk downstairs let me come up. He recognised me from the photo in the papers. My photo.' And then the tears came: hot, scalding, and loud. Rebus patted her on the back, trying to calm. her, wanting to know just what the hell had happened.

`Lisa,' he said quietly, `just tell me about it.' He manoeuvred her onto a chair, with his hand rubbing soothingly at her neck. Every bit of her seemed damp with perspiration.

She pulled her bag onto her lap, opened it, and drew from one of the three compartments a small envelope, which she handed silently to Rebus.

`What is it?' he asked.

`I got it this morning,' she said, `addressed to me by name and sent to my home.'

Rebus examined the typed name and address, the first class stamp, and the postmark: London EC4. The frank stated that the letter had been posted the previous morning.

`He knows where I live, John. When I opened it this morning, I nearly died on the spot. I had to get out of the flat, but all the time I knew that maybe he was watching me.' Her eyes filled with water again, but she threw back her head so that the tears would not escape. She fished in her bag and came out with some paper tissues, peeling off one so that she could blow her nose. Rebus said nothing.

`It's a death threat,' she explained.

`A death threat?'

She nodded.

`Who from? Does it say?'

`Oh yes, it says all right. It's from the Wolfman, John. He says I'm going to be next.'

It was a rush job, but the lab, when they heard the circumstances, were happy to cooperate. Rebus stood with hands in pockets watching them at work. There was the crackle of paper in his pocket. He had folded the description of the, gang members and tucked it away, perhaps for future use: for now, there were more important matters to attend to.

The story was straightforward enough. Lisa had been scared out of her wits by the letter, and more so by the fact that the Wolfman knew where she lived. She had tried contacting Rebus and when that failed had panicked, fleeing from her flat, aware that he might be watching her, might be about to pounce at any moment. The pity was, as the lab had already explained, she'd messed up the letter, gripping it in her hand as she fled, destroying, any fingerprints or other evidence that there might have been on the envelope itself. Still, they'd do their best.

If the letter was from the Wolfman and not from some new and twisted crank, then there might well be clues to be had from the envelope and its contents: saliva (used to stick down both flap and stamp), fibres, fingerprints. These were the physical possibilities. Then there were more arcane elements: the typewriter itself might be traceable. Were there oddities of speech or misspellings which might yield a clue? And what about that postmark? The Wolfman had outwitted them inn the past, so was the postal address another red herring?

The various processes involved would take time. The lab was efficient, but the chemical analyses could not be hurried. Lisa had come to the lab, too, as had George Flight. They were off in another part of the building drinking tea and going over the details for the fourth or fifth time, but Rebus liked to watch the lab boys at work. This was his idea of sleuthing. It also helped calm him, to watch someone working in such painstaking detail. And he certainly needed calming.

His plan had worked. He had, prodded and teased the Wolfman into action. He should, though, have realised the danger Lisa might be in. After all, her photo had been in the papers, as had her name. They had even mistakenly termed her a police psychologist—the very people who, according to the earlier planted story, had come to the conclusion that the Wolfman might be gay, or transsexual, or any of the other barbs they had used. Lisa Frazer had become the Wolfman's enemy, and he, John Rebus, had led her into it by the nose. Stupid, John, oh so very stupid. What if the Wolfman had actually tracked her to her flat and . . . ? No, no, no, he couldn't bear to think of it.

But though Lisa's name had appeared in the newspapers, her address had not. So how had the Wolfman found out her address? That was much more problematic.

And much more chilling.

She was ex-directory, for a start. But as he, knew only too well, this was no barrier to someone in authority, someone like a police officer. Jesus was he really talking about another police officer? There had to be other candidates: staff and students at University College, other psychologists—they would know Lisa. Then there were those groups who could have linked an address to a name: civil servants, the local council, taxmen, gas and electricity boards, the postman, the guy next door, numerous computers and mailshot programmes, her local public library. Where could he start?

`Here you are, Inspector.'

One of the assistants handed him a photocopy of the typed letter.

`Thanks,' said Rebus.

`We're testing the original at the moment, scanning for traces of anything interesting. We'll let you know.'

`Right. What about the envelope?'

`The saliva tests will take a little longer. We should have something for you in the next couple of hours. There was also the photograph, of course, but it won't photocopy too well. We know which paper it was from, and that it was cut out with a pair off fairly sharp scissors, perhaps as small as manicure scissors judging from the length of each cut.'

Rebus nodded, staring at the photostat. `Thanks again,' he said.

`No problem.'

No problem? That wasn't right; there were plenty of problems. He read through the letter. The typing seemed nice and even, as though the typewriter used was a new one, or a good quality model, something like the electronic machine he'd been using, this morning. As for the content, well, that was something else again.

GET THIS, I'M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.? WOLFMAN IS WHAT WOLFMAN DOES. WHAT WOLFMAN DOES NEXT IS THIS: HE KILLS YOU. DON'T WORRY, IT WON'T HURT. WOLFMAN DOES NOT HURT; JUST DOES WHAT WOLFMAN IS. KNOW THIS, WOMIN, WOLFMAN KNOWS YOU, WHERE YOU LIVE, WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE JUST TELL THE TRUTH AND NO HARM CAN CUM TO YOU.

On a piece of plain A4-sized paper, folded in four to get it into the small white envelope. The Wolfman had cut a picture of Lisa from one of the newspapers. Then he had, cut her head off and drawn a dark pencilled circle on her stomach. And this photograph of her trunk had accompa?nied the letter.

`Bastard,' Rebus hissed. `Jesus, you bastard.'

He took the letter along the corridor and up the stairs to the room where Flight was sitting, rubbing at his face again.

`Where's Lisa?'

`Ladies' room.'

`Does she seem . . . ?'

'She's, upset, but she's coping. The doctor's given her some tranqs. What have you got there?' Rebus handed over the copy. Flight read through it quickly, intently. `What the hell do you make of it?' he asked. Rebus sat himself down on a hard chair still warm from Lisa's presence. He reached out a hand and took the paper from Flight, then angled his chair so that both men could inspect the letter together.

`Well,' he said. `I'm not sure. At first sight, it looks like the work of a near-illiterate.'

`Agreed.'

`But then again, there's something artful about it. Look at the punctuation, George. Absolutely correct, right down to every comma. And he uses colons and semi-colons. What sort of person could spell “woman” as “womin”, yet know how to use a semi-colon?'

Flight studied the note intently, nodding. 'Go on.'

