Tooth And Nail (11 page)

At last she rises again and crosses to the opposite wall, lifts an aerosol and shakes it noisily. This wall – she calls it her Dionysian wall – is covered in spray-painted black slogans: DEATH TO ART, KILLING IS AN ART, THE LAW IS AN ARSE, FUCK THE RICH, FEEL THE POOR. She thinks of something else to say, something worth the diminishing space. She sprays with a flourish.

‘This is art,’ she says, glancing over her shoulder towards the Apollonian wall with its framed paintings. ‘This is fucking art. This is fuck art.’ She sees that the doll’s eyes are open and throws herself down to within an inch of those eyes, which suddenly screw themselves shut. Carefully, she uses both hands to prise apart the eyelids. Faces are close now,
so
intimate. The moment is always
so
intimate. Her breath is fast. So is the doll’s. The doll’s mouth struggles against the tape holding it shut. The nostrils flare.

‘Fuck art,’ she hisses to the doll. ‘This is fuck art.’ She has the scissors in her hand again now, and slides one blade into the doll’s left nostril. ‘Long nosehairs, Johnny, are so unbecoming in a man. So unbecoming in a man.’ She pauses, as though listening to something, as though considering this statement. Then she nods. ‘Good point,’ she says, smiling now.

‘Good point.’

The telephone woke Rebus. He could not locate it for a moment, then realised that it was mounted on the wall just to the right of his headboard. He sat up, fumbling with the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Rebus?’ The voice was full of zest. He didn’t recognise it. Took his Longines (his father’s Longines actually) from the bedside table and peered through the badly scratched face to find that it was seven fifteen. ‘Did I wake you up? Sorry. It’s Lisa Frazer.’

Rebus came to life. Or rather his voice did. He still sat slumped and jangling on the edge of the bed, but heard himself say a bright, ‘Hello, Dr Frazer. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve been studying the notes you gave me on the Wolfman case. Working through most of the night, to be honest. I just couldn’t sleep, I was so excited by them. I’ve made some preliminary observations.’

Rebus touched the bed, feeling its residual warmth. How long since he’d slept with a woman? How long since he’d woken up the following day regretting nothing?

‘I see,’ he said.

Her laughter was like a clear jet of water. ‘Oh, Inspector, I’m sorry, I’ve wakened you. I’ll call back later.’

‘No, no. I’m fine, honestly. A bit startled, but fine. Can we meet and talk about what you’ve found?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I’m a bit tied up today.’ He was trying to sound vulnerable, and thought on the whole that it was probably working. So he played his big card. ‘What about dinner?’

‘That would be nice. Where?’

He rubbed at a shoulder-blade. ‘I don’t know. This is your town, not mine. I’m a tourist, remember.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not exactly a local myself, but I take your point. Well in that case, dinner’s on me.’ She sounded set on this. ‘And I think I know just the place. I’ll come to your hotel. Seven thirty?’

‘I look forward to it.’

What a very pleasant way to start the day, thought Rebus, lying down again and plumping up the pillow. He’d just closed his eyes when the telephone rang again.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m in reception and you’re a lazy git. Come down here so I can put my breakfast on your tab.’

Cli-chick. Brrrr. Rebus slapped the receiver back into its cradle and got out of bed with a growl.

‘What kept you?’

‘I didn’t think they’d appreciate a stark naked guest in the dining-room. You’re early.’

Flight shrugged. ‘Things to do.’ Rebus noticed that Flight didn’t look well. The dark rings around his eyes and his pale colouring were not due simply to lack of sleep. His flesh had a saggy quality, as though magnets on the floor were drawing it down. But then he wasn’t feeling so great himself. He thought he’d probably picked up a bug on the tube. His throat was a little sore and his head throbbed. Could it be true that cities made you sick? In one of the essays Lisa Frazer had given him someone had made that very claim, stating that most serial killers were products of their environment. Rebus couldn’t really comment on that, but he did know that there was more mucus in his nostrils than usual. Had he brought enough handkerchiefs with him?

‘Things to do,’ Flight repeated.

They sat at a table for two. The dining-room was quiet, and the Spanish waitress took their order briskly, the day not yet having had enough time to wear her down.

‘What do you want to do today?’ Flight seemed to be asking this only in order to get the conversation rolling, but Rebus had specific plans for the day and told him so.

‘First off I’d quite like to see Maria Watkiss’s man, Tommy.’ Flight smiled at this and looked down at the table. ‘Just to satisfy my own curiosity,’ Rebus continued. ‘And I’d like to talk to the dental pathologist, Dr Morrison.’

‘Well, I know where to find both of them,’ said Flight. ‘Go on.’

‘That’s about it. I’m seeing Dr Frazer this evening –’ Flight looked up at this news, his eyes widening in appreciation ‘– to go over her findings on the killer’s profile.’

‘Uh huh.’ Flight sounded unconvinced.

‘I’ve been reading those books she lent me. I think there may be something in it, George.’ Rebus used the Christian name carefully, but Flight seemed to have no objections.

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.