by Ian Rankin
The coffee had arrived. Flight poured and drank a cup of it, then smacked his lips. ‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t think there’s anything in all this psychology stuff. It’s too much like guesswork and not enough like science. I like something tangible. A dental pathologist, now that’s tangible. That’s something you can get –’
‘Your teeth into?’ Rebus smiled. ‘The pun’s bad enough, but I don’t agree anyway. When was the last time a pathologist gave you a precise time of death? They always hedge their bets.’
‘But they deal in facts, in physical evidence, not in mumbo-jumbo.’
Rebus sat back. He was thinking of the character in a Dickens book he’d read a long time ago, a schoolteacher who wanted facts and nothing but. ‘Come on, George,’ he said, ‘this is the twentieth century.’
‘That’s right,’ said Flight. ‘And we don’t believe in soothsayers any more.’ He looked up again. ‘Or do we?’
Rebus paused to pour some coffee. He felt his cheeks tingling. Probably, they were turning red. Arguments did that to him; even casual disagreements like this were sometimes enough. He was careful to make his next utterance in a soft, reasonable voice.
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying policework is plodding, John.’ (Still on first name terms, thought Rebus: that’s good.) ‘And shortcuts seldom work. I’m saying don’t let your Hampton do your thinking for you.’ Rebus thought about protesting, but realised he wasn’t exactly sure what Flight meant. Flight smiled.
‘Rhyming slang,’ he explained. ‘Hampton Wick, prick. Or maybe it’s dick. Anyway, I’m just warning you not to let a good looking woman interfere with your professional judgment.’
Rebus was still about to protest, but saw that there was little point. Having voiced his thoughts, Flight seemed content. What’s more, maybe he was right. Did Rebus want to see Lisa Frazer because of the case, or because she was Lisa Frazer? Still, he felt the need to defend her.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘like I say, I’ve been reading the books she gave me and there are some good things in them.’ Flight looked unconvinced, goading Rebus into ploughing on. And as he fell for it, beginning to speak, he saw that Flight had played the same trick on him as he himself had played on the motorcycle messenger last night. Too late: he had to defend Lisa Frazer, and himself, even though everything he now said sounded stupid and half-baked to his own ears, never mind to Flight’s.
‘What we’re dealing with is a man who hates women.’ Flight looked at him in amazement, as though this were too obvious to need saying. ‘Or,’ Rebus went on quickly, ‘who has to take out his revenge on women because he’s too weak, too scared to take it out on a man.’ Flight admitted this possibility with a twitch of the head. ‘A lot of so-called serial killers,’ continued Rebus, his hand unconsciously grasping the butter-knife, ‘are very conservative – small c – very ambitious, but thwarted. They feel rejected from the class immediately above them, and they target this group.’
‘What? A prostitute, a shop assistant, an office worker? You’re saying they’re the same social group? You’re saying the Wolfman’s social group is lower than a tart’s? Leave off, John.’
‘It’s just a general rule,’ Rebus persisted, wishing he’d never started this conversation. He twisted the knife in his hand. ‘Mind you, one of the earliest serial killers was a French nobleman.’ His voice fell away. Flight was looking impatient. ‘All I’m saying is what’s in those books. Some of it may make sense, it’s just that we don’t have enough on the Wolfman yet to allow us to see what sense it’s all making.’
Flight finished another cup of coffee. ‘Go on,’ he said, without enthusiasm. ‘What else do the books say?’
‘Some serial killers crave publicity,’ said Rebus. He paused, thinking of the killer who had taunted him five years ago, who had led them all a merry chase. ‘If the Wolfman gets in touch with us, we’ve a better chance of catching him.’
‘Perhaps. So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying we should set some snares and dig some pits. Get Inspector Farraday to pass on a few tidbits to the press, all about how we suspect the Wolfman’s gay, or a transvestite. It can be anything, so long as it jars his conservatism, and maybe it’ll force him into the open.’
Rebus let go of the knife and waited for Flight’s response. But Flight wasn’t about to be rushed. He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. ‘Not a bad idea that,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m willing to bet you didn’t get it from your books.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe not exactly.’
‘I thought not. Well, let’s see what Cath says to it.’ Flight rose from his chair. ‘Meantime, on a less lofty plane of existence, I think I can take you straight to Tommy Watkiss. Come on. And by the way, thanks for breakfast.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Rebus. He could see Flight was unconvinced by his defence, such as it had turned out to be, of psychology. But then was it Flight he was trying to convince, or himself? Was it Flight he was trying to impress, or Dr Lisa Frazer?
They were passing through the foyer now, Rebus carrying his briefcase. Flight turned to him.
‘Do you,’ he said, ‘know why we’re called the Old Bill?’ Rebus shrugged, offering no answer. ‘Some say it’s because we’re named after a certain London landmark. You can try guessing on the way there.’ And with that Flight pushed hard at the rotating door which served as the hotel’s entrance.
The Old Bailey was not quite what Rebus had expected. The famous dome was there, atop which blindfolded Justice held her scales, but a large part of the court complex was of much more modern design. Security was the keynote. X-ray machines, cubicle-style doors which allowed only one person at a time into the body of the building and security men everywhere. The windows were coated with adhesive tape so that any explosion would not send lethal shards of glass flying into the concourse. Inside, ushers (all of them women) dressed in flapping black cloaks ran around trying to gather up stray juries.
‘Any jurors for court number four?’
‘Jurors for court number twelve, please!’
All the time a PA system announced the names of missing single jurors. It was the busy beginning of another judicial day. Witnesses smoked cigarettes, worried-looking barristers, weighed down by documents, held whispered dialogues with dull-eyed clients, and police officers waited nervously to give evidence.
‘This is where we win or lose, John,’ said Flight. Rebus couldn’t be sure whether he was referring to the courtrooms or to the concourse itself. On floors above them were administrative offices, robing rooms, restaurants. But this floor was where cases were held and decided. Through some doors to their left was the older, domed part of the Old Bailey, a darker, more forbidding place than this bright marbled gallery. The place echoed with the squealing of leather soled shoes, the clack-clack-clacking of heels on the solid floor and the constant murmur of conversation.
‘Come on,’ said Flight. He was leading them towards one of the courtrooms, where he had a word with the guard and one of the clerks before ushering Rebus into the court itself.
If stone and black leather predominated in the concourse, then the courtroom belonged to wood panelling and green leather. They sat on two chairs just inside the door, joining DC Lamb, already seated there, unsmiling, arms folded. He did not greet them, but leaned across to whisper, ‘We’re going to nail the cunt’, before stiffening into his former position.
On the other side of the room sat the twelve jurors, looking bored already, faces numb and unthinking. To the back of the court stood the defendant, hands resting on the rail in front of him, a man of about forty with short, wiry silver and black hair, his face like something hewn from stone, his open-necked shirt a sign of arrogance. He had the dock to himself, there being no police officer on guard.
Some distance in front of him, the lawyers sorted through their papers, watched by assistants and solicitors. The defence
counsel was a thick-set and tired-looking man, his face grey (as was his hair), gnawing on a cheap ballpoint. The prosecutor, however, was much more confident looking, tall (if stout), dressed immaculately and with the glow of the righteous upon him. His pen was an intricate fountain affair and he wrote with a flourish, his mouth set as defiantly as any Churchill impersonator. He reminded Rebus of how television liked to think of QCs, Rumpole aside.
Directly overhead was the public gallery. He could hear the muffled shuffling of feet. It had always worried Rebus that those in the public gallery had a clear view of the jury. Here, the court had been designed in such a way that they stared directly down and onto the jurors, making intimidation and identification that much easier. He’d dealt with several cases of jurors being approached at day’s end by some relative of the accused, ready with a wad of notes or a clenched fist.
The judge looked imperious as he pored over some papers in front of him, while just below him the Clerk of Court spoke in hushed tones into a telephone receiver. From the time it was taking to begin proceedings, Rebus realised two things. One was that the case was continuing, not beginning; the other was that some Point of Law had been placed before the judge, which the judge was now considering.
‘Here, seen this?’ Lamb was offering a tabloid to Flight. The newspaper had been folded to a quarter of its size and Lamb tapped one column as he passed it to his superior. Flight read quickly, glancing up at Rebus once or twice, then handed the paper to Rebus with a hint of a smile.
‘Here you go, expert.’
Rebus read through the unattributed piece. Basically, it concerned itself with the progress or lack of it on the Jean Cooper murder inquiry. But the closing paragraph was the killer: ‘The team investigating what have come to be known as the “Wolfman Murders” are being assisted by an expert on serial killers, drafted in from another police force.’
Rebus stared at the newsprint without really seeing it. Surely Cath Farraday wouldn’t have? But then how else had the newspaper got to know? He kept his eyes on the page, aware that both Flight and Lamb were looking at him. He couldn’t believe it: him, an expert! Whether it was true or not – and it wasn’t – didn’t really matter now. What mattered was that results would be expected from him, results above the norm. Yet he knew he couldn’t deliver and in not delivering he would be made to look a laughing stock. No wonder those two pairs of eyes burned into his head. No hard-working policeman liked to be usurped by ‘experts’. Rebus didn’t like it himself. He didn’t like any of it!
Flight saw the pained expression on Rebus’s face and felt sorry for the man. Lamb, however, was smirking, enjoying Rebus’s agony. He accepted his newspaper from Rebus and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
‘Thought you’d be interested,’ he said.
The judge finally looked up, his attention fixed on the jury. ‘Members of the jury,’ he began, ‘it has been brought to my attention in the case of Crown versus Thomas Watkiss that the evidence of Police Constable Mills contained a passage which may have lodged in your minds, influencing your objectivity.’
So, the man in the dock was Tommy Watkiss, Maria’s husband. Rebus studied him again, shaking his mind clear of the news story. Watkiss’s face was a curious shape, the top half much wider than the cheekbones and jaw, which fell almost to a point. He had the look of an old boxer who had suffered one dislocated jaw too many. The judge was going on about some cock-up in the police case. The arresting constable had given evidence stating that his first words on reaching the accused had been ‘Hello, Tommy, what’s going on here?’ By giving this in evidence, he had let the jury know that Watkiss was well known to the local constabulary, something which might well influence their judgment. The judge was therefore ordering the jury to be dismissed.
‘Good on ya, Tommy!’ came a cry from the public gallery, quickly silenced by a glare from the judge. Rebus wondered where he had heard the voice before.
As the court rose, Rebus stepped forward a few paces and turned to look up at the balcony. The spectators had risen, too, and in the front row Rebus could see a young man dressed in bike leathers and carrying a crash-helmet, grinning towards Watkiss. He raised his fist in a gesture of triumph, then turned and began to climb the steps to the gallery’s exit. It was Kenny, Samantha’s boyfriend. Rebus walked back to where Flight and Lamb were standing, watching him curiously, but Rebus directed his attention towards the dock. The look on Watkiss’s face was one of pure relief. DC Lamb, on the other hand, seemed ready to kill.
‘Luck of the fucking Irish,’ he spat.
‘Tommy’s no more Irish than you are, Lamb,’ Flight said phlegmatically.
‘What was the charge?’ Rebus asked, his mind still confused by the newspaper story, by Kenny’s presence in this place and by his actions. The judge was leaving by a green padded-leather door to the side of the jury box.
‘The usual,’ said Lamb, calming quickly. ‘Rape. When his old woman snuffed it, he needed somebody else on the game. So he tried to “persuade” a girl on his street that she could make a few bob. When that didn’t work, he lost his rag and had a go at her. Bastard. We’ll get him at the retrial. I still think he did for his old woman.’
‘Then find the evidence,’ said Flight. ‘Meantime, I can think of a certain Police Constable who needs a good kick up the arse.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lamb. He was grinning evilly at the thought, then took the hint and left the courtroom in search of the unfortunate PC Mills.
‘Inspector Flight.’ It was the prosecuting counsel, striding briskly towards them with documents and books cradled in his left arm, his right arm outstretched. Flight took the well-groomed hand and shook it.
