Ian Rankin - Tooth and Nail

'Well,' Rebus was running a finger down the letter again. 'There's something else here, something that tells me this letter is genuinely from the killer, and not the work of some nutter somewhere.'

'Oh?'

'Go on, George, where's the, clue?'

He held the paper out towards Flight. Flight grinned for a moment, then took it.

'I suppose,' he said, 'you're talking about the way; the writer refers to the Wolfman in the third person?'

'You've just named the tune in one; George. That's exactly what I mean.'

Flight looked up. 'Incidentally John, what the hell happened to you? Did you get in a fight or something? I thought the Scots gave up wearing woad a couple of years back?'

Rebus touched his bruised jaw.' 'I'll tell you the story sometime. But look, in the first sentence, the writer refers to himself in the first person. He's taken our homosexual jibe personally.' But in the rest of the letter, he speaks of the Wolfman in the third person. Standard practice with serial murderers.'

'What about the misspelling of homosexual?'

'Could be genuine, or it could be to throw us off the scent. "U" and "a" are at different ends of the keyboard. A two-fingered typist could miss the "a" if he was writing fast, if he was angry.' Rebus paused, remembering the, list in his pocket. 'I speak from recent experience.'

'Fair enough:'

'Now look at what he actually' says: "Wolfman is what Wolfman does". What the books say is that killers find their identity through killing. That's exactly what this sentence means.'

Flight exhaled noisily. 'Yes, but none of this gets us any closer, does it?' He offered a cigarette to Rebus. 'I mean, we can build up as clear a picture as we like of the bastard's personality, but it won't give us a name and address.'

Rebus sat forward in his chair. 'But all the time we're narrowing down the possible types, George. And eventually we'll, narrow it down to a field of one. Look at this final sentence.''

"'Just tell the truth and no harm can cum to you,"' Flight recited.

'Skipping the pun, which is intriguing in itself, don't you think there's something very, I don't know, official sounding about that construction? Something very formal?'

'I don't see what you're getting at.'

'What I'm getting at is that it seems to me the sort of thing someone like you or me would say.'

'A copper?' Flight sat back in his chair. 'Oh, come on, John, what kind of crap is that?';

Rebus's voice grew quiet and persuasive. 'Someone who knows where Lisa Frazer lives, George. Think about it. Someone who knows that kind of information or knows how to get it. We can't afford to rule out '

Flight stood up. 'I'm sorry, John, but no. I simply can't entertain the notion that … that someone some copper, could be behind all this. No, it's just not on.'

Rebus shrugged. 'Okay, George, whatever you say.' But Rebus knew, that he had planted a seed now in George Flight's head, and that the seed would surely sprout.

Flight sat down, again, confident, that this time he had won a point from Rebus. 'Anything else?'

Rebus read the letter through yet again, sucking on his 'cigarette. He remembered how at school, in his. English class, he had loved writing summaries and close interpretations of texts. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'Actually there is. This letter seems to me more of a warning, a shot across the bows. He starts off by saying that he's going to kill, her, but by the end of the letter he's tempered that line. He says nothing will happen if she tells the truth. I think he's looking for a retraction. I think he wants us to put out another story saying he's not gay.'

Flight checked his watch. 'He's in for another fright.' 'How do you mean?'

'The lunchtime edition will be hitting the streets. I believe Cath Farraday's put out the Jan Crawford story.'

'Really?' Rebus revised his idea of Farraday. Maybe she wasn't, a vindictive old bat after all. 'So now we're saying we've got a living; witness, and he must realise it's a fact. I think it might just be enough to blow what final fuses he's got up here.' Rebus, tapped his head. 'To send him barking mad, as Lamb would put it.'

'You reckon?'

'I reckon, George. We need everybody at their most alert. He could try anything.'

'I dread to think.'

Rebus was staring at the letter. 'Something else, George. EC4: where's that exactly?'

Flight thought it over. 'The City, part of it anyway. Farringdon Street, Blackfriars Bridge, all around there. Ludgate, St Paul's.'

'Hmm. He's tricked us before, making us see patterns where none exist. The teeth for example, I'm sure I'm right about them. But now that we've got him rattled — '

'You think he lives in the City?'

'Lives there, works there, maybe just drives through there on his way to work.' Rebus shook his head. He didn't yet want to share with Flight the image which had just passed through his, mind, the image of a motorcycle courier, based in the City, a motorcyclist with easy access to every part of London. Like the man in leathers he'd seen on the bridge that first night down by the canal.

A man like Kenny Watkiss.

'Well,'' he said instead, 'whatever, it's another piece of the jigsaw.'

'If you ask me,' said Flight, 'there are too many pieces. They won't all fit.'

'Agreed.' Rebus' stubbed out the cigarette. Flight had already finished his own, and was about to light another. 'But as the picture emerges, we'll know better which bits we can discard, won't we?' He was still studying the letter. There was something else. What was it? Something at, the back of his mind, lurking somewhere in memory…. Something stirred momentarily by the letter, but, what? If he stopped thinking about it, maybe it would come to him, the way the names of forgotten actors in films did.

The door opened

'Lisa, how are you?' Both men rose to offer her a seat, but she lifted a hand to show she preferred to stand. All three of them stood, a stiff triangle in the tiny box of a room.

'Just been sick again,' she said. Them' she smiled. 'Can't be much more to bring up. I think I'm back to yesterday's breakfast already.'- They smiled with her. She looked tired to Rebus, exhausted. Lucky she had slept so soundly yesterday. He doubted she'd get much sleep for the next night or ten, tranqs or not.

Flight spoke first. 'I've arranged for temporary accommodation, Dr Frazer. The less people who know where, the better. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. We'll have a guard on you.'

'What about her flat?' asked Rebus.

Flight nodded. 'I've got two men there keeping an eye on the place. One inside the flat itself, the other outside, both of them hidden. If the Wolfman turns up, they'll cope with him, believe me.'

'Stop talking as though I'm not here,' Lisa snapped. 'This affects me too.'

There was a cold silence in the room.

'Sorry,' she said. She covered her eyes with her ringless left hand. 'I just can't believe I was so scared back there. I feel — '

She tipped her head back again. The tears were too precious to be released. Flight placed a hand softly on her shoulder.

'It's all right, Dr Frazer. Really it is.' She gave a wry smile at this.

Flight kept on talking, feeding her with comforting words. But she wasn't listening. She was staring at Rebus, and he was staring back at her. Rebus knew what her eyes were telling him. They were telling him something of the utmost importance.'

Catch the Wolfman, catch him quickly and destroy him utterly. Do it for me, John. But just do it.

She blinked, breaking the contact. Rebus nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. She smiled at him, and suddenly her eyes were dry sparkling stones. Flight felt the change and lifted his hand away from her arm. He looked to Rebus for some explanation, but Rebus was studying the letter, concentrating on its opening sentence. What was it? There was, something there, something just beyond his line of vision. Something he didn't get.