by Ian Rankin
‘Go on then, bugger off. I’ll see you here later.’
Rebus put down the telephone and felt an immense weariness take control of him, weighting his legs and arms and head. He took several deep breaths and rose to his feet, then walked to the sink and splashed water on his face, rubbing a wet hand around his neck and throat. He looked up, hardly recognising himself in the wall-mounted mirror, sighed and spread his hands either side of his face, the way he’d seen Roy Scheider do once in a film.
‘It’s showtime.’
Rebus’s taxi driver was full of tales of the Krays, Richardson and Jack the Ripper. With Brick Lane their destination, he was especially vociferous on the subject of ‘Old Jack’.
‘Done his first prossie on Brick Lane. Richardson, though, he was evil. Used to torture people in a scrapyard. You knew when he was electrocuting some poor bastard, ’cos the bulb across the scrapyard gates kept flickering.’ Then a low chuckle. A sideways flick of the head. ‘Krays used to drink in that pub on the corner. My youngest used to drink in there. Got in some terrible punch-ups, so I banned him from going. He works in the City, courier sort of stuff, you know, motorbikes.’
Rebus, who had been slouching in the back seat, now gripped the headrest on the front passenger seat and yanked himself forward.
‘Motorbike messenger?’
‘Yeah, makes a bleeding packet. Twice what I take home a week, I’ll tell you that. He’s just bought himself a flat down in Docklands. Only they call them “riverside apartments” these days. That’s a laugh. I know some of the guys who built them. Every bloody shortcut in the book. Hammering in screws instead of screwing them. Plasterboard so thin you can almost see your neighbours, never mind hear them.’
‘A friend of my daughter works as a courier in the City.’
‘Yeah? Maybe I know him. What’s his name?’
‘Kenny.’
‘Kenny?’ He shook his head. Rebus stared at where the silvery hairs on the driver’s neck disappeared into his shirt collar. ‘Nah, I don’t know a Kenny. Kev, yes, and a couple of Chrisses, but not Kenny.’
Rebus sat back again. It struck him that he didn’t know what Kenny’s surname was. ‘Are we nearly there?’ he asked.
‘Two minutes, guv. There’s a lovely shortcut coming up should save us some time. Takes us right past where Richardson used to hang out.’
A crowd of reporters had gathered outside in the narrow street. Housefront, pavement, then road, where the crowd stood, held back by uniformed constables. Did nobody in London possess such a thing as a front garden? Rebus had yet to see a house with a garden, apart from the millionaire blocks in Kensington.
‘John!’ A female voice, escaping from the scrum of newsmen. She pushed her way towards him. He signalled for the line of uniforms to break momentarily, so as to let her through.
‘What are you doing here?’
Lisa looked a little shaken. ‘Heard a newsflash,’ she gasped. ‘Thought I’d come over.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Lisa.’ Rebus was thinking of Jean Cooper’s body. If this were similar . . .
‘Any comment to make?’ yelled one of the newsmen. Rebus was aware of flashguns, of the bright homing lamps attached to video cameras. Other reporters were shouting now, desperate for a story that would reach the first editions.
‘Come on then,’ said Rebus, pulling Lisa Frazer towards the door of number 110.
Philip Cousins was still dressed in dark suit and tie, suitably funereal. Isobel Penny was in black, too, a full length dress with long, tight sleeves. She did not look funereal. She looked divine. She smiled at Rebus as he entered the cramped living-room, nodding in recognition.
‘Inspector Rebus,’ said Cousins, ‘they said you might drop by.’
‘Never one to miss a good corpse,’ Rebus replied drily. Cousins, stooping over the body, looked up at him.
‘Quite.’
The smell was there, clogging up Rebus’s nostrils and lungs. Some people couldn’t smell it, but he always could. It was strong and salty, rich, clotting, cloying. It smelt like nothing else on earth. And behind it lurked another smell, more bland, like tallow, candle-wax, cold water. The two contrasting smells of life and death. Rebus was willing to bet that Cousins could smell it, but he doubted Isobel Penny could.