`Well, Rhona, my ex-wife, she's a teacher. I remember she used to tell me how frustrating it was that nowadays no one in schools bothered to teach basic grammar and, punctuation. She said that kids were growing up now with no need for things like colons and semi-colons and no idea at all of how to use them. So I'd say we're dealing either with someone who has been well educated, or with someone in middle age, educated at a time when punctuation was still taught in every school.'

Flight gave a half-smile. `Been reading your psychology books again I see, John.'

`It's not all black magic, George. Mostly it's just, to do with common sense and how you interpret things. Do you want me to go on?'

`I'm all ears.'

`Well,' Rebus was running a finger down the letter again. `There's something else here, something that tells me this letter is genuinely from the killer, and not the work of some nutter somewhere.'

`Oh?'

`Go on, George, where's the, clue?'

He held the paper out towards Flight. Flight grinned for a moment, then took it.

`I suppose,' he said, `you're talking about the way the writer refers to the Wolfman in the third person?'

`You've just named the tune in one George. That's exactly what I mean.'

Flight looked up. `Incidentally John, what the hell happened to you? Did you get in a fight or something? I thought the Scots gave up wearing woad a couple of years back?'

Rebus touched his bruised jaw. `I'll tell you the story sometime. But look, in the first sentence, the writer refers to himself in the first person. He's taken our homosexual jibe personally.' But in the rest of the letter, he speaks of the Wolfman in the third person. Standard practice with serial murderers.'

`What about the misspelling of homosexual?'

`Could be genuine, or it could be to throw us off the scent. “U” and “a” are at different ends of the keyboard. A two-fingered typist could miss the “a” if he was writing fast, if he was angry.' Rebus paused, remembering the, list in his pocket. `I speak from recent experience.'

`Fair enough.'

`Now look at what he actually' says: “Wolfman is what Wolfman does”. What the books say is that killers find their identity through killing. That's exactly what this sentence means.'

Flight exhaled noisily. `Yes, but none of this ? HYPERLINK “http://gets.us/”??gets us? any closer, does it?' He offered a cigarette to Rebus. `I mean, we can build up as clear a picture as we like of the bastard's personality, but it won't give us a name and address.'

Rebus sat forward in his chair. `But all the time we're narrowing down the possible types, George. And eventually we'll, narrow it down to a field of one. Look at this final sentence.''

“`Just tell the truth and no harm can cum to you,”' Flight recited.

`Skipping the pun, which is intriguing in itself, don't you think there's something very, I don't know, official sounding about that construction? Something very formal?'

'I don't see what you're getting at.'

`What I'm getting at is that it seems to me the sort of thing someone like you or me would say.'

`A copper?' Flight sat back in his chair. 'Oh, come on, John, what kind of crap is that?'

Rebus's voice grew quiet and persuasive. `Someone who knows where Lisa Frazer lives, George. Think about it. Someone who knows that kind of information or knows how to get it. We can't afford to rule out '

Flight stood up. 'I'm sorry, John, but no. I simply can't entertain the notion that . . . that someone some copper, could be behind all this. No, it's just not on.'

Rebus shrugged. `Okay, George, whatever you say.' But Rebus knew, that he had planted a seed now in George Flight's head, and that the seed would surely sprout. .

Flight sat down, again, confident, that this time he had won a point from Rebus. `Anything else?'

Rebus read the letter through yet again, sucking on his cigarette. He remembered how at school, in his. English class, he had loved writing summaries and close interpretations of texts. `Yes,' he said eventually. 'Actually there is. This letter seems to me more of a warning, a shot across the bows. He starts off by saying that he's going to kill, her, but by the end of the letter he's tempered that line. He says nothing will happen if she tells the truth. I think he's looking for a retraction. I think he wants us to put out another story saying he's not gay.'

Flight checked his watch. `He's in for another fright.'

`How do you mean?'

`The lunchtime edition will be hitting the streets. I believe Cath Farraday's put out the Jan Crawford story.'

`Really?' Rebus revised his idea of Farraday. Maybe she wasn't, a vindictive old bat after all. 'So now we're saying we've got a living witness, and he must realise it's a fact. I think it might just be enough to blow what final fuses he's got up here.' Rebus, tapped his head. `To send him barking mad, as Lamb would put it.'

`You reckon?'

`I reckon, George. We need everybody at their most alert. He could try anything.'

`I dread to think.'

Rebus was staring at the letter. `Something else, George. EC4: where's that exactly?'

Flight thought it over. `The City, part of it anyway. Farringdon Street, Blackfriars Bridge, all around there. Ludgate, St Paul's.'

`Hmm. He's tricked us before, making us see patterns where none exist. The teeth for example, I'm sure I'm right about them. But now that we've got him rattled—'

`You think he lives in the City?'

'Lives there, works there, maybe just drives through there on his way to work.' Rebus shook his head. He didn't yet want to share with Flight the image which had just passed through his, mind, the image of a motorcycle courier, based in the City, a motorcyclist with easy access to every part of London. Like the man in leathers he'd seen on the bridge that first night down by the canal.

A man like Kenny Watkiss.

`Well,'' he said instead, 'whatever, it's another piece of the jigsaw.'

`If you ask me,' said Flight, `there are too many pieces. They won't all fit.'

`Agreed.' Rebus' stubbed out the cigarette. Flight had already finished his own, and was about to light another. `But as the picture emerges, we'll know better which bits we can discard, won't we?' He was still studying the letter. There was something else. What was it? Something at, the back of his mind, lurking somewhere in memory . . . . Something stirred momentarily by the letter, but, what? If he stopped thinking about it, maybe it would come to him, the way the names of forgotten actors in films did.

The door opened

`Lisa, how are you?' Both men rose to offer her a seat, but she lifted a hand to show she preferred to stand. All three of them stood, a stiff triangle in the tiny box of a room.

`Just been sick again,' she said. Them' she smiled. `Can't be much more to bring up. I think I'm back to yesterday's breakfast already.' They smiled with her. She looked tired to Rebus, exhausted. Lucky she had slept so soundly yesterday. He doubted she'd get much sleep for the next night or ten, tranqs or not.

Flight spoke first. `I've arranged for temporary accommodation, Dr Frazer. The less people who know where, the better. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. We'll have a guard on you.'

`What about her flat?' asked Rebus.

Flight nodded. `I've got two men there keeping an eye on the place. One inside the flat itself, the other outside, both of them hidden. If the Wolfman turns up, they'll cope with him, believe me.'

