10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (63 page)

Flight was immediately in tune with the glaze of efficiency in the office, firing off questions. How did the meeting go? Any word from Lambeth? (He explained to Rebