by Ian Rankin
‘Where are you going?’
It was Flight, yelling at him from an open door as Rebus stalked down the hall.
‘It’s personal,’ Rebus called back.
‘I warned you, John! Don’t get involved!’
‘It’s not what you think!’ He stopped, turning to face George Flight.
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘Like I said, George, it’s personal, okay?’
‘No.’
‘Look,’ said Rebus, his emotions suddenly getting the better of him, all those thoughts he’d been keeping on a tight rein – Sammy, Kenny Watkiss, the Wolfman, the threat against Lisa – all boiling up. He swallowed, breathing hard. ‘Look, George, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy, okay?’ His finger stabbed at Flight’s chest. ‘Remember what I said: it could be a copper. Why don’t you do some of your careful, precious, nit-picking investigation on that. The Wolfman could be here in this building. He could be working on the bloody case, hunting himself!’ Rebus heard his voice growing hysterical and calmed quickly, regaining control over his vocal chords if nothing else.
‘A sort of wolf in the fold, you mean?’
‘I’m serious.’ Rebus paused. ‘He might even know where you’ve sent Lisa.’
‘For Christ’s sake, John, only three people know where Lisa’s going. Me, and the two men I sent with her. Now you don’t know those guys, but I do. We go back all the way to training college. I’d trust them with my life.’ Flight paused. ‘Will you trust me?’
Rebus said nothing. Flight’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and he whistled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that certainly answers my question.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘This case, John. I’ve been in the force God knows how many years, but this case, it’s the worst. It’s like every victim was somebody close to me.’ He paused again, gathering strength. Now his finger jabbed at Rebus. ‘So don’t you dare think what I know you’re thinking! It’s the ultimate fucking insult!’
There was a long silence in the corridor. Typewriters chattered somewhere. Male voices were raised in laughter. A hummed tune floated down the hall towards and past them. It was as though the whole world were indifferent to this quarrel. And there they stood, not quite friends, not quite enemies, and not quite sure what to do any more.
Rebus studied the scuff marks on the linoleum. Then: ‘Lecture over?’
Flight seemed pained by this response. ‘It wasn’t a lecture, it was just … I want you to see my side of things.’
‘But I do, George, I do.’ Rebus patted Flight’s arm and turned away from him again. He started to walk.
‘I want you to stay here, John!’ Walking. ‘Do you hear me? I’m ordering you not to go.’
Rebus kept walking.
Flight shook his head. He’d had enough, absolutely up to his eyes, so that they stung now, stung as though he were in a smoky room. ‘You’re out on your ear, Rebus,’ he called, knowing this to be the final warning. If Rebus kept walking now, Flight would be compelled to keep his word or else lose face, and he was damned if he’d lose face for a hard-headed Jock copper. ‘Just keep walking!’ he yelled. ‘Keep walking and you’re finished!’
Rebus walked. He didn’t know exactly why, perhaps more out of pride than anything else. Stupid pride, pride he couldn’t explain, but pride all the same. The same emotion that made grown men cry at football matches when Flower of Scotland was played as the Scots national anthem. All he knew was that he had something to do, and he would do it, like the Scots knew their job was to be footballers with more ambition than ability. Yes, that was him all right: more ambition than ability. They’d put it on his gravestone.
At the end of the corridor, he shoved open the swing doors. He didn’t look back. Flight’s voice followed him, trailing off as it grew in anger.
‘Damn you, you stupid Jock bastard! You’ve bitten off more than you can chew this time, do you hear me? More than you can bloody well chew.’
FYTP.
Rebus was moving through the entrance hall when he came face to face with Lamb. He made to move past him, but Lamb placed a hand on Rebus’s chest.
‘Where’s the fire?’ he said. Rebus was trying to ignore him, was trying to make Lamb invisible. The last thing he needed now was this. His knuckles tingled with anticipation. Lamb was still talking, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in.
‘She found you then, your daughter?’
‘What?’
Lamb was smiling. ‘She phoned here first, and they put her on to me. She sounded a bit upset, so I gave her the lab’s number.’
