Ian Rankin - Tooth and Nail

Rebus shifted. What? What was interesting? But Flight had again resorted to monosyllables.

'Uh-hu. Mmm. Well, never mind. I know. Yes, I'm sure.' His voice sounded resigned to something. 'Okay; Thanks for letting me know. Yes. No, we'll be back in about, I don't know, maybe another hour. Right, catch you then.'

Flight held the receiver above the telephone, but did not immediately drop it back into its cradle. Instead, he let it hang there.

Rebus could contain his curiosity no longer. 'What?'' he said. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

Flight seemed to 'come out of his daydream, and put down the receiver. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's Tommy Watkiss.' 'What about him?'

'Lamb has just heard that there isn't going to be a retrial. We don't know why yet. Maybe; the judge didn't think the charges were worth all the aggro and told the CPS so.'

'Assault on a woman not worth the aggro?' All thought of Philip Cousins vanished from Rebus's mind.

Flight shrugged. 'Retrials are expensive. Any trial is expensive. We cocked it up first time round, so we lose a second chance. It happens, John, you know that.'

'Of, course it happens. But the idea of a wake like Watkiss getting away with something like that — ’

'Don't worry, he can't keep his nose clean for long. Breaking the law's in his blood. When he does something naughty, we'll have him, and I'll see to it there are no ballsups, mark my words.'

Rebus sighed. Yes, it happened, you lost a few. More than a few. Incompetence or a soft judge, an unsympathetic jury or a rock-solid witness for the defence. And sometimes maybe the Procurator Fiscal thought a retrial not worth the money. You lost a few. They were like toothache.

'I bet Chambers is fuming,' Rebus said.

'Oh yes,' said Flight, smiling at the thought, 'I bet he's got steam coming out of his bloody shirt-cuffs.'

But one person would be happy at least, Rebus was thinking: Kenny Watkiss. He'd be over the moon.

'So,' said Rebus, 'what about Jan Crawford?'

Flight shrugged again. 'She seems straight as a die. No previous, no record of mental illness, lives-quietly, but the neighbours seem to like her well enough. Like Lamb said, she's so clean it's frightening.'

Yes, the squeaky clean ones often were. Frightening to a policeman the way an unknown species might be to a jungle explorer: fear of the new, the different. You got to suspect that everyone had something to hide: the schoolteachers smuggled in porn videos: from their holiday in Amsterdam; the solicitors took cocaine on their weekend parties; the happily married MP was sleeping with his secretary; the magistrate had a predilection for underage boys; the librarian kept a real skeleton hidden in the closet; the angelic looking children had set fire to a neighbour's cat.

And sometimes your suspicions were correct.

And other, times' they weren't. Cousins was standing at the door now, ready to leave. Flight laid a hand softly on his arm. Rebus recalled that he'd meant to say something to Flight, but how to phrase it? Would it do to, say that Philip Cousins seemed almost too clean, with his surgeon's cold, manicured hands and his ambassadorial air? Rebus was wondering now, seriously wondering.

Since Flight had gone off with Philip Cousins to find Lisa and her protectors, Rebus went back to, the lab to hear the result of the first saliva test.

'Sorry,' said the, white-coated scientist. He looked not yet to be out of his teens. Beneath his lab coat, there lurked a black T-shirt decorated with the name of a heavy metal band. 'I don't think we're going to have much luck. All we're finding; so far is H20, tap-water. Whoever: stuck the envelope down must have used a wet sponge or a pad or one of those old-fashioned roller, things. No traces, of saliva at all.'

The breath left Rebus's lungs. 'What about fingerprints?'

'Negative so far. All we've found are two sets which look like they're going to match Dr Frazer's. And we're not having any better luck with fibres or grease stains. I'd say the writer wore gloves. Nobody here has seen such a clean, speck-free job.'

He knows, Rebus was thinking. He knows everything we might try. So damned smart.

'Well, thanks anyway,' he said. The young man raised his eyebrows and spread his palms.

'I wish we could do more.'

You could start by getting a haircut, son, he thought to himself. You look too much like Kenny Watkiss. He sighed instead. 'Just do what you can,' he said. 'Just do what you can.’

Turning to walk away, Rebus felt a mixture of fresh rage and impotence, sudden savage frustration. The Wolfman was too good. He would stop killing before they could catch him; or he would simply go on killing again and, again and again. No one would be safe. And most of all, it seemed, Lisa would not be safe.

Lisa.

She was being blamed by the Wolfman for the story Rebus had invented. It had nothing to do with Lisa. And if the Wolfman should' somehow get to her it would be Rebus's fault, wouldn't it?. Where was Lisa going? Rebus didn't know. Flight thought it was safer that way. But Rebus couldn't shake off the idea that the Wolfman might well be a policeman. Might: well be any policeman. Might be the brawny detective or the thin and silent detective. Lisa had gone off with them thinking them her protection. What if she had walked straight into the clutches of …? What if the Wolfman knew exactly.;.? What if Philip Cousins …?

A loudspeaker, sounded from its recess in the ceiling.

'Telephone call for Inspector Rebus at reception. Telephone call for Inspector Rebus.

Rebus walked quickly down the rest of the corridor and through the swing-door at the end. He didn't know if Flight was still in the building, didn't care. His mind was filling with horrors: Wolfman, Lisa, Rhona, Sammy. Little Sammy, his daughter. She'd' seen enough terror in her life. He'd been responsible before. He didn't want her to be hurt ever again.

The receptionist lifted the receiver as he approached, holding it out to him. As he grabbed it, she pressed a button on the dial, connecting him to the caller.

'Hello?' he said, breathlessly.

'Daddy?' Oh Christ, it was Sammy.

'Sammy?' Nearly yelling now. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

'Oh, Daddy.' She was crying. The memory flashed in front of him, scalding his vision. Phonecalls. Screams.

'What is it, Sammy? Tell me!'

'It's,' a sniff, 'it's Kenny.'

'Kenny?' He furrowed his brow. 'What's wrong with him? Has he been in a crash?'

'Oh no, Daddy. He's just … just disappeared."

'Where are you, Sammy?'

'I'm in a call-box.'

'Okay, I'm going to give you the address of a police station. Meet me there. If you have to get a taxi, that's fine. I'll pay for it when you arrive. Understand?'

'Daddy.' She sniffed back tears. 'You've got to find him. I'm' worried. Please find him, Daddy. Please. Please!'

By the time. George Flight, reached reception, Rebus had already left. The receptionist explained as best she could, while Flight rubbed his jaw, encountering stubble. He’ had argued with Lisa Frazer, but by Christ she'd been stubborn. Attractively stubborn, he had to admit. She'd told him she didn't mind bodyguards but that the idea of a 'safe location' was out of the question. She had, she said, an appointment at the Old Bailey, a couple of appointments actually, interviews she was doing in connection with some research.

'It's taken me weeks to set them up,' she said, 'there's no way I'm going to blow them out now!'

'But my dear,' Philip Cousins had drawled, 'that's just where we're headed.' He was, Flight knew keen for a close to proceedings, glancing at his watch impatiently. And it seemed that Lisa and Cousins knew one another from the murder at Copperplate Street, that they had things in common, things they wanted to talk about. That they were keen to be going.