A middle-aged woman lay on the floor, an ungainly twist of legs and arms. Her throat had been cut. There were signs of a struggle, ornaments shattered and knocked from their perches, bloody handprints smeared across one wall. Cousins stood up and sighed.
‘Very clumsy,’ he said. He glanced towards Isobel Penny, who was sketching on her notepad. ‘Penny,’ he said, ‘you look quite delightful this evening. Have I told you?’
She smiled again, blushed, but said nothing. Cousins turned to Rebus, ignoring Lisa Frazer’s silent presence. ‘It’s a copycat,’ he said with another sigh, ‘but a copycat of little wit or talent. He’s obviously read the descriptions in the newspapers, which have been detailed but inaccurate. I’d say it was an interrupted burglary. He panicked, went for his knife, and realised that if he made it look like our friend the Wolfman then he might just get away with it.’ He looked down at the corpse again. ‘Not terribly clever. I suppose the vultures have gathered?’
Rebus nodded. ‘When I came in there were about a dozen reporters outside. Probably double that by now. We know what they want to hear, don’t we?’
‘I fear they are going to be disappointed.’ Cousins checked his watch. ‘Not worth going back to dinner. We’ve probably missed the port and cheese. Damned fine table, too. Such a pity.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the body. ‘Anything you’d like to see? Or shall we wrap this one up, as it were?’
Rebus smiled. The humour was as dark as the suit, but any humour was welcome. The smell in the air had been distilled now to that of raw steak and brown sauce. He shook his head. There was nothing more to be done in here. But outside, outside he was about to create an outrage. Flight would hate him for it, in fact everybody would hate him for it. But hate was fine. Hate was an emotion, and without emotion, what else was left? Lisa had already staggered out into the tiny hallway, where a police officer was trying awkwardly to comfort her. As Rebus came out of the room, she shook her head and straightened up.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘The first one always hits you hard,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, I’m going to try out a spot of psychology on the Wolfman.’
The huddle of reporters and cameramen had become a sizeable crowd, now including the interested and the curious amateurs. The line of uniformed policemen had locked arms in a small but unbreakable chain. The questions began: Over here! Can we ask you who you are? You were at the canal, weren’t you? A statement – Anything to say – Wolfman – Is it – The Wolfman? Is it – Just a few words if –
Rebus had walked to within a few inches of them, Lisa by his side. One of the reporters had leaned close to Lisa, asking for her name.
‘Lisa, Lisa Frazer.’
‘Are you working on the case, Lisa?’
‘I’m a psychologist.’
Rebus cleared his throat noisily. The reporters were like mongrels in a dogs’ home, calming quickly when they realised it was their turn at last for the feeding bowl. He raised his arms, and they fell quiet.
‘A short statement, gentlemen,’ said Rebus.
‘Can we just ask who you are first?’
But Rebus shook his head. It didn’t matter, did it? They would know soon enough. How many Scottish coppers were working on Wolfman? Flight would know, Cath Farraday would know and the journalists would find out. That didn’t matter. Then one of them, unable to hold back, asked the question.
‘Have you caught him?’ Rebus tried to catch the man’s eye, but every eye was silently asking the same thing. ‘Is it the Wolfman?’
And this time Rebus nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said emphatically. ‘It’s the Wolfman. We’ve caught him.’ Lisa looked at him in dumb surprise.
&nbs
p; More questions, yelled now, screeched, but the chain in front of them would not break and somehow they did not think simply to walk around it. Rebus had turned away and saw Cousins and Isobel Penny standing just outside the door of the house, rigid, unable to believe what they had just heard. He winked at them and walked with Lisa to where his cab still waited. The driver folded his evening paper and stuck it down the side of his seat.
‘You fairly got them going, guv. What did you say?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Rebus, settling back in his seat and smiling towards Lisa Frazer. ‘Just a few fibs.’
‘Fibs!’
So this was what Flight looked like when he was angry.
‘Fibs!’
He seemed unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘You call that a few fibs? Cath Farraday’s going apeshit trying to calm those bastards down. They’re like fucking animals. Half of them are ready to go to print on this! And you call it “fibs”? You’re off your trolley, Rebus.’
