Tooth And Nail (6 page)

The chest and abdominal organs were removed and taken to a clean slab, where a hose was used to wash them clean before Cousins dissected them. The attendant meantime was called into action, removing the brain with the help of a tiny powered circular-saw. Rebus had his eyes shut now, but the room seemed to swirl all the same. Not long to go now though. Not long, thank God. But it wasn’t just the sounds now, was it? It was the smell too, that unmistakable aroma of raw meat. It clung to the nostrils like perfume, filling the lungs, catching the back of the throat and clinging there, so that eventually it became a tang in the mouth and he found himself actually tasting it. His stomach moved momentarily, but he rubbed it gently, surreptitiously with a hand. Not surreptitiously enough.

‘If you’re going to throw up,’ it was Lamb again, like a succubus over his shoulder, hissing, ‘go outside.’ And then the chuckle, throaty and slow like a stalled engine. Rebus half-turned his head and gave a dangerous smile.

Soon enough, the whole mess of matter was being put together again, and Rebus knew that by the time any grieving relatives viewed the mortal remains of Jean Cooper, the body would look quite natural.

As ever, by the end of the autopsy the room had been reduced to silent introspection. Each man and woman present was made of the same stuff as Jean Cooper, and now they stood, momentarily stripped of their individual personalities. They were all bodies, all animals, all collections of viscera. The only difference between them and Jean Cooper was that their hearts still pumped blood. But one day soon enough each heart would stop, and that would be an end of it, save for the possibility of a visit to this butcher’s shop, this abattoir.

Cousins removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands thoroughly, accepted from the attendant a proffered sheaf of paper towels. ‘That’s about it then, gentlemen, until Penny can type up the notes. Murdered between nine o’clock and nine-thirty I’d guess. Same
modus operandi
as our so-called Wolfman. I think I’ve just examined his fourth victim. I’ll get in Anthony Morrison tomorrow, let him have a look at the teeth marks. See what he says.’

Since everyone seemed to know except Rebus, Rebus asked, ‘Who’s Anthony Morrison?’

Flight was first to answer. ‘A dentist.’

‘A dental pathologist,’ corrected Cousins. ‘And quite a good one. He’s got details of the other three murders. His analyses of the bite marks have been quite useful.’ Cousins turned to Flight for confirmation of this, but Flight’s eyes were directed towards his shoes, as if to say
I wouldn’t go that far
.

‘Well,’ said Cousins, seeming to take the silent hint, ‘at any rate, you know my findings. It’s down to your lab chaps now. There’s precious little there …’ Cousins nodded back towards the scooped-out husk of the corpse, ‘to help with your investigation. That being so, I think I’ll go home to bed.’

Flight seemed to realise that Cousins was displeased with him. ‘Thank you, Philip.’ And the detective lifted a hand to rest it against the pathologist’s arm. Cousins looked at the hand, then at Flight, and smiled.

The performance at an end, the audience began to shuffle out into the cold, still darkness of an emerging day. By Rebus’s watch, it was four thirty. He felt completely exhausted, could happily have lain down on the lawn in front of the main building and taken a nap, but Flight was walking towards him, carrying his bags.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

In his fragile state, Rebus felt this to be the nicest, kindest thing anyone had said to him in weeks. ‘Are you sure you have room?’ he said. ‘I mean, with the teddy bear and all.’

Flight paused. ‘Or if you’d prefer to walk, Inspector?’

Rebus threw up his hands in surrender, then, when the door was unlocked, slipped into the passenger seat of Flight’s red Sierra. The seat seemed to wrap itself around him.

‘Here,’ said Flight, handing a hip flask to Rebus. Rebus unscrewed the top of the flask and sniffed. ‘It won’t kill you,’ Flight called. This was probably true. The aroma was of whisky. Not great whisky, not a smoky island malt, but a decent enough proprietary brand. Well, it would help keep him awake perhaps until they reached the hotel. Rebus toasted the windscreen and let the liquid trickle into his mouth.

Flight got behind the steering-wheel and started the car, then, as the car idled, accepted the flask from Rebus and drank from it greedily.

‘How far to the hotel from here?’ Rebus asked.

‘About twenty minutes at this time of night,’ said Flight, screwing tight the stopper and replacing the flask in his pocket. ‘That’s if we stop for red lights.’

‘You have my permission to run every red light you see.’

Flight laughed tiredly. Both men were wondering how to turn the conversation around to the autopsy.

