Tooth And Nail

by Ian Rankin

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

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

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

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

  ‘Hello, Cath,’ said Flight, trying to regain at least an outer shell of composure. ‘We were just …’

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

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

  ‘I hope George here is giving you an easy ride.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse.’

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

  ‘Cath,’ said Flight, ‘there’s no need for …’

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

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

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

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

  Dr Anthony Morrison. Tommy Watkiss.

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

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

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

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

  ‘Sir?’

  He turned to see one of the Murder Room team standing there. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Someone to see you, sir.’

  ‘Me?’

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

  Rebus considered this. ‘Who is it?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Inspector Rebus?’

  ‘That’s right. Dr Frazer, I presume?’

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

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

  ‘And you’re American,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Canadian actually.’

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

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘so, what can I do for you, Dr Frazer?’

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

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

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to try to put together a profile of the Wolfman.’

  ‘A profile?’

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

  ‘I’m wondering what’s in it for you, Dr Frazer.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘All right,’ he said, closing the thesis, ‘very interesting.’

  She seemed pleased. ‘And useful?’

  He hesitated before replying. ‘Perhaps.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Dr Frazer,’ she replied, ‘Lisa Frazer.’

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

  ‘Christ.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Not exactly. It’s just … evil.’

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

  Rebus looked up. ‘What’s worse than murder?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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