by Ian Rankin
Rebus stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
'Sex, offender,' Flight said. 'Two previous. Children. The psychiatrists say he's okay now, but I don't know. With that, sort of thing, one hundred percent sure isn't quite sure enough. He's been working the market now for a few weeks, loading and unloading. Sometimes he gives me good gen. You know how it is.'
Rebus could imagine. Flight had this huge, stronglooking man in the palm of his hand. If Flight told the market-traders what he knew about Arnold, not only would Arnold lose his job, but he'd be in for a good kicking as well. Maybe the man was all right now, maybe he was, in psychiatric parlance, 'a fully integrated member of society'. He had paid for his crimes, and now was trying to go straight. And what happened? Policemen, men like Flight and like Rebus himself (if, he was being honest), used his past against him to turn him into an informant.
'I've got a couple of dozen snitches,' Flight went on. 'Not all like Arnold. Some are in it for the cash, some simply because they can't keep their gobs shut. Telling what they know to somebody like me makes them feel important, makes them feel like they're in the know. A place this size, you'd be lost without a decent network of snitches.'
Rebus merely nodded, but Flight was warming to his subject.
'In some ways London is too big to take in. But in other ways it's tiny. Everyone knows everyone else. There's north and south of the river, of course, those are like two different countries. 'But the way the place divides, the loyalties, the same old faces, sometimes I feel like a village bobby on his bicycle.' Because Flight had turned towards him, Rebus nodded again. Inside he was thinking: here we go, the same old story, London is bigger, better, rougher, tougher and more important than anywhere else. He had come across this attitude before, attending courses with Yard men or hearing about it from visitors to London. Flight hadn't, seemed the type, but really everybody was the type. Rebus, too, in his time had exaggerated the problems the police faced in Edinburgh, so that he could look tougher and more important in somebody's eyes.
The facts still had to be faced. Police work was all about paperwork and computers and somebody stepping forward with the truth.
'Nearly there,' said Flight. 'Kilmore Road's the third on the left.'
Kilmore Road was part of an industrial estate and therefore would be deserted at night. It nestled in a maze of back streets about two hundred yards from a tube station. Rebus had always looked on tube stations as busy places, sited in populous areas, but this one stood on a narrow back street, well away from high road, bus route or railway station.
'I don't get it,' he said. Flight merely shrugged and shook his head.
Anyone coming out of the tube station at night found themselves with a lonely walk through the streets, past netcurtained windows where televisions blared. Flight showed him that a popular route was to cut into the industrial estate and across the parkland behind it. The park- was flat and lifeless, boasting a single set of goalposts, two orange traffic cones substituting for the missing set. On the other side of the park three hi-rise blocks; and some lo-rise, housing sprang up. May Jessop had been making for one of those houses, where her parents lived. She was nineteen and had a good job, but it kept her late at her office, so it wasn't until ten o'clock that her parents started to worry. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. Her father rushed to answer, relieved, only to find a detective there, bearing the news that May's body, had been found.
And so it went. There seemed no connection between the victims, no real geographical link other than that, as Flight pointed out, all the killings had been committed north of the river, by which he meant north of the Thames. What did a prostitute, an office manageress and the assistant in an off-licence have in common? Rebus was damned if he knew.
The third murder had taken place much further west in North Kensington. The body had been found beside a railway line and Transport Police had handled the investigation initially. The body was that of Shelley Richards, forty-one years old, unmarried and unemployed. She was the only coloured victim so far. As they drove through Notting Hill, Ladbroke Grove and North Ken (as Flight termed it) Rebus was intrigued by the scheme of things. A street of extraordinarily grand houses would suddenly give way to a squalid, rubbish-strewn road with boarded-up windows sand bench-bound tramps, the wealthy and the poor living almost cheek by jowl. It would never happen in Edinburgh; in Edinburgh, certain boundaries were observed. But this, this was incredible. As Flight put it, 'race riots-one side, diplomats the other'.
The spot where Shelley Richards had died was the loneliest, the most pathetic so far. Rebus clambered down from the railway line, down the embankment, lowered himself over the brick wall and dropped to, the ground. His trousers were smeared with green moss. He brushed them with his hands, but to little effect. Too get to the car where Flight was waiting he had to walk under, a railway bridge. His footsteps echoed: as he tried to avoid the pools of water and the rubbish, and then he stopped, listening. There was a noise all around him, a sort of wheezing, as if the bridge itself were drawing its dying breath. He looked up and saw the dark outlines of pigeons, still against the supporting girders. Cooing softly. That was what he could hear, not wheezing at all. There was a sudden rumble of thunder as a train passed overhead and the pigeons took to the wing, flapping around his head. He shivered and walked back out into sunlight.