‘Oh.’ Rebus could feel himself deflating. He managed a grudged ‘thanks’ and this time succeeded in moving around Lamb. But then Lamb spoke again.
‘She sounded a bit tasty though. I like them young. How old is she again?’
Rebus’s elbow shot back into Lamb’s unprotected stomach, cutting off breath, doubling him over. Rebus studied his work; not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.
He walked.
Because he’s on personal business, he stands outside the station and looks for a cab. One of the uniformed officers, who knows him from the scene of Sunday’s murder, offers a lift in a patrol car, but Rebus shakes his head. The officer looks at him as if an insult has just been traded.
‘Thanks anyway,’ says Rebus, trying to sound conciliatory. But all he sounds is mad. Mad with Lamb, with himself, mad with the Wolfman case, mad with Kenny bloody Watkiss, mad with Flight, with Lisa (why did she have to be in Copperplate Street in the first place?) and, most of all, mad with London. Where are all the cabs, all the greedy black cabs, beetling like insects as they try to pick up fares? He’s seen thousands of them this past week, but now that he needs one, they’re all avoiding him. He waits anyway, eyes slightly unfocused. And as he waits, he thinks, and as he thinks he calms a little.
What the hell is he doing anyway? He’s asking for trouble doing this. He’s begging for it, like a black-clothed Calvinist pleading to be beaten for his sins. A lash across the back. Rebus had seen them all, all the available religions. He had tasted them and each one tasted bitter in its own particular way. Where was the religion for those who did not feel guilty, did not feel shame, did not regret getting angry or getting even, or, better yet, getting more than even? Where was the religion for a man who believed that good and bad must coexist, even within the individual? Where was the religion for a man who believed in God but not in God’s religion?
And where were all the bloody taxis?
‘Sod it then.’ He walked up to the first patrol car he saw and tapped on the window, flashing his ID.
‘Inspector Rebus,’ he announced. ‘Can you give me a lift to Gower Street?’
The building seemed as deserted as ever and Rebus feared that on this occasion perhaps even the secretary might have scarpered for an early start to the weekend. But no, she was there, like the retainer of some dusty mansion. He cleared his throat, and she looked up from her crochet.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’ She appeared not to remember him. Rebus brought out his ID and pushed it towards her.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said, his voice stiff with authority. ‘Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a few questions about Dr Frazer.’
The woman looked frightened. Rebus feared he had overdone the menace. He tried a don’t-worry-it’s-not-you-we’re-interested-in sort of smile, a peaceable smile. But the woman looked no less afraid, and her fear flustered her.
‘Oh, gracious,’ she stammered. ‘Oh my, oh my.’ She looked up at him. ‘Who did you say? Dr Frazer? But there’s no Dr Frazer in the Department.’
Rebus described Lisa Frazer. The woman suddenly raised her head, recognising the description.
‘Oh, Lisa? You mean Lisa? But there’s some mistake. Lisa Frazer isn’t a member of staff here. Gracious me, no. Though I believe she may have taken a tutorial or two, just filling in. Oh dear, Scotland Yard. What, I mean, surely she hasn’t … What has she done?’
; ‘She doesn’t work here?’ Rebus needed to be certain. ‘Then who is she?’
‘Lisa? She’s one of our research students.’
‘A student? But she’s –’ He was about to say ‘old’.
‘A mature student,’ the secretary explained. ‘Oh dear, is she in trouble?’
‘I came here before,’ Rebus said. ‘You didn’t tell me any of this then. Why?’
‘Came here before?’ She studied his face. ‘Yes, I remember. Well, Lisa made me promise not to tell anyone.’
‘Why?’
‘Her project, she said. She’s doing a project on, now, what is it exactly?’ She opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Ah yes, “The Psychology of the Investigation of Serious Crime”. She explained it to me. How she needed access to a police investigation. How she needed to gain trust. The courts, police and so on. She told me she was going to pretend to be a lecturer. I told her not to, I warned her, but she said it was the only way. The police wouldn’t waste time with a mere student, would they?’