‘Best leave it until morning, eh?’ said Rebus, speaking for them both. Flight merely nodded and moved off, waving to Cousins and Isobel Penny, who were about to get into their car. Rebus stared out of his side window to where DC Lamb stood beside his own car, a flash little sports model. Typical, thought Rebus. Just typical. Lamb stared back at him, and then gave that three-quarters sneer again.

FYTP, Rebus mentally intoned. FYTP. Then he turned in his seat to examine the teddy bear behind him. Flight was resolutely refusing to take the hint, and Rebus, though curious, wasn’t about to jeopardise whatever relationship he might be able to strike up with this man by asking the obvious question. Some things were always best left until morning.

The whisky had cleared his nostrils, lungs and throat. He breathed deeply, seeing in his mind the little mortuary attendant, that livid birthmark, and Isobel Penny, sketching like any amateur artist. She might have been in front of a museum exhibit for all the emotion she had shown. He wondered what her secret was, the secret of her absolute calmness, but thought he probably knew in any case. Her job had become merely that: a job. Maybe one day Rebus would feel the same way. But he hoped not.

If anything, Flight and Rebus said less during the drive to the hotel than they had done on the way to the mortuary. The whisky was working on Rebus’s empty stomach and the interior of the car was oppressively hot. He tried opening his window a quarter of an inch, but the blast of chill air only made things worse.

The autopsy was being played out again before him. The cutting tools, the lifting of organs out of the body, the incisions and inspections, Cousins’s face peering at spongy tissue from no more than an inch away. One twitch and his face would have been smothered in … Isobel Penny watching all, recording all, the slice from throat to pubis … London sped past him. Flight, true to his word, was cruising through some red lights and slowing merely for others. There were still cars on the streets. The city never slept. Nightclubs, parties, drifters, the homeless. Sleepless dog-walkers, all night bakeries and beigel shops. Some spelt ‘beigel’ and some spelt ‘bagel’. What the hell was a beigel? Wasn’t that what they were always eating in Woody Allen films?

Samples from her eyebrows, for Christ’s sake. What use were samples from her eyebrows? They should be concentrating on the attacker, not the victim. Those teeth marks. What was the dentist’s name again? Not a dentist, a dental
pathologist
. Morrison. Yes, that was it. Morrison, like the street in Edinburgh, Morrison Street, not too far from the brewery canal, where the swans lived, a single pair of swans. What happened when they died? Did the brewery replace them? So damned hot in this shiny red car. Rebus could feel his insides wanting to become his outsides. The knife twisted in the throat. A small knife. He could almost visualise it. Something like a kitchen knife. Sharp, sour taste in his mouth.

‘Nearly there,’ said Flight. ‘Just along Shaftesbury Avenue. That’s Soho on the right. By God, we’ve cleaned that den up this past few years. You wouldn’t believe it. You know, I’ve been thinking, where the body was found, it’s not so far from where the Krays used to live. Somewhere on Lea Bridge Road. I was just a young copper when they were on the go.’

‘Please …’ said Rebus.

‘They did somebody in Stokie. Jack McVitie, I think it was. Jack the Hat, they called him.’

‘Can you stop here?’ Rebus blurted out. Flight looked at him.

‘What’s up?’

‘I need some air. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Just stop the car, please.’

Flight began to protest, but pulled over to the kerb. Stepping out of the car, Rebus immediately felt better. There was cold sweat on his forehead, neck and back. He breathed deeply. Flight deposited his bags on the pavement.

‘Thanks again,’ said Rebus. ‘Sorry about this. Just point me in the general direction.’

‘Just off the Circus,’ Flight said.

Rebus nodded. ‘I hope there’s a night porter.’ Yes, he was feeling much better.

‘It’s a quarter to five,’ said Flight. ‘You’ll probably catch the day shift coming on.’ He laughed, but the laugh died quickly and he gave Rebus a serious nod of his head. ‘You made your point tonight, John. Okay?’

Rebus nodded back.
John
. Another chip from the iceberg, or just good management?

‘Thanks,’ he said. They shook hands. ‘Are we still on for a meeting at ten?’

‘Let’s make it eleven, eh? I’ll have someone pick you up from your hotel.’

Rebus nodded and picked up his bags. Then bent down again towards the car’s back window. ‘Good night, teddy,’ he said.