‘Hello, Mr Chambers. This is Inspector Rebus. He’s come down from Scotland to help us on the Wolfman investigation.’
Chambers looked interested. ‘Ah, yes, the Wolfman. I look forward to prosecuting that particular case.’
‘I just hope we can give you the opportunity,’ said Rebus.
‘Well,’ said Chambers, ‘meanwhile it’s tricky enough landing the little fish like our friend.’ He glanced back in the direction of the dock, which now stood empty. ‘But we try,’ he said with a sigh, ‘we try.’ Then he paused, and added in an undertone, directed at Flight: ‘Get this, George, I don’t like being royally shafted by my own team. Okay?’
Flight blushed. Chambers had dressed him down in a way no Superintendent or Chief Constable could ever have done, and he knew it. ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said, moving away, ‘and good luck, Inspector Rebus.’
‘Thanks,’ Rebus called to the retreating figure.
Flight watched as Chambers pushed open the doors of the court, the tail of his wig flicking from side to side, robes flapping behind him. When the doors were closed, Flight chuckled.
‘Arrogant prick. But he’s the best there is.’
Rebus was beginning to wonder if anyone in London was second-rate. He’d been introduced to the ‘top’ pathologist, the ‘best’ prosecuting counsel, the ‘crack’ forensic team, the ‘finest’ police divers. Was it part of the city’s own arrogance?
‘I thought the best lawyers all went in for commercial work these days,’ Rebus said.
‘Not necessarily. It’s only the really greedy bastards who go in for City work. Besides, this sort of stuff is like a drug to Chambers and his ilk. They’re actors, bloody good ones at that.’
Yes, Rebus had known a few Oscar-winning advocates in his time, and had lost a few cases more to their technique than to the strength of their defence. They might earn a quarter of the riches earned by their brothers in the commercial sector, might take home a scant £50,000 each year, but they endured for the sake of their public.
Flight was moving towards the doors. ‘What’s more,’ he said, ‘Chambers studied for a time in the USA. They train them to be actors over there. They also train them to be hard-nosed bastards. I’m told he came out top of his class. That’s why we like having him on our side.’ Flight paused.
‘Do you still want a word with Tommy?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Out in the concourse, Watkiss was standing by one of the large windows, relishing a cigarette and listening to his solicitor. Then the two men started to walk away.
‘Tell you what,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Let’s skip Watkiss for the moment.’
‘Okay,’ said Flight. ‘You’re the expert after all.’ He saw the sour look on Rebus’s face and laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I know you’re no expert.’
‘That’s very reassuring, George,’ Rebus said without conviction. He stared after Watkiss, thinking: And I’m not the only one leaving court without conviction.
Flight laughed again, but behind his smile he was still more than a little curious about Rebus’s action in the courtroom, walking out into the court like that to peer up at the public gallery. But if Rebus didn’t want to talk about it, then that was his privilege. Flight could bide his time. ‘So what now?’ he asked.
Rebus was rubbing his jaw. ‘My dental appointment,’ he said.
Anthony Morrison, who insisted that they call him Tony, was much younger than Rebus had been anticipating. No more than thirty-five, he had an underdeveloped body, so that his adult head seemed to have outgrown the rest of him. Rebus was aware that he was staring at Morrison with more than common interest. The scrubbed and shiny face, the tufts of bristle on chin and cheekbone where a razor had failed to fulfil its duties, the trimmed hair and keening eyes: in the street, he would have taken Morrison for a sixth-year pupil. Certainly, for a pathologist, albeit a dental pathologist, the man was in stark contrast to Philip Cousins.
On learning that Rebus was Scottish, Morrison had started on about the debt modern-day pathology owed to the Scots, ‘men like Glaister and Littlejohn and Sir Sydney Smith’ though the latter, Morrison had to admit, had been born in the Antipodes. He then said that his own father had been a Scotsman, a surgeon, and asked if Rebus knew that the earliest British Chair of Forensic Medicine had been founded in Edinburgh. Rebus, swept away by the welter of facts, said that this was news to him.