Then, finally, it was back to the Murder Room. This was, in fact, a series of rooms covering most of the top floor of the building. Rebus reckoned there to be about twenty men and women working flat out when Flight and he entered the largest of the rooms. There was little to differentiate the scene from that of any murder investigation anywhere in the country. Officers were busy on telephones or working at computer terminals. Clerical staff moved from desk to desk with seemingly endless sheafs of paper. A photocopier was spewing out more paper in a corner of the room and two delivery-men were wheeling a new five-drawer filing cabinet into position beside the three which already stood against one wall. On another wall was a — detailed street map of London, with the murder sites pinpointed. Coloured tapes ran from these sites to spaces on the wall where pictures, details and notes had: been pinned. A duty roster and progress chart took up what space was left. All very efficient, but the faces told Rebus their own story: everyone here, working hard as they were, was waiting for the Lucky Break.
Flight was immediately in tune with the glaze of efficiency in the office, firing off questions. How did the meeting go? Any word from Lambeth? (He explained to Rebus that the police lab was based there.) Any news on last night? What about house-to-house? Well, does anyone know anything?
There were shrugs and shakes of the head. They were simply going through the motions, waiting for that Lucky Break. But what if it didn't come? Rebus had an answer to that: you made your own luck.
A smaller room off this main office was being used as a communications centre, keeping the Murder Room in touch with the investigation, and off this room were two smaller offices yet, each crammed with three desks. This was where the senior detectives worked. Both were empty.
'Sit down,' Flight said. He picked up the telephone on his desk, and dialled. While he waited for an answer, he surveyed with a frown the four-inch high pile of paper which had appeared in his in-tray during the morning. 'Hello, Gino?' he said into the mouthpiece. 'George Flight here. Can I ' order some sandwiches? Salami salad:' He looked to Rebus for confirmation that this would be acceptable. 'On brown bread, please, Gino. Better make it four rounds. Thanks.' He cut the connection and dialled again. Only two numbers this time: an internal call. 'Gino has a cafe round the corner,'' he explained to Rebus. 'He makes great sandwiches, and he delivers.' Then: 'Oh, hello. Inspector Flight here. Can we have some tea? A decent sized pot should do it. We're in the office. Is it wet milk today or that powdered crap? Great, thanks.' He dropped, the receiver back into its cradle and spread his hands, as if some feat of magic had just been performed. 'This is your lucky day, John. We've got real
milk for a change.'
'So what now?'
Flight shrugged, then slapped a hand on the bulging intray. 'You could always read through this little lot, keep yourself up-to-date with the investigation.'.
'Reading about it isn't going to do any good.'
'On the contrary,' said Flight, 'it helps you answer any awkward, questions that may be asked by those on high. How tall was the victim? What colour was her hair? Who found her? It's all in there.'
'She was five feet seven and her hair was brown. As to who found her, I don't give a tinker's cuss.' -
Flight laughed, but Rebus was being serious. 'Murderers don't just appear,' he continued. 'They're created. To create a serial killer, takes time. It's taken; this guy years to make himself what he is. What's he been doing during that time? He may well be a loner, but he's probably got a job, maybe even a wife and kids. Somebody must know something. Maybe his wife wonders where he goes at night, or how blood got onto the, tips, of his shoes, or where her kitchen knife disappeared to.'
'All right, John.'-Flight spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of peace-making. Rebus realised that his voice had been getting.louder.. 'Calm down a little. For a start, when you go on like that, I can hardly make out a word you're saying, but I get your point. So what are we supposed to do?'
'Publicity. We need the public's help.; We need anything they've got.'
'We already get dozens of calls a day., Anonymous tipoffs, nutters who want to confess, people snitching on their next door neighbour, people with grudges, maybe even a few with genuine suspicions. We check them all out. And we've got the media on our side. The Chief Super will be interviewed a dozen times today. Newspapers, magazines, radio, TV. We give them what we can, and we tell them to spread the word. We've got the best bloody Liaison Officer in the country working round the clock to make sure the public knows what we're dealing with here.'
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 IF 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-upon 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 Lame 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 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 briefcas
e 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?'
