by Ian Rankin
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?
What did they know, or what did they suspect, about the Wolfman? He knew about police procedure (past offender, copper, both were possible). He was a he, if Jan Crawford were to be believed. He was quite tall, she thought. In the restaurant, Lisa Frazer had added her own ideas: he was conservative; most of the time he not only seemed normal, he was normal; he was, in her phrase, ‘psychologically mature’. And he had posted a letter to Lisa from EC4. EC4, wasn’t that where the Old Bailey was? He recalled his first and only visit to the building. The courtroom, and seeing Kenny Watkiss there. Then meeting Malcolm Chambers. What was it Chambers had said to George Flight?
Royally shafted. Own team. I don’t like. Flight, I don’t like being royally shafted . . . own team . . . get this. Get this, George.
Jesus Christ! Every ball on the table suddenly fell into a pocket until only the cue ball and the black were left. Every single ball.
‘Get this, George, I don’t like being royally shafted by my own team.’
Malcolm Chambers had studied in the USA for a while. Flight had told Rebus that. You tended to pick up mannerisms when you wanted to fit into a new and strange place. Get this. Rebus had tried to avoid the temptation in London, but it was strong. Studied in the USA. And now he was with Lisa Frazer. Lisa the student, Lisa the psychologist, Lisa with her photo in the newspapers. Get this. Oh, how the Wolfman must hate her. She was a psychologist after all and the psychologists had pronounced him gay, they had insights into what was wrong with him. He didn’t think anything was wrong with him. But something was. Something that was slowly taking him over.
Old Bailey was in EC4. The Wolfman, rattled, had slipped up and posted his letter from EC4.
It was Malcolm Chambers, Malcolm Chambers was the Wolfman. Rebus couldn’t explain it, couldn’t exactly justify it, but he knew it all the same. It was like a dark polluted wave rolling over him, anointing him. Malcolm Chambers. Someone who knew about police procedure, someone above suspicion, someone so clean you had to scratch beneath the skin to find the filth.
Rebus was running. He was running along Gower Street in what he hoped was the right direction for the City. He was running and he was craning his neck to seek out a taxi. There was one ahead of him, at the corner beside the British Museum, but it was picking up a fare. Students or tourists. Japanese. Grins and cameras. Four of them, two men, two young women. Rebus stuck his head into the back of the cab, where two of them were already seated.
‘Out!’ he yelled, jerking a thumb towards the pavement.
‘Oi, mate, what’s your game?’ The driver was so fat he could barely turn in his seat.
‘I said out!’ Rebus grabbed an arm and pulled. Either the young man was surprisingly light, or else Rebus had found hidden strength, for the body fairly flew from its seat, uttering a string of high-pitched comment as it went.
‘And you.’
The girl followed obligingly and Rebus hurled himself into the cab, slamming shut the door.
‘Drive!’ he yelled.
‘I’m not moving till I –’
Rebus shoved his ID against the window separating the back seats of the taxi from the front.
‘Inspector Rebus!’ he called. ‘This is an emergency. I need to get to the Old Bailey. Break every traffic law you like, I’ll sort it out later. But get your fucking skates on!’
The driver responded by switching his headlights on full beam before setting out into the traffic.
‘Use your horn!’ Rebus called. The driver did so. A surprising number of cars eased out of his way. Rebus was on the edge of his seat, gripping it with both hands to stop himself being thrown about. ‘How long will it take?’
‘This time of day? Ten or fifteen minutes. What’s the matter, guv? Can’t they start without you?’
Rebus smiled sourly. That was just the problem. Without him, the Wolfman could start whenever he liked. ‘I need to use your radio,’ he said. The driver slid his window further open.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, pulling the small microphone up towards Rebus. He’d worked on the cabs for twenty-odd years, but he’d never had a fare like this.
In fact, he was so excited, they were halfway there before he remembered to switch on the meter.
Rebus had told Flight as much as he could, trying not to sound hysterical. Flight sounded dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to send men to the Old Bailey. Rebus didn’t blame George Flight for being wary. Hard to justify arresting a pillar of society on the strength of a gut feeling. Rebus remembered what else Lisa Frazer had said about serial killers: that they were products of their environments; that their ambitions had been thwarted, leading them to kill members of the social group above them. Well, that certainly wasn’t true in Malcolm Chambers’s case, was it? And what had she said about the Wolfman? His attacks were ‘non-confrontational’, so perhaps he was like that in his working life. Hah! So much for theory. But now Rebus began to doubt his own instincts. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if the theory was right? He was going to look more than a little psychologically disturbed himself.
Then he recalled something George Flight had said. You could build up as neat a picture as you liked of the killer, but it wouldn’t give you a name and address. Psychology was all well and good, but you couldn’t beat a good old-fashioned hunch.
‘Nearly there, guv.’
