Ian Rankin - Tooth and Nail

'A sort of wolf in the fold, you mean?'

'I'm serious.' Rebus paused. 'He might even know where you've sent Lisa.'

'For Christ's sake, John, only three people know where Lisa's going. Me, and the two men I sent with her. Now you don't know those guys, but 'I do. We go back all the way to training college. I'd trust them with my life.' Flight paused. 'Will you trust me?'

Rebus said nothing. Flight's eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and he whistled. 'Well,' he said, 'that certainly answers my question.' He shook his head slowly. 'This case, John. I've been in the force God knows how many years, but this case, it's the worst. It's like every victim was somebody close to me.' He paused again, gathering strength. Now his finger jabbed at Rebus. 'So don't you dare think what I know you're thinking! It's the ultimate fucking insult!'

There was a long silence in the corridor. Typewriters chattered somewhere. Male voices were raised in laughter. A hummed. tune floated down the hall towards and past them. It was as though the whole world were indifferent to this quarrel. And there they stood, not quite friends, not quite; enemies, and not quite sure what to do any more.

Rebus studied the scuff marks on the linoleum. Then 'Lecture over?'

Flight seemed pained' by this response. 'It wasn't a lecture, it was just … I want you to see my side of things.'

'But I do, George, I do.' Rebus patted Flight's arm and turned away from him again. He started to walk.

'I want you to stay here, John!' Walking. 'Do you hear me? I'm ordering you not to go.'

Rebus kept walking.

Flight shook his head. He'd had enough, absolutely up to his eyes, so that they stung now, stung as though he were in a smoky room. 'You're out on your ear, Rebus,' he called, knowing this to be the final warning. If Rebus kept walking now, Flight‹ would be compelled to keep his word or else lose face, and he was damned if he'd lose face for a hard headed Jock copper. 'Just keep walking!' he, yelled. 'Keep walking and you're finished!'

Rebus walked. He didn't know exactly why, perhaps more out of pride than anything else. 'Stupid pride, pride he couldn't explain, but pride all the same. The same emotion that made grown men cry at football matches when Flower of Scotland was played as the Scots national anthem. All he knew was that he had something to do, and he would do it, like the Scots knew their job was to be footballers with more ambition than ability. Yes, that was him all right: more ambition than ability. They'd put it on his gravestone.

At the end of the corridor, he shoved open the swing doors. He didn't look back. Flight's voice followed him, trailing off as it grew in anger.

'Damn, you, you stupid Jock bastard! You've bitten off more than you can chew this time, do you hear me? More than you can bloody well chew.'

FYTP.

Rebus was moving through the entrance hall when he came face to face with Lamb. He made to move past him, but Lamb placed a hand on Rebus's chest.

'Where's the fire?' he said. Rebus was trying to ignore him, was trying to make Lamb invisible. The last thing he needed now was this. His knuckles tingled with anticipation. Lamb was still talking, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in.

'She found you then, your daughter?'

'What?'

Lamb was smiling. 'She phoned here first, and they put her on to me. She sounded a bit upset, so I gave her the lab's number.'

'Oh.' Rebus could feel himself deflating. He managed a grudged 'thanks' and this time succeeded in moving around Lamb. But then Lamb spoke again.

'She sounded a bit tasty though. I like them young. How old is she again?'

Rebus's elbow shot back into Lamb's unprotected stomach, cutting off breath, doubling him over. Rebus studied his work; not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.

He walked

Because he's on personal business, he stands outside the station and looks for a cab. One of the uniformed officers, who knows him from the scene of Sunday's murder, offers a lift in a patrol car, but Rebus shakes his head; The officer looks at him as if an insult has just been traded.

'Thanks anyway;' says — Rebus, trying to sound conciliatory. But all he sounds is mad. › Mad with Lamb, with himself, mad with the Wolfman case, mad with Kenny bloody Watkiss, mad with Flight, with Lisa (why did she have to be in Copperplate Street in the, first place?) and, most of all, mad with London. Where are all the cabs, all the greedy black cabs, beetling like insects as they try; to pick up fares? He's seen thousands of them this past week, but now that he needs one, they're all avoiding him. He waits anyway, eyes slightly unfocused. And as he waits, he thinks, and as he thinks he calms a little.'

What the hell is he doing anyway? He's asking for trouble doing this. He's begging for it, like a black-clothed. Calvinist pleading to be beaten for his sins. A lash across the back. Rebus had seen them all, all the available religions. He had tasted them and each one tasted bitter in its own particular way. Where was the religion for those who did not feel guilty, did not feel shame, did not regret getting angry or getting even, or, better yet, getting more than even? Where was the religion for a man who believed that good and bad must coexist, even within the individual? Where was the religion for a man who believed in God but not in God's religion?

And where were all the bloody taxis? -

'Sod it then.' He walked up to the first patrol car he saw and tapped on the window, flashing his ID.

'Inspector Rebus,' he announced. 'Can you give me a lift to Gower Street?'

The building seemed as deserted as ever and Rebus feared that on this occasion perhaps even the secretary might have scarpered for an early start to the weekend. But no, she was there; like the retainer of some dusty mansion. He cleared his throat, and she looked up 'from. her crochet.

'Yes?' she said. 'Can.1 help you?' She appeared not to remember him. Rebus brought out, his ID and pushed it towards her.

'Detective Inspector Rebus,' he said, his voice- stiff with authority. 'Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a few questions about Dr Frazer.'

The woman looked frightened. Rebus feared he had overdone the menace. He tried a don't-worry-it's-not-youwe're-interested-in sort of smile, a peaceable smile. But the woman looked no less afraid, and her fear flustered her.

'Oh, gracious,' she stammered.. 'Oh my, oh my.' She looked up at him. 'Who did you say?. Dr Frazer? But there's no Dr Frazer in the Department.'

Rebus described Lisa Frazer. The woman suddenly raised her head, recognising the description.

'Oh, Lisa?. You mean Lisa? But there's some mistake. Lisa Frazer isn't a member of staff here. Gracious me, no. Though I believe she may have taken a tutorial or two, just filling in. Oh dear, — Scotland Yard. What, I mean, surely she hasn't:.. What has she done?'

'She doesn't work here?' Rebus needed. to be certain. 'Then who is she?'

'Lisa? She's one of our research students.'

'A student? But she's — '.He was about to say 'old'.

'A mature student,' the secretary explained. 'Oh dear, is she in trouble?'

'I came here before,' Rebus said. 'You didn't tell me any of this then. Why?'

'Came here before?' She studied his, face. 'Yes, I remember. Well, Lisa made me promise not to tell anyone.' 'Why?'

'Her' project, she said. She's doing;' a project on, now, what is it exactly?': She opened a, drawer of her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. 'Ah yes, "The Psychology of the Investigation of Serious Crime". She explained it to me. How she, needed access to a police investigation. How she, needed to gain trust.. The courts, police and so on. She told me she was going to pretend to be a lecturer- I told her not to, I warned her, but she said it was the only way. The police wouldn't waste time with a mere student, would they?'