`Stop talking as though I'm not here,' Lisa snapped. `This affects me too.'

There was a cold silence in the room.

`Sorry,' she said. She covered her eyes with her ringless left hand. `I just can't believe I was so scared back there. I feel—'

She tipped her head back again. The tears were too precious to be released. Flight placed a hand softly on her shoulder.

`It's all right, Dr Frazer. Really it is.' She gave a wry smile at this.

Flight kept on talking, feeding her with comforting words. But she wasn't listening. She was staring at Rebus, and he was staring back at her. Rebus knew what her eyes were telling him. They were telling him something of the utmost importance.'

Catch the Wolfman, catch him quickly and destroy him utterly. Do it for me, John. But just do it.

She blinked, breaking the contact. Rebus nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. She smiled at him, and suddenly her eyes were dry sparkling stones. Flight felt the change and lifted his hand away from her arm. He looked to Rebus for some explanation, but Rebus was studying the letter, concentrating on its opening sentence. What was it? There was, something there, something just beyond his line of vision. Something he didn't get.

Yet.

Two detectives, one of them extraordinarily burly, like the prop-forward from a rugby team, the other tall and thin and silent, came to the labs to take Lisa away with them, away to a place of safety. Despite vigorous protests, Rebus wasn't allowed to know the destination. Flight was taking all of this very seriously indeed. But before Lisa could go, the lab people needed her fingerprints and to take samples of fibres from her clothes, all for the purpose of elimination. The two bodyguards went with her.

Rebus and Flight, exhausted, stood together at the drinks machine in the long, brightly-lit hallway, feeding in coins for cups of powdery coffee and powdery tea.

`Are you married, George?'

Flight seemed surprised by the question, surprised perhaps that it should come only now. `Yes,' he said. `Have been the past twelve years. Marion. She's the second. The first was a disaster—my fault, not hers.'

Rebus nodded, taking hold of the hot plastic beaker by its rim.

`You said you'd been married, too,' Flight remarked.

Rebus nodded again.

`That's right.'

`So what happened?'

`I'm not really sure any more. Rhona used to say it was like the continental drift: so slow we didn't notice until it was too late. Her on one island, me on another, and a great big bloody sea between us.'

Flight smiled. `Well, you did say she was a teacher.'

`Yes, she still is actually. Lives in Mile End with my daughter.'

`Mile End? Bloody hell. Gentrified gangland, no place for any copper's daughter.'

Rebus smiled at the irony. It was time to confess.

`Actually, George, I've found out she's going out with someone called Kenny Watkiss.'

`Oh dear. Who is? Your missus or your daughter?'

`My daughter. Her name's Samantha.'

`And she's going out with Kenny Watkiss? How old is he?'

`Older than her. Eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He's a bike messenger in the City.'

Flight nodded, understanding now. `He was the one who shouted from the public gallery?' Flight thought for a moment. `Well, from what I know of the Watkiss family history, I'd say Kenny must be Tommy's nephew. Tommy's got a brother, Lenny, he's doing time just now. Lenny's a big softie, not like Tommy. He's in for fraud, tax evasion, clocking cars, naughty kites, I mean bad cheques. It's all fourth division stuff, but it mounts up, and when there's enough of it against you at any one sitting of the bench, well, it's odds on you'll go inside, isn't it?'

'It's no different in Scotland.'

`No, I don't suppose it is. So, do you want me to find out what I can about this bike messenger?'

`I already know where he stays. Churchill Estate, it's a housing estate in—'

Flight was chuckling. `You don't have to tell any copper in Greater London where Churchill Estate is, John. They use that place to train the SAS.'

`Yes,' said Rebus, 'so Laine said.'

`Laine? What's he got to do with it?'

In for a penny, thought Rebus. `I had Kenny's telephone number. I needed an address.'

`And Laine got it for you? What did you tell him it was for?'

`The Wolfman case.'

Flight flinched, his face creasing. `You keep forgetting, John, you're our guest down here. You don't go pulling stunts like that. When Laine finds out—'

`If he finds out.'

But Flight was shaking his head. `When he finds out. There's no ‘if' about it, believe me. When he finds out, he won't bother with you. He won't even bother with who's directly above you. He'll go to your Chief Super back in Edinburgh and give him the most incredible verbals. I've seen him do it.'

Do as good job, John. Remember, you're representing our force down there.

Rebus blew on the coffee. The notion of anyone giving 'verbals' to Farmer Watson was almost amusing. `I always did fancy getting back into uniform,' he said.

Flight stared at him. The fun was over. `There are some rules, John. We can get away with breaking a few, but some are sacrosanct, carved into stone by God Almighty. And one of them states that you 'don't muck around with someone like Laine just to satisfy your own personal curiosity.' Flight was angry, and trying to make a point, but he was also whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.

Rebus, not really caring any more, was half-smiling as he whispered back. `So what do I do? Tell him the truth? Oh hello there, Chief Inspector, my daughter's winching with someone I don't like. Can I have the young man's address, please, so I can go and belt him? Is that how I do it?'

Flight paused, then frowned. 'Winching?'

Now he too was smiling, though trying hard not to show it. Rebus laughed aloud.

`It means dating,' he said. `Next you'll be telling me you don't know what hoolit means.'

`Try me,' said Flight, laughing too.

`Drunk,' explained Rebus.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. Rebus thanked God for the linguistic barrier. between them, for without it there would be no easy jokes, jokes which broke the tension. There were two ways to defuse tension one was to laugh it away, the other was to resort to physical action. It was laugh or lash out. Once or twice now they had come near to trading punches, but had ended up trading grins instead.

Praise be for the gift of laughter.

`Anyway, I went to Hackney last night looking for Kenny Watkiss.'

`And you got those for your pains?' Flight was nodding towards the bruises. Rebus shrugged. `Serves you right. Someone once told me hackney's French for a nag. Doesn't sound French, does it? But I suppose it would explain the hackney carriage.'

Hackney, Nag. That horse in the British Museum, no bite. Rebus had to talk to Morrison about the bite marks.

Flight finished his drink first, draining the cup and tossing it into a bin beside the machine. He checked his watch.

`I better find a phone,' he said. `See what's happening back at base. Maybe Lamb will have found something on that Crawford woman.'

`That Crawford woman?' is a victim, George. Stop making her sound like a criminal.'

`Maybe she's a victim,' said Flight. 'Let's get our facts straight, before we go for the tea and sympathy routine. Besides, when did you join this little victim-support group of yours? You know the way we have to play this sort of thing. It isn't nice necessarily, but it means we don't get it wrong.'