Rebus tried to keep his breathing regular. Be calm, John, be calm. However, there were no police cars waiting by the entrance to the Old Bailey. No sirens and armed officers, just people milling around, people finishing work for the day, people sharing a joke. Rebus left the cab driver unpaid and untipped – ‘I’ll settle later’ – and pushed open the heavy glass door. Behind more bulletproof glass stood two security personnel. Rebus stuck his ID in front of their noses. One of them pointed towards the two vertical glass cylinders by which people were admitted to the buildi
ng one at a time. Rebus went to one cylinder and waited. Nothing happened. Then he remembered, pushed the heel of his hand against the button and the cylinder door opened. He walked in, and waited for what seemed an eternity while the door slid shut behind him, before the door in front slid just as slowly open.
Another guard stood beside the metal detection equipment. Rebus, still holding open his ID, walked quickly past until he found himself behind the bulletproof glass of the reception area.
‘Can I help?’ said one of the security men.
‘Malcolm Chambers,’ said Rebus. ‘He’s a barrister. I need to see him urgently.’
‘Mr Chambers? Hold on, I’ll just check.’
‘I don’t want him to know I’m here,’ Rebus warned. ‘I just want to know where I can find him.’
‘Just one moment.’ The guard moved off, consulting with one of his companions, then slowly going through a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. Rebus’s heart was pounding. He felt like he was about to explode. He couldn’t just stand here. He had to do something. Patience, John. Less haste, more speed, as his father had always said. But what the hell did that mean anyway? Surely haste was a kind of speed?
The guard was coming back.
‘Yes, Inspector. Mr Chambers has a young lady with him at present. I’m told they’re sitting together upstairs.’
Upstairs meant the concourse outside the courtrooms. Rebus flew up the imposing flight of steps two at a time. Marble. There was a lot of marble around him. And wood. And glass. The windows seemed huge. Bewigged counsels came down a spiral staircase, deep in conversation. A frayed-looking woman smoked a cheap cigarette as she waited for someone. It was a quiet pandemonium. People were moving past Rebus, moving in the opposite direction from him. Juries, finished for the day. Solicitors and guilty-looking clients. The woman rose to greet her son. The son’s solicitor had a bored, drawn look. The concourse was emptying rapidly, the stairs taking people down to more glass cylinders and to the outside world.
About thirty yards from where Rebus stood, the two men were sitting, legs crossed, enjoying a cigarette. The two men Flight had sent with Lisa. Her bodyguards. Rebus ran to them.
‘Where is she?’
They recognised him, seemed to realise immediately that something was wrong, and rose to their feet.
‘She’s interviewing some barrister –’
‘Yes, but where?’
The man nodded towards one of the courtrooms. Court Eight! Of course: hadn’t Cousins been due to give evidence in Court Eight? And wasn’t Malcolm Chambers the prosecuting counsel?
Rebus pushed through the doors into the courtroom, but, cleaners apart, it was completely empty. There had to be another exit. Of course there was: the green padded door to the side of the jury-box. The door leading to the judges’ rooms. He ran across the court and up the steps to the door, pulling it open, finding himself in a bright carpeted corridor. A window, flowers in a pot on a table. A narrow corridor, doors only on one side, the other wall a blank. Judges’ names above the doors. The doors themselves locked. There was a tiny kitchenette, but it too was empty. One door eventually gave, and he peered into a jury room. Empty. Back into the corridor again, hissing now with frustration. A court usher, cradling a mug of tea, was coming towards him.
‘No one’s allowed –’
‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for an advocate . . . I mean, a barrister. Malcolm Chambers. He was here with a young woman.’
‘They’ve just left.’
‘Left?’
She gestured along towards the far end of the corridor. ‘It leads to the underground car park. That’s where they were headed.’ Rebus made to squeeze past her. ‘You won’t catch them now,’ she said. ‘Not unless they’re having trouble with the car.’
Rebus thought about it, gnawing at his bottom lip. There wasn’t time. His first decision had to be the right one. Decision made, he turned from the usher and ran back towards the court, back across the court itself and out into the concourse.
‘They’ve gone!’ he yelled to the bodyguards. ‘Tell Flight! Tell him they’re in Chambers’s car!’ And then he was off again, down the steps towards the exit, pausing only to grab at a security man’s sleeve. ‘The car park exit, where is it?’
‘Round the other side of the building.’
Rebus stuck a finger in the guard’s face. ‘Buzz down to the car park. Don’t let Malcolm Chambers leave.’ The guard stood there dumbly, staring at the finger. ‘Do it!’
And then he was off again, running, taking the stairs down three at a time, great leaps which almost sent him flying. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd waiting to leave.
‘Police,’ he said, ‘emergency.’ Nobody said anything. They were like cows, patiently waiting to be milked. Even so, it took a silent scream of an age for the cylinder to empty its cargo, close its doors, then open them again for Rebus.