So it was back to ‘Rebus’, was it? Well then, so be it. Rebus remembered that they’d promised they’d have dinner together this evening, but somehow he doubted the invitation still stood.
George Flight had been interviewing the murderer. His cheeks were veined with blood, his tie unknotted and hanging loose around his half unbuttoned shirt. He paced what floor there was in the small office. Rebus knew that outside the closed door people were listening in a mixture of fear and amusement: fear at Flight’s anger, amusement that Rebus was its sole recipient.
‘You’re the fucking limit.’ Flight’s anger had peaked; his voice had dropped by half a decibel. ‘What gives you the right –’
Rebus slapped the desk with his hand. He’d had enough of this. ‘I’ll tell you what gives me the right, George. The mere fact of the Wolfman gives me the right to do anything I think best.’
‘Best!’ Flight sounded freshly outraged. ‘Now I’ve heard it all. Giving the papers a crock of shit like that is supposed to be “best”? By Christ, I’d hate to see your idea of “worst”.’
Rebus’s voice was every bit the equal of Flight’s now, and rising. ‘He’s out there somewhere and he’s laughing his head off at us. Because he seems to know how we’ll play every round, he’s knocking hell out of us.’ Rebus grew quiet: Flight was listening now, and that was what he wanted. ‘We need to get him riled, get him to lift his head over the trench he’s hiding in so he can see what the fuck is going on. We need him angry, George. Not angry at the world. Angry at us. Because when he raises his head, we’ll be ready to bite it off.
‘We’ve already accused him of being everything from gay to a cannibal from Pluto. Now we’re telling everyone he’s been caught.’ Rebus was reaching his point, his defence. He lowered his voice still further. ‘I don’t think he’ll be able to take that, George. Really I don’t. I think he’ll have to make contact. Maybe with the papers, maybe directly with us. Just to let us know.’
‘Or kill again,’ countered Flight. ‘That would let us know.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘If he kills again, we keep it quiet. Total media blackout. He gets no publicity. Everybody still thinks he’s been caught. Sooner or later, he’ll have to show himself.’
Rebus was completely calm now, and so was Flight. Flight rubbed both hands over his cheeks and down to his jaw. He was staring into space, thinking it over. Rebus did not doubt the plan would work. It might take time, but it would work. Basic SAS training: if you can’t locate your enemy, make the enemy come to you. Besides, it was the only plan they had.
‘John, what if the publicity doesn’t bother him? Publicity or the lack of it?’
Rebus shrugged. He had no answer to that. All he had were case histories and his own instincts.
Finally, Flight shook his head. ‘Go back to Edinburgh, John,’ he said tiredly. ‘Just do it.’ Rebus stared at him, not blinking, willing him to say something else. But George Flight simply walked to the door, opened it, and closed it behind him.
That was it then. Rebus released his breath in a long hiss. Go back to Edinburgh. Wasn’t that what everyone had wanted all along? Laine? Lamb and the rest of them? Flight too, maybe. Even Rebus himself. He’d told himself he could do no good here. Well, he was doing no good, so why not go home?
The answer was simple: the case had grabbed him by the throat. There was no escaping it. The Wolfman, faceless, bodiless, had pressed a blade to Rebus’s ear and was holding it there, ready to slice. And besides, there was London itself, full of its own stories. Rhona. Sammy. Sammy and Kenny. Rebus had to remind himself that he was still interested in Kenny.
And Lisa.
Above all there was Lisa. The taxi had dropped her off at her flat. She had been quite pale, but insisted she was all right, insisted he go on without her. He should ring her, check she really was okay. What? And tell her he was leaving? No, he had to confront Flight. He opened the door and went into the Murder Room. Flight was not there. The curious faces looked at him from their desks, their telephones, their wallcharts and photographs. He looked at no one, but especially not at Lamb, who was grinning from behind a manila file, his eyes peering over at Rebus.
Flight was in the hallway outside, deep in discussion with the Duty Sergeant, who nodded and moved off. Rebus saw Flight sag, leaning his back against the wall, rubbing his face again. He approached slowly, giving George Flight an extra moment or two of peace and quiet.
‘George,’ he said. Flight looked up, smiled weakly.
‘You never give up, John, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, George. I should have checked with you before I pulled a stunt like that. Block the story if you want.’
Flight gave a short humourless laugh. ‘Too late. It’s been on the local radio news already. The other stations can’t just sit back. It’ll be on every local news report by midnight. It’s your snowball, John. You started it running down the hill. All we can do now is watch it getting bigger and bigger.’ He stabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. ‘Cath is going to be after your guts, lad. She’s the one they’ll blame, the one who’ll have to apologise, who’ll have the job of gaining their trust all over again.’ Flight now wagged the finger backwards and forwards, then grinned. ‘And if anyone can do it, Inspector Cath Farraday can.’ He checked his watch. ‘Right, I’ve let the bugger stew long enough. Time to get back to the interview room.’
‘How’s it going?’
Flight shrugged. ‘Singing like Gracie Fields. We couldn’t stop him if we wanted to. He thinks we’re going to pin all the Wolfman killings on him, so he’s telling us everything he knows, and some things he’s probably making up besides.’
‘Cousins said it was a copycat, done to disguise a cocked-up burglary.’
Flight nodded. ‘I sometimes think Philip’s in the wrong game. This guy’s a petty thief, not the bloody Wolfman. But I’ll tell you what is interesting. He’s told us he sells the stuff on to a mutual friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Tommy Watkiss.’
‘Well, well.’
‘Coming?’ Flight pointed along the corridor, towards the stairwell. Rebus shook his head.
‘I want to make a couple of phone calls. I might catch you up later.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Rebus watched Flight go. Sometimes it was only brute stubbornness that kept humans going, long after their limbs and intellect had told them to quit. Flight was like a footballer playing in extra time. Rebus hoped he could see the game out to its end.
They watched him as he walked back through the Murder Room. Lamb in particular seemed to peer at him from behind a report, eyes gleaming with amusement. There was a noise coming from his office, a strange tapping noise. He pushed open the door and saw on his desk a small toy, a grotesque plastic jaw atop two oversized feet. The jaw was bright red, the teeth gleaming white, and the feet walked to a clockwork whirr while the jaws snapped shut, then open, shut then open. Snap, snap, snap. Snap, snap, snap.
Rebus, furious at the joke, walke
d to the desk, lifted the contraption and pulled at it, his own teeth bright and gritted, until it snapped in two. But the feet kept on moving, stopping only when the spring had run down. Not that Rebus was noticing. He was staring at the two halves, the upper and lower jaws. Sometimes things weren’t what they seemed. The punk at the Glasgow flea market had turned out to be a girl. And at the flea market they had been selling teeth, false plastic teeth. Like a supermarket pick’n’mix counter. Any size you liked. Christ, he should have seen it sooner!
Rebus walked quickly back through the Murder Room. Lamb, doubtless responsible for the joke, seemed ready to say something until he saw the look on Rebus’s face, an urgent, don’t-mess-with-me look. He ran along the corridor and down the stairs, down towards the euphemism known as an Interview Room. ‘A man is helping police with their enquiries.’ Rebus loved those euphemisms. He knocked and entered. A detective was changing the tape in a recording machine. Flight was leaning across the table to offer a cigarette to a dishevelled young man, a young man with yellow bruising on his face and skinned knuckles.
‘George?’ Rebus tried to sound composed. ‘Could I have a word?’
Flight pushed back his chair noisily, leaving the cigarette packet with the prisoner. Rebus held open the door, indicating for Flight to move outside. Then he thought of something, and caught the prisoner’s eye.
‘Do you know somebody called Kenny? he asked.
‘Loads.’
‘Rides a motorbike?’
The young man shrugged again and reached into the packet for a cigarette. There was no answer forthcoming, and Flight was outside waiting, so Rebus closed the door.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Flight.
‘Maybe nothing,’ said Rebus. ‘Do you remember when we went to the Old Bailey, how someone shouted out when the case was stopped?’
‘Someone in the public gallery.’
‘That’s right. Well, I recognised the voice. It’s a teenager called Kenny. He’s one of those motorcycle messengers.’
‘So?’
‘He’s going out with my daughter.’