‘Watch you don’t get lost!’ Flight called to him from the car. Then the car moved off, making a screeching u-turn before roaring back the way they had come. Rebus looked around him. Shaftesbury Avenue. The buildings seemed about to swamp him. Theatres. Shops. Litter: the debris from a Sunday night out. A dull roar preceded the arrival, from one of the misty side streets, of a dustcart. The men were dressed in orange overalls. They paid no attention to Rebus as he trudged past them. How long was this street? It seemed to follow a vast curve, longer than he had expected.

Bloody London. Then he spotted Eros atop his fountain, but there was something wrong. The Circus was no longer a Circus. Eros had been paved in, so that traffic had to sweep past it rather than around it. Why the hell had anyone decided to do that? A car was slowing behind him, coming parallel with him. White car with an orange stripe: a police car. The officer in the passenger seat had wound down his window and now called out to him.

‘Excuse me, sir, do you mind telling me where you’re going?’

‘What?’ The question stunned Rebus, stopped him in his tracks. The car had stopped too and both driver and passenger were emerging.

‘Are those your bags, sir?’

Rebus felt it rise within him, a shining hard steel pole of anger. Then he happened to catch sight of himself in the window of the patrol car. A quarter to five on the streets of London. A dishevelled, unshaven man, a man obviously without sleep, carrying a suitcase, a bag and a briefcase. A
briefcase
? Who the hell would be carrying a briefcase around at this time of the morning? Rebus put down his luggage and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with one hand. And before he knew what was happening, his shoulders began moving, his body convulsing with laughter. The two uniformed officers were looking at one another. Rebus sniffed back the laughter and reached into his inside pocket. One of the officers stepped back a pace.

‘Take it easy, son,’ Rebus said. He produced his ID. ‘I’m on your side.’ The less cagey officer, the passenger, took the ID from Rebus, examined it, then handed it back.

‘You’re a long way off your patch, sir.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ said Rebus. ‘What’s your name, son?’

The constable was wary now. ‘Bennett, sir. Joey Bennett. I mean, Joseph Bennett.’

‘All right, Joey. Would you like to do me a favour?’ The constable nodded. ‘Do you know the Prince Royal Hotel?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Bennett began to point with his left hand. ‘It’s about fifty yards –’

‘All right,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘Just show me, will you?’ The young man said nothing. ‘Will you do that, Constable Bennett?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rebus nodded. Yes, he could handle London. He could take it on and win. ‘Right,’ he said, moving off towards the Prince Royal. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning back and taking in both men with his glance, ‘and bring my bags, will you?’ Rebus had his back to them again, but he could almost hear the sound of two jaws dropping open. ‘Or,’ he called back, ‘shall I just inform Chief Inspector Laine that two of his officers harassed me on my first night as his guest in this fine city?’

Rebus kept on walking, hearing the two officers pick up his luggage and hurry after him. They were arguing as to whether or not they should leave the patrol car unlocked. He was smiling, despite everything. A small victory, a bit of a cheat, but what the hell. This was London, after all. This was Shaftesbury Avenue. And that was showbiz.

Home at last, she had a good wash, and after that she felt a little better. She had brought in a black bin-liner from the boot of her car. It contained the clothes she had been wearing, cheap flimsy things. Tomorrow evening she would tidy the back garden and light a bonfire.

She wasn’t crying any more. She had calmed down. She always calmed down afterwards. From a polythene shopping bag she removed another polythene bag, from which she removed the bloodied knife. The kitchen sink was full of boiling, soapy water. The polythene bags went into the bin-liner with the clothes, the knife went into the sink. She washed it carefully, emptying and refilling the washing bowl, all the time humming to herself. It wasn’t a recognisable song, nor even really a tune. But it calmed her, it soothed her, the way her mother’s hummed lullabies always had.

There, all done. It was hard work, and she was pleased to be finished with it. Concentration was the key. A lapse in concentration, and you could make a slip, then fail to spot that slip. She rinsed the sink three times, sluicing away every last speckle of blood, and left the knife to dry on the draining-board. Then she walked out into the hallway and paused at one of the doors while she found the key.

This was her secret room, her picture gallery. Inside, one wall was all but covered by oil and watercolour paintings. Three of these paintings were damaged beyond repair. A pity, since all three had been favourites. Her favourite now was a small countryside stream. Simple, pale colours and a naive style. The stream was in the foreground and beside it sat a man and a boy, or it could have been a man and a girl. It was hard to tell, that was the problem with the naive style. It was not as though she could even ask the artist, for the artist had been dead for years.