‘Come on, come on.’ And then the door sucked itself open and he was out, out in the foyer, bursting through the main doors. He ran up to the corner, took a right, and ran again along the face of the building. Another right. He was on the other side of the building now. Where the car park exit was. A slope of road down into darkness. The car screeched as it came to the surface, hardly slowing as it climbed the hill to Newgate Street. It was a long gloss-black BMW. And in the passenger seat sat Lisa Frazer, looking relaxed, smiling, talking to the driver, not realising.
‘Lisa!’ But he was too far away, the traffic around him too loud. ‘Lisa!’ Before he could reach it, the car had turned into a flow of traffic and disappeared. Rebus cursed under his breath. Then looked around him for the first time and saw that he was standing next to a parked Jaguar, in the front of which sat a liveried chauffeur, staring out of the window at him. Rebus yanked at the doorhandle and threw open the door, reaching in with one hand to pull out the bemused driver. He was getting to be a dab hand at this: relieving people of their vehicles.
‘Hoi! What the bleedin’ ’ell –’
The man’s cap rolled along the ground, given force by a gust of wind. For a moment, he knelt on the pavement, undecided whether to rescue the cap or the car. The moment was enough. Rebus gunned the engine and pulled away from the kerb, horns sounding behind him as he did so. At the top of the slight incline, he pressed his hand hard on the horn and careered left into the main road. A squeal of brakes. More horns. The pedestrians looking at him as though he were mad.
‘Need lights,’ he said to himself, glancing at the dashboard. Eventually, he found the headlamp switch and flipped them to full beam. Then took a hard right to bring himself into the middle of the road, passing the traffic, scraping the passenger side against an oncoming red bus, clipping a central bollard, uprooting the flimsy plastic construction and sending it flying into the path of the oncoming traffic.
They couldn’t be too far ahead of him. Yes! He caught a glimpse of the BMW’s tail-lights as it braked to turn a corner. He’d be damned if they’d lose him.
‘Excuse me?’
Rebus flinched, startled, and nearly pulled the car onto the pavement. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an elderly gentleman sitting in the back seat, arms spread so as to keep himself upright. He appeared calm as he leaned forward towards Rebus.
‘Would you kindly mind telling me what’s going on? Am I being kidnapped?’
Rebus recognised the voice before he remembered the face. It was the judge from the Watkiss case. Jesus Christ, he’d run off with a judge!
‘Only, if you are kidnapping me,’ the judge went on, ‘perhaps you’d allow me to call my wife. She’ll burn the chops otherwise.’
Call! Rebus looked down again. Below the dashboard, between the driver’s and front passenger seats, there was a neat black car-phone.
‘Do you mind if I use your phone?’ he asked, grinning with a face full of adrenalin.
‘Be my guest.’
Rebus grabbed at the contraption and fiddled as he drove, his ste
ering becoming more erratic than ever.
‘Press the button marked TRS,’ the judge suggested.
‘Thank you, your honour.’
‘You know who I am? I thought I recognised the face. Have I had you before me recently?’
But Rebus had dialled and was now waiting for the call to be answered. It seemed to take forever. And meantime, the BMW had nipped across an amber traffic light.
‘Hold tight,’ Rebus said, baring his teeth. The horn was a banshee wail as they pushed past the waiting traffic and flew across the intersection, traffic from left and right braking hard. One car dented the back of another. A motorcycle slewed on the greasy road. But they were across. The BMW was still in sight, less than half a dozen cars ahead now, yet still apparently unaware of the pursuing demon.
Finally, the call was answered.
‘It’s Rebus here.’ Then, for his passenger’s sake: ‘Detective Inspector Rebus. I need to speak to Flight. Is he there?’ There was a long pause. The connection crackled wildly, as though about to short out altogether. Rebus gripped the handset between hunched shoulder and angled cheek, driving with both hands to take first one bend and then another.
‘John? Where are you?’ Flight’s voice sounded metallic and distant.
‘I’m in a car,’ said Rebus, ‘a car I commandeered. I’m following Chambers. He’s got Lisa Frazer with him. I don’t think she knows he’s the Wolfman.’
‘But for Christ’s sake, John, is he the Wolfman?’
‘I’ll ask him when I catch him. Did you send any cars to the Old Bailey?’
‘I sent one, yes.’
‘That was generous.’ Rebus saw what was ahead. ‘Oh shit!’ He braked hard, but not hard enough. The old lady was shuffling slowly across the zebra crossing, her shopping trolley a step behind her like a pet poodle. Rebus swerved but couldn’t avoid winging the trolley. It flew into the air as though fired from a cannon, dispensing groceries as it went: eggs, butter, flour, cornflakes raining down on the road. Rebus heard the woman screaming. At worst she’d have a broken arm. No, at worst the shock would kill her.