`That's quite a speech.'

Flight sighed and examined the tips of his shoes. `Look, John, has it ever occurred to you that there might be another way?'

`The way of Zen perhaps?'

'I mean, a way other than your own. Or are the rest of us just thick, and you're the only policeman on the planet who knows how to solve a crime? I'd be interested to know.'

Rebus desperately did not want to blush, which is probably precisely why he did blush. He tried to think of a smart answer, but none came to mind right that second, so he kept silent. Flight nodded approval.

'Let's find that phone,' he said. Now Rebus found the courage he needed.

`George,' he said. `I need to know: who brought me here?'

Flight stared 'at him, wondering whether or not to answer. He pursed his lips as he, thought about it, and came up with an answer: what, the hell.

`I did,' he said. `It was my idea.'

'You?' Rebus seemed puzzled. Flight nodded confirmation.

`Yes, me. ' I suggested you to Laine and Pearson. A new head, fresh blood, that sort of thing.'

`But how in God's name did you know about me?'

`Well,' Flight was beginning to look sheepish. He made a play of `examining the, tips of his shoes again. `Remember I showed you that file, the one with all the guesswork in it? On top of that I did some background, reading on multiple murderers. Research, you could call it And I came across that case of yours in some newspaper clippings from Scotland Yard. I was impressed.'

Rebus pointed a disbelieving finger. `You were reading up on serial killers?'

Flight nodded.

`On the psychology of serial killers?'

Flight shrugged. `And other aspects, yes.' Rebus's eyes had widened.

`And all this time you've been having a dig at me, for going along with Lisa Frazer's—no, I don't believe it!’

Flight was laughing again. The apparently arch anti-psychologist revealed in his true light. `I had to examine every angle,' he said, watching as Rebus, having finished his coffee, tossed the cup into a waste-bin. `Now come on, we really should make that phone call.'

Rebus was still shaking his head as he followed Flight down the hall. But though he appeared to be in good humour, his brain was more active than ever. Flight had pulled the wool over, his eyes with consummate ease. How far did the pretence actually stretch? Was he now seeing the real Flight, or yet another mask? Flight whistled as he walked and kicked at an imaginary football. No, not George Flight, Rebus decided in an instant: never George Flight,

There was a telephone in the admin offices. There was also, seated at a desk having a conversation with one of the senior staff, Philip Cousins, immaculate in grey suit and burgundy tie.

`Philip!

`Hello there, George. How are things?' Cousins spotted Rebus. `And Inspector Rebus, too. Still lending a Caledonian hand?'

`Trying,' said Rebus.

`Yes, very,' rejoined Flight. 'So. what brings you here, Philip? Where's Isobel?'

`Penny's rather tied up, I'm afraid. She'll be sorry to have missed you, George. As for my presence here, I just wanted to double-check some facts on a murder case from last December. You might remember it, the man in the bathtub.'

'The one that looked like suicide?'

`That's right.' Philip Cousins's voice ? HYPERLINK “http://was.as/”??was as? rich and slow as double cream. Rebus reckoned that the word `urbane' had been invented with him in mind. 'I'm in court later today,' Cousins was saying, `Trying to help Malcolm Chambers pin the deceased's wife for manslaughter at the very least.'

`Chambers?' Flight shook his head. `I don't envy you that.'

`But surely,' Rebus interrupted, `you'll be on the same side?'

`Ah yes, Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, `you are quite correct. But Chambers is such a scrupulous man. He'll want my evidence to be water-tight, and if it isn't, then he's as likely to undo me as is the defence counsel. More likely, in fact. Malcolm Chambers is interested in the truth, not in verdicts.'

`Yes, said Flight, `I remember him having a right go at me once in the witness box, all because I couldn't recall offhand what kind of clock had been in the living-room. The case nearly crumbled there and then.' Flight and Cousins shared a comradely smile.

`I've just been hearing,' said Cousins, `that there's fresh evidence on the Wolfman case. Do tell.'

'It's beginning to come together, Philip,' said Flight. `It's definitely beginning to come together, due in no small part to my associate here.' Flight laid a momentary hand on Rebus's shoulder.

`I'm impressed,' said Cousins, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed.

`It was luck,'' said Rebus, as he felt he ought. Not that he believed what he was saying. Cousins's eyes on him were like packs of ice, so that the room temperature seemed to drop with every glance.

`So what do we have?'

`Well,' said Flight, 'we've got someone who claims she was attacked by the Wolfman but escaped from him.'

`Fortunate creature,' said Cousins.

`And,' continued Flight, `one of the . . . people helping us on the case this morning received a letter claiming to be from the Wolfman.'

`Good God.'

`We think it's kosher,' Flight concluded.

'Well,' said Cousins, `this is something. Wait till I tell Penny. She'll be thrilled.'

`Philip, we don't want it getting out—'

`Not a word, George, not a word. You know it's all one-way traffic with me But Penny should be told."

'Oh, tell Isobel by all means,' said Flight, `only warn her it's not to go any further.'

`Total secrecy,' said Cousins. I quite understand. Mum's the word. Who was it, by the way?' Flight appeared not to understand. `To whom was this threatening letter addressed?'

Flight was about to speak, but Rebus beat him to it. `Just someone on the case, as Inspector Flight says.' He smiled, trying to alleviate the brusqueness of his response. Oh yes, his mind was working now, working in a fever nobody had told Cousins the letter was threatening, so how did he know it was? Okay, it was simple enough to work out that it wouldn't exactly have been fan mail, but all the same.

`Well then,' said Cousins, choosing not to press for details. `And now gentlemen,' he scooped up two manila files from the desk and tucked them under his arm, then stood, the joints of his knees cracking with the effort, 'if you'll excuse me, Court Eight awaits. Inspector Rebus,' Cousins held out his free hand, `it sounds as though the case may be drawing towards its conclusion. Should we fail to meet again, give my regards to your delightful city.' He turned to Flight. `See you soon, George. Bring Marion round for supper some evening. Give Penny a tinkle and we'll try to find one night in the calendar when all four of us are free. Goodbye.'

`Bye, Philip.'

`Goodbye.'

`Goodbye.'

'Oh.'. Cousins had stopped in the doorway. `There is just one thing.' He turned pleading eyes on Flight ,'You don't have a spare driver, do you, George? It's going to be hell getting a taxi at this time of day.'

'Well,' Flight thought hard, then had an idea, `if you can hang on for a couple of minutes, Philip, I've got a couple of men here in the building.' He turned to Rebus, whose eyes had widened. `Lisa won't mind, will she, John? I mean, if her car drops Philip off at the Old Bailey?'

Rebus could do little but shrug.

`Excellent' said Cousins, clasping his hands together. `Thank you so much.'

`I'll take you to, them,' Flight said. `But first I need to make a phone call.'

Cousins nodded towards the corridor. `And I must visit the WC. Be back in a tick.'

They watched him leave. Flight was grinning, shaking his head in wonderment. 'Do you know,' he said, `he's been like that ever since I met him? I mean, the sort of ambassadorial air, the aged aristocrat. Ever since I've known him.'

`He's a gentleman all right,' said Rebus.

`But that's just the thing,' said Flight. `His background is every bit as ordinary as yours or mine.' He turned to the lab man. `All right if I use your phone?'

He did not wait for an answer, but started dialling straight away. `Hello?' he said into the receiver when he was finally connected. `Who's that? Oh, hello, Deakin, is Lamb there? Yes, put him on, will you? Thanks.' While he was waiting, Flight picked invisible threads from his trousers. The trousers were shiny from too many wearings. Everything about Flight, Rebus noticed, seemed worn: his shirt collar had an edge of grime to it and the collar itself was too tight, constricting the loose flesh of the neck, pinching it into vertical folds. Rebus found himself transfixed by that neck, by the tufts of grey sprouting hair where the razor had failed in its duty. Signs of mortality, as final as a hand around a throat. When Flight got off the phone, Rebus. would protest about sending Cousins off with Lisa. Ambassadorial Aristocrat. One of the earlier mass killers had been an aristocrat, too.

`Hello, Lamb? What have you found on Miss Crawford?' Flight listened, his eyes on Rebus, ready to communicate anything of interest. 'Uh-huh, okay. Mm, I see. Yes. Right.' All the time his eyes told Rebus that everything was checking out, that Jan Crawford was reliable, that she was telling the truth. Then Flight's eyes, widened a little. `What's that again?' And he listened more intently, moving his eyes from Rebus to study the telephone, apparatus itself `Now that is interesting.'

Rebus shifted. What? What was interesting? But Flight had again resorted to monosyllables.

'Uh-hu. Mmm. Well, never mind. I know. Yes, I'm sure.' His voice sounded resigned to something. `Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Yes. No, we'll be back in about, I don't know, maybe another hour. Right, catch you then.'

Flight held the receiver above the telephone, but did not immediately drop it back into its cradle. Instead, he let it hang there.

Rebus could contain his curiosity no longer. `What?' he said. `What is it? What's wrong?'

Flight seemed to come out of his daydream, and put down the receiver. `Oh,' he said, `it's Tommy Watkiss.'

`What about him?'

`Lamb has just heard that there isn't going to be a retrial. We don't know why yet. Maybe the judge didn't think the charges were worth all the aggro and told the CPS so.'

`Assault on a woman not worth the aggro?' All thought of Philip Cousins vanished from Rebus's mind.

Flight shrugged. `Retrials are expensive. Any trial is expensive. We cocked it up first time round, so we lose a second chance. It happens, John, you know that.'

`Of, course it happens. But the idea of a wake like Watkiss getting away with something like that—'

'Don't worry, he can't keep his nose clean for long. Breaking the law's in his blood. When he does something naughty, we'll have him, and I'll see to it there are no balls-ups, mark my words.'

Rebus sighed. Yes, it happened, you lost a few. More than a few. Incompetence or a soft judge, an unsympathetic jury or a rock-solid witness for the defence. And sometimes maybe the Procurator Fiscal thought a retrial not worth the money. You lost a few. They were like toothache.

`I bet Chambers is fuming,' Rebus said.

`Oh yes,' said Flight, smiling at the thought, `I bet he's got steam coming out of his bloody shirt-cuffs.'

But one person would be happy at least, Rebus was thinking: Kenny Watkiss. He'd be over the moon.

`So,' said Rebus, `what about Jan Crawford?'

Flight shrugged again. `She seems straight as a die. No previous, no record of mental illness, lives quietly, but the neighbours seem to like her well enough. Like Lamb said, she's so clean it's frightening.'

Yes, the squeaky clean ones often were. Frightening to a policeman the way an unknown species might be to a jungle explorer: fear of the new, the different. You got to suspect that everyone had something to hide: the schoolteachers smuggled in porn videos from their holiday in Amsterdam; the solicitors took cocaine on their weekend parties; the happily married MP was sleeping with his secretary; the magistrate had a predilection for underage boys; the librarian kept a real skeleton hidden in the closet; the angelic looking children had set fire to a neighbour's cat.

And sometimes your suspicions were correct.

And other, times' they weren't. Cousins was standing at the door now, ready to leave. Flight laid a hand softly on his arm. Rebus recalled that he'd meant to say something to Flight, but how to phrase it? Would it do to, say that Philip Cousins seemed almost too clean, with his surgeon's cold, manicured hands and his ambassadorial air? Rebus was wondering now, seriously wondering.

Since Flight had gone off with Philip Cousins to find Lisa and her protectors, Rebus went back to, the lab to hear the result of the first saliva test.

`Sorry,' said the, white-coated scientist. He looked not yet to be out of his teens. Beneath his lab coat, there lurked a black T-shirt decorated with the name of a heavy metal band. `I don't think we're going to have much luck. All we're finding so far is H2O, tap-water. Whoever stuck the envelope down must have used a wet sponge or a pad or one of those old-fashioned roller, things. No traces, of saliva at all.'

The breath left Rebus's lungs. `What about fingerprints?'

`Negative so far. All we've found are two sets which look like they're going to match Dr Frazer's. And we're not having any better luck with fibres or grease stains. I'd say the writer wore gloves. Nobody here has seen such a clean, speck-free job.'

He knows, Rebus was thinking. He knows everything we might try. So damned smart.

`Well, thanks anyway,' he said. The young man raised his eyebrows and spread his palms.

`I wish we could do more.'

You could start by getting a haircut, son, he thought to himself. You look too much like Kenny Watkiss. He sighed instead. `Just do what you can,' he said. `Just do what you can.’

Turning to walk away, Rebus felt a mixture of fresh rage and impotence, sudden savage frustration. The Wolfman was too good. He would stop killing before they could catch him, or he would simply go on killing again and, again and again. No one would be safe. And most of all, it seemed, Lisa would not be safe.

Lisa.

She was being blamed by the Wolfman for the story Rebus had invented. It had nothing to do with Lisa. And if the Wolfman should somehow get to her it would be Rebus's fault, wouldn't it?. Where was Lisa going? Rebus didn't know. Flight thought it was safer that way. But Rebus couldn't shake off the idea that the Wolfman might well be a policeman. Might well be any policeman. Might be the brawny detective or the thin and silent detective. Lisa had gone off with them thinking them her protection. What if she had walked straight into the clutches of . . .? What if the Wolfman knew exactly . . .? What if Philip Cousins . . .?

A loudspeaker, sounded from its recess in the ceiling.

`Telephone call for Inspector Rebus at reception. Telephone call for Inspector Rebus.

Rebus walked quickly down the rest of the corridor and through the swing-door at the end. He didn't know if Flight was still in the building, didn't care. His mind was filling with horrors: Wolfman, Lisa, Rhona, Sammy. Little Sammy, his daughter. She'd seen enough terror in her life. He'd been responsible before. He didn't want her to be hurt ever again.

The receptionist lifted the receiver as he approached, holding it out to him. As he grabbed it, she pressed a button on the dial, connecting him to the caller.

`Hello?' he said, breathlessly.

`Daddy?' Oh Christ, it was Sammy.

`Sammy?' Nearly yelling now. `What is it? What's wrong?'

`Oh, Daddy.' She was crying. The memory flashed in front of him, scalding his vision, Phonecalls. Screams.

`What is it, Sammy? Tell me!'

`It's,' a sniff, `it's Kenny.'

`Kenny?' He furrowed his brow. `What's wrong with him? Has he been in a crash?'

`Oh no, Daddy. He's just . . . just disappeared."

`Where are you, Sammy?'

`I'm in a call-box.'

`Okay, I'm going to give you the address of a police station. Meet me there. If you have to get a taxi, that's fine. I'll pay for it when you arrive. Understand?'

`Daddy.' She sniffed back tears. `You've got to find him. I'm worried. Please find him, Daddy. Please. Please!'

By the time. George Flight, reached reception, Rebus had already left. The receptionist explained as best she could, while Flight rubbed his jaw, encountering stubble. He` had argued with Lisa Frazer, but by Christ she'd been stubborn. Attractively stubborn, he had to admit. She'd told him she didn't mind bodyguards but that the idea of a `safe location' was out of the question. She had, she said, an appointment at the Old Bailey, a couple of appointments actually, interviews she was doing in connection with some research.

`It's taken me weeks to set them up,' she said, `there's no way I'm going to blow them out now!'

`But my dear,' Philip Cousins had drawled, `that's just where we're headed.' He was, Flight knew keen for a close to proceedings, glancing at his watch impatiently. And it seemed that Lisa and Cousins knew one another from the murder at Copperplate Street, that they had things in common, things they ? HYPERLINK “http://wanted.to/”??wanted to? talk about. That they were keen to be going.

So Flight made a decision. What did it matter after all if she did visit the Bailey? There were few better protected spots in the whole city. It was several hours yet until the first of her interviews, but that didn't really bother her. She did not, she said, mind hanging around in the `courthouse'. In fact, she rather enjoyed the idea. The two officers could accompany her, wait for her, then drive her on to whatever safe location Flight had in mind. This, at any rate, was Lisa Frazer's argument, an argument defended by Philip Cousins who could see `no flaw in the reasoning, m'lud'. So, to smiles on their part and a shrug on Flight's, the course of action was decided. Flight watched the Ford Granada roll away from him. the two officers in the front, Philip and Lisa Frazer in the back. Safe as houses, he was thinking. Safe as bloody houses.

Unknown

And now Rebus had buggered off. Oh well, he'd catch up with him no doubt. He didn't regret bringing Rebus down here, not a bit. But he knew it had been his decision, not one entirely endorsed by the upper echelons. Any balls-ups and it would be Flight's pension on the block. He knew that only too well, as did everyone else. Which was why he'd stuck so close to Rebus in the first few days, just to be sure of the man.

Was he sure of the man? It was, a question he would rather not answer, even now, even to himself. Rebus was like the spring in a trap, likely to jump no matter what landed on the bait. He was also a Scot, and Flight had never trusted the Scots, not since the day they'd voted to stay part of the Union . . .

`Daddy!'

And she runs into his arms. He hugs her to him, aware that he does not have to bend too far to accomplish this. Yes, she's grown, and yet she seems more childlike than ever. He kisses the top of her head, smells her clean hair. She is trembling. He can feel the vibrations darting through her chest and arms.

'Sshh,' he says. 'Ssshhh, pet, ssshhh.'

She pulls back and almost smiles, sniffs, then says, `You always used to call me that. Your pet. Mum never called me pet. Only you.'

He smiles back and strokes her hair. `Yes,' he says, `your mum told me off for that. She said a pet was a possession and that you weren't a possession.' He is remembering now. `She had some funny ideas, your mum'

`She still does.' Then she remembers why she is here. The tears well up anew in her eyes.

`I know you don't like him,' she says.

'Nonsense, whatever gives you that—'

`But I love him, Daddy.' His heart spins once in his chest. `And I don't want anything to happen to him.'

`What makes you think something's going to happen to him?'

`The way he's been acting lately, like he's keeping secrets from me. Mum's noticed it, too. I'm not just dreaming. But she said she thought maybe he' was planning an engage?ment.' She sees his eyes widen, and shakes her head. `I didn't believe it. I knew it was something else. I thought, I don't know, I just . . .'

He notices for the first time that they have an audience. Until now they might have been in a sealed box for all the notice he has taken of their surroundings. Now, though, he sees a bemused desk sergeant, two WPCs clutching paperwork to their bosoms and watching the scene with a kind of maternal glow, two unshaven men slumped in seats against the wall, just waiting.

`Come on, Sammy,' he says. `Let's go up to my office.'

They were halfway to the Murder Room before he remembered that it was not, perhaps, the most wholesome environment for a teenage. girl. The photos on the walls were only the start of it. A sense of humour was needed on a case like the Wolfman, and that sense of humour had begun to manifest itself in cartoons, jokes and mock-ups of newspaper stories either pinned to the noticeboards or taped onto the sides of computer screens. The language could be choice, too, or someone might be overheard in conversation with someone from forensics.