Rebus was stuck for an answer. The answer was no, they wouldn’t. Why should they?
‘So she got you to cover for her?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Lisa is quite a persuasive young woman. She said probably I wouldn’t have to tell lies. I could just say things like she’s not here, she’s not teaching today, that sort of thing. Always supposing anyone bothered to check up on her.’
‘And has anybody checked up on her?’
‘Oh yes. Why, only today I had a telephone call from someone she had arranged to interview. He wanted to be sure that she really was part of University College, and not just a journalist or a Nosey Parker.’
Today? An interview today. Well, that was one appointment she wouldn’t be keeping.
‘Who was this person?’ Rebus asked. ‘Do you remember?’
‘I think I wrote it down,’ she said. She lifted the thick notepad beside her telephone and flipped through it. ‘He did say who he was, but I can’t remember. It was at the Old Bailey. Yes, that’s right. She’d arranged to meet him at the Old Bailey. I usually write these things down as soon as someone mentions their name, just in case I forget later. No, there’s no sign of it. That’s funny.’
‘Perhaps in the bin?’ Rebus suggested.
‘Well, perhaps.’ But she sounded doubtful. Rebus lifted the small wicker paper-basket onto her desk and sifted through it. Pencil shavings and sweet-wrappers, an empty polystyrene coffee cup and crumpled bits of paper. Lots of bits of paper.
‘Too big,’ she would say as he started to uncrumple one, or: ‘too small.’ Until finally, he pulled out a sheet and spread it out on the desk. It was like some bizarre work of art, filled with doodles and hieroglyphs and little notes, phone numbers, names, addresses.
‘Ah,’ she said, sliding a finger over to one corner where something had been written in very faint, wavering pencil. ‘Is that it?’
Rebus looked closer. Yes, that was it. That was most definitely it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Oh dear,’ said the secretary. ‘Have I got her into trouble? Is Lisa in trouble? What has she done, Inspector?’
‘She lied to us,’ said Rebus. ‘And because of that, she’s ended up having to go into hiding.’
‘Hiding? Gracious, she didn’t mention anything about that.’
Rebus was beginning to suspect that the secretary was a couple of keys short of a typewriter. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘she didn’t know she was in trouble until today.’
The secretary was nodding. ‘Yes, but she only phoned a little over an hour ago.’
Rebus’s face creased into an all-over frown. ‘What?’
‘Yes, she said she was calling from the Old Bailey. She wanted to know if there were any messages for her. She told me she had time to kill before her second appointment.’
Rebus didn’t bother to ask. He dialled quickly, the receiver gripped in his hand like a weapon. ‘I want to talk to George Flight.’
‘Just a minute, please.’ The ch-ch-ch-ch of a re-routing. Then: ‘Murder Room, Detective Sergeant Walsh speaking.’
‘It’s Inspector Rebus here.’
‘Oh yes?’ The voice had become as rudimentary as a chisel.
‘I need to speak to Flight. It’s urgent.’
‘He’s in a meeting.’
‘Then get him out! I told you, this is urgent.’
There was doubt, cynicism in the Sergeant’s voice. Everyone knew that the Scotsman’s ‘urgent’ wasn’t worth its weight in breath. ‘I can leave a message –’
‘Don’t fuck me around, Walsh! Either get him, or put me on to someone with a spare brain they’re not sitting on!’
Ca-click. Brrrrr. The ultimate put-down. The secretary was staring at Rebus in horror. Perhaps psychologists never got angry. Rebus attempted a reassuring smile, but it came out like a clown’s drunken greasepaint. He made a bowing motion before turning to leave, and was watched all the way out to the stairwell by a woman mortified almost to the core of her being.