`. . . Torn . . . ripped her right . . . kitchen knife, they reckon . . . slit from ear . . . gouged . . . Anus . . . nasty bastard . . . makes some of them seem almost human.' Stories were swapped of serial killers past, of suicides scraped from railway lines, of police dogs playing ball with a severed head.

No, definitely not the place for his daughter. Besides, there was always the possibility that Lamb might be there.

Instead, he found a vacant interview room. It had been turned into a temporary cupboard while the investigation continued, filled with empty cardboard boxes, unneeded chairs, broken desk-lamps and computer keyboards, a heavy-looking manual typewriter. Eventually, the com?puters in the Murder Room would be packed back into the cardboard boxes, the files would be tidied away into dusty stacks somewhere.

For now, the room had a musty, barren feel, but it still boasted a light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, a table and two chairs. On the table sat a glass ashtray full of stubs and two plastic coffee cups containing a layer of green and black mould. On the floor lay a crushed cigarette packet. Rebus kicked the packet beneath some of the stacked chairs.

`It's not much,' he said, `but it's home. Sit down. Do you want anything?''

She seemed not to understand' the question. `Like what?'

`I don't know, coffee, tea?'

`Diet Coke?'

Rebus shook his head.

`What about Irn Bru?'

Now he laughed: she was joking with him. He couldn't bear to see her upset, especially over someone as undeserving as Kenny Watkiss.

`Sammy,' he asked, 'does Kenny have an uncle?'

`Uncle Tommy?'

Rebus nodded. `That's the one.'

'What about him?'

`Well,' said Rebus, crossing his legs, `what do you know about him?'

`About Kenny's Uncle Tommy? Not a lot.'

`What does he do for a living?'

`I think Kenny said he's got a stall somewhere, you know in a market.''

Lake Brick Lane market? Did he sell false teeth?

`Or maybe he just delivers to market stalls, I can't really remember.'

Delivers stolen goods? Goods given to him by thieves like the one they'd picked up, the one who had pretended to be the Wolfman?

`Anyway, he's got a few bob.'

`How do you know that?'

`Kenny told me. At least, I think he did. Otherwise how would I know?'

`Where does Kenny work, Sammy?'

`In the City.'

`Yes, but for which firm?'

`Firm?'

`He's a courier, isn't he? He must work for a company?'

But she shook her head. `He went freelance when he had enough regular clients. I remember he said that his boss at the old place was pissed off—' She broke off suddenly and looked up at him, her face going red. She'd forgotten for a moment that she was talking to her father, and not just to some copper. `Sorry, Dad,' she, apologised, `His boss was angry with him for taking away so much of the trade. Kenny was good, see, he knows all the shortcuts, knows which buildings are which. Some drivers get confused when they can't find some tiny alleyway, or when the numbers on a street don't seem to make sense.' Yes. Rebus had noticed that; how sometimes the street numbers seemed illogical, as though numbers had been skipped. `But not Kenny. He knows London like the back of his hand.'

Knows London well, the roads, the shortcuts. On a motorbike, you could cut across London in a flash. Tow-paths, alleys—in a flash.

`What kind of bike does he have, Sammy?'

`I don't know. A Kawasaki something-or-other. He's got one that he uses for work, because it's not too heavy, and another he keeps for weekends, a really big bike.'

`Where does he keep them? There can't be too many safe places around the Churchill Estate?'

`There are some garages nearby. They get vandalised, but Kenny's put a reinforced door on. It's like Fort Knox. I keep kidding him about it. It's better guarded than his. ' Her voice falls flat. `How did you know he lives on Churchill?'

`What?'

Her voice is stronger now, curious 'How did you know Kenny lives on Churchill?'

Rebus shrugged. `I suppose he told me, that night I met him round at your place.'

She's thinking back, trying to recall the conversation. But there's nothing there, nothing she can latch onto. Rebus is thinking, too.

Like Fort Knox. A handy place to store stolen gear. Or a corpse.

`So,' he says, pulling his chair a little further in to the table. 'Tell me what you think has happened. What do you think he's been keeping from you?'

She stared at the table-top, shaking her head slowly, staring, shaking, until finally: `I don't know.'

`Well, had you fallen out over anything? Maybe you'd been arguing?'

`No.’

'Maybe he was jealous?'

She gave a desperate laugh. `No.'

`Maybe he had other girlfriends?'

'No!'

When her eyes caught his, Rebus felt a stirring of shame inside him. He couldn't forget that she was his daughter; nor could he forget that he needed to ask her these questions. Somehow he kept swerving between the two careering into her.

`No,' she repeated softly. `I'd have known if there was someone else.'

`Friends, then: did he have any close friends?'

`A few. Not many. I mean, he talked about them, but he never introduced me.'

`Have you tried calling them? Maybe one of them knows something.'

`I only know their first names. A couple of guys Kenny grew up with, Billy and Jim. Then there was someone called Arnold. He used to mention him. And one of the other bike messengers, I think his name was Roland or Ronald, something posh like that.'

`Hold on, let me jot these down.' Rebus took notebook and pen from his pocket. `Right,' he said, `so that was Billy, Jim. What was the other one?'

'Roland or Ronald or something.' She watched him writing. `And Arnold.'

Rebus sat back in his chair. `Arnold?'

`Yes.'

'Did you ever meet Arnold?'

`I don't think so.'

`What did Kenny say about him?'

She shrugged. `He was just someone Kenny used to bump into. I think he worked the stalls, too. They went for a drink sometimes.'

It couldn't be the same Arnold, could it? Flight's bald sex-offender snitch? What were the chances? Going for a drink? They seemed unlikely supping companions, always supposing it was the same Arnold.

`All right,' Rebus said, closing the notebook. `Do you have a recent photo of Kenny? A good one, one .that's nice and sharp.'

`I can get one. I've got some back at the house.'

`Okay, I'll get someone to drive you home. Give them the picture and they'll bring it back to me. Let's circulate Kenny's description, that's the first thing to do. Meanwhile I'll do some snooping, see what I can come up with.'

She smiled. `It's not really your patch, is it?'

`No, it's not my patch at all. But sometimes if you look at something, or some place, for too long, you stop seeing what's there. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to see what's staring you in the face.' He was thinking of Flight, of the reason Flight had brought him down here. He was thinking, too, of whether he, Rebus, could muster enough clout to organise a search for Kenny Watkiss. Maybe not without Flight to back him up. No, what was he thinking of? This was a missing person, for Christ's sake. It had to be investigated. Yes, but there were ways and ways of investigating, and he could count on no preferential treatment, no favours, when it came to the crunch. `I don't suppose,' he asked now, `you know whether or not his bikes are still in the garage?'

`I took a look. They're both still there. That was when I started to get worried.'

`Was there anything else in the garage?' But she wasn't listening to him.

`He hardly ever goes anywhere without a bike. He hates buses and stuff He said he was going to name his big bike after . . . after me.'

The tears came again. This time he let her cry, though it hurt him more than he could say. Better out than in, wasn't that how the cliche went? She was blowing her nose when the door opened. Flight looked into the small room. His eyes said it all: you might have taken her somewhere better than this.

`Yes, George? What can I do for you?'

`After you left the lab,' the pause showed displeasure at not having been informed or left a message, `they gave me a bit more gen on the letter itself.

`I'll be with you in a minute.'

Flight nodded but directed his attention to Samantha. `Are you okay, love?'

She sniffed. `Fine, thanks.'

`Well,' he said archly, `if you do want to register a complaint against Inspector Rebus, see the desk sergeant!’

'Ach, get away, George,' said Rebus.

Sammy was trying to giggle and blow her nose at the same time, and making a bit of a mess of both. Rebus winked towards Flight who, having done as much as he could (and for which Rebus was grateful), was now retreating.

`You're not all bad, are you?' said Samantha when Flight had gone.

`What do you mean?'

`Policemen. You're not all as bad as they say.'

`You're a copper's daughter, Sammy. Remember that. And you're a straight copper's daughter. Be sure to stick up for your old dad. Okay?'

She smiled again. `You're not old, Dad.'

He smiled, too, but did not reply. In truth, he was basking in the compliment, whether it was mere flattery ? HYPERLINK “http://or.no/”??or no?. What mattered was that Sammy, his daughter Sammy, had said it.

`Right,' he said at last, `let's get you into a car. And don't worry, pet, we'll track down your missing beau.'

`You called me pet again.'

'Did I? Don't tell your mother.'

`I won't. And, Dad?'

`What?' He half-turned towards her just in time to receive her peck on the cheek.

`Thanks,' she said. `Whatever happens, thanks.'

Flight was in the small office of the Murder Room. After the close confines of the interview cupboard, this space had suddenly taken on a new, much larger dimension. Rebus sat himself down and swung one leg over the other.

`So what's this about the Wolfman letter?' he said.

`So,' replied Flight, `what's this about Kenny Watkiss disappearing?'

`You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine.'

Flight picked up a folder, opened it, took out three or four closely typed sheets of paper, and began to read.

`Typeface used is Helvetica. Unusual for personal correspondence, though used by newspapers and, magazines.' Flight looked up meaningfully.

`A reporter?' Rebu said doubtfully.

`Well, think about it,' said Flight. 'Every crime reporter in England knows about Lisa Frazer by now. They could probably find out where she lives, too.'

Rebus considered this. `Okay,' he said at last, `go on.'

'Helvetica can be found on some electronic typewriters and electric golfball machines, but is more commonly found on computers and word processors.' Flight glanced up. `This would correlate with density of type. The type itself is of very even quality . . . blab, blah, blah. Also, the letters line up neatly, suggesting that a good quality printer has been used, probably a daisywheel, suggesting in turn the use of a high quality word processor or word-processing package. However,' Flight went on, `the letter K becomes faint towards the tips of its stem.' Flight paused to turn the page. Rebus wasn't really paying a great deal of attention as yet, and neither was George Flight. Labs always came up with more information than was useful. So far, all Rebus had really been hearing was the chaff.

`This is more interesting,' Flight went on. `Inside the envelope particles were found which appear to be flecks of paint, yellow, green and orange predominating. Perhaps an oil-based paint: tests are still continuing.’

‘So we've got a crime reporter who fancies himself as Van Gogh?'

Flight wasn't rising to the bait. He read through the rest of the report quickly to himself. `That's pretty much it,' he said. `What's left is more to do with what they failed to find: no prints, no stains, no hair or fibres.'

`No personalised watermark?' Rebus asked. In detective novels, the personalised watermark would lead to a small family business run by an eccentric old man, who would recall selling the paper to someone called . . . And that would be it: crime solved. Neat, ingenious, but it seldom happened like that. He thought of Lisa again, of Cousins. No, not Cousins: it couldn't be Cousins. And besides, he wouldn't try anything with those two gorillas in attendance.

'No personalised watermark,' Flight was saying. `Sorry.'

`Oh well,' Rebus offered, with a loud sigh, `we're no further forward, are we?'

Flight was looking at the report, as though willing something, some clue, to grab his attention. Then: `So what's all this about Kenny Watkiss?'

`He's scarpered under mysterious circumstances. Good riddance, I'd say, but it's left Sammy in a bit of a state. I said we'd do what we could.'

`You can't get involved, John. Leave it to us.'

`I don't want to get involved, George. This one's all yours.' The voice seemed ingenuous enough, but Flight was long past being fooled by John Rebus. He grinned and shook his head.

`What do you, want?' he asked.

`Well,' said Rebus, leaning forward in his chair, `Sammy did mention one of Kenny's associates. Someone called Arnold who worked on a market stall, at least she thinks he works in or around a market.'

`You think it's my Arnold?' Flight thought it over. `It's possible.'

`Too much of a coincidence, you think?'

`Not in a city as small as this.' Flight saw the look on Rebus's face. `I'm being serious, actually. The small-time crooks, they're like a little family. If this was Sicily, you could cram every small-timer in London into a village. Everybody knows everybody else. It's the big-timers we can't pin. They keep themselves too much to themselves, never go down the pub shooting their mouths off after a couple of Navy Rums.'

`Can we talk to Arnold?'

`What for?'

`Maybe he knows something about Kenny.

'Even supposing he does why should he tell us?'

`Because we're police officers, George. And he's a member of the public. We're here to uphold law and order, and it's his duty to help us in that onerous task.' Rebus was reflective. `Plus I'll slip him twenty quid.'

Flight sounded incredulous. `This is London, John. A score can hardly get a round of drinks. Arnold gives good gen, but he'll be looking for a pony at least.' Now he was playing with Rebus, and Rebus, realising it, smiled.

`If Arnold wants a pony,' he said, `tell him I'll buy him one for Christmas. And a little girl to sit on it. Just so long as he tells me what he knows.'

`Fair enough,' said Flight. `Come on then, let's go find ourselves a street market.'