Rebus’s face was tingling with a newly stoked anger. Lisa Frazer had tricked him, played him like a fool. Christ, the things he’d told her. Thinking she wanted to help with the Wolfman case. Not realising he was merely part of her project. Christ, the things he had said. What had he said? Too much to recall. Had she been taping everything? Or simply jotting things down after he’d left? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had seen in her something solid and believable amidst a sea of chaos. And she had been Janus. Using him. Jesus Christ, she had even slept with him. Was that, too, part of the project, part of her little experiment? How could he ever be sure it wasn’t? It had seemed genuine enough, but … He had opened his mind to her, as she had opened her body to him. It was not a fair exchange.
‘The bitch!’ he exploded, stopping dead. ‘The lying little bitch!’
Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she just explained everything? He would have helped her, he would have found time for her. No, he wouldn’t. It was a lie. A research student? A project? He would have shown her the door. Instead he had listened to her, had believed her, had learned from her. Yes, it was true. He had learned a lot from her. About psychology, about the mind of the killer. Had learned from her books. Yes, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that it had all become crass and diluted, now that he knew her for what she was.
‘Bitch.’ But his voice was softer, his throat tightening, as though a hand had slid around it and was slowly applying pressure. He swallowed hard, and began to take deep breaths. Calm down, John. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? It mattered, he answered himself, because he felt something for her. Or had felt something for her. No, still did feel something. Something he thought might have been returned.
‘Who are you trying to kid?’ Look at him, overweight and in his forties. Stuck at Inspector level and going nowhere except, if Flight carried out his promise, down. Divorced. A daughter distraught and mixing with darkness. Someone in London with a kitchen knife and a secret and a knowledge of Lisa. It was all wrong. He’d been clutching at Lisa the way drowning men reached out for a thin snap of straw. Stupid old man.
He stood at the main door to the building, not really sure now. Should he confront her, or let it go, never see her again? Usually he relished confrontation, found it nourishing and exciting. But today, maybe not.
She was at the Old Bailey to interview Malcolm Chambers. He, too, was at this moment being tricked by her mock credentials, by that falsely prefixed ‘Doctor’. Everyone admired Malcolm Chambers. He was smart, he was on the side of the law, and he made pots of money. Rebus had known coppers who were none of these; most could score only one out of three, a few managed two. Chambers would sweep Lisa Frazer off her feet. She would loathe him, until that loathing mingled with awe, and then she’d probably think that she loved him. Well, good luck to her.
He’d head back to the station, say his farewells, pack his bags, and head north. They could get along
without him very well. The case was heading nowhere until the Wolfman bit again. Yet they had so much now, knew so much about him, had come so close to opening him up like a soft fat peach. Maybe he’d bite Lisa Frazer. What the hell was she doing at the Old Bailey when she should be in hiding? He needed to speak to Flight. What the hell was Flight up to anyway?
‘Ach, to hell with the lot of you,’ he muttered, plunging his hands into his pockets.
Two students, their voices loudly American, were heading towards him. They seemed excited, the way students always did, discussing this or that concept, ready to change the way the world thought. They wanted to get past, wanted to go into the building. He moved aside for them, but they didn’t so much move past him as through him, as though he were insubstantial as exhaust fumes.
‘Like, y’know, I think she likes me, but I’m not sure I’m ready for something like –’
So much for difficult concepts, thought Rebus. Why should students be different from anyone else in the population? Why should they be thinking (and talking), about something other than sex?
‘Yeah,’ said the other one. Rebus wondered how comfortable he felt in his thick white T-shirt and thicker checked lumberjack shirt. The day was sticky. ‘Yeah,’ the American repeated. His accent reminded Rebus of Lisa’s softer Canadian tones.
‘But get this,’ continued his companion, their voices fading as they moved deeper into the building, ‘she says her mother hates Americans because one of them near raped her in the war.’
Get this. Where had Rebus heard that expression before? He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found a folded piece of paper. Unfolded it and began to read.
‘GET THIS, I’M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.?’ It was the photocopy of the Wolfman’s letter to Lisa.
Get this. It did have a transatlantic ring to it, didn’t it? A curious way altogether of starting a letter. Get this. Be warned, watch out. There were several ways of starting a letter so that the reader knew he was to pay particular attention to it. But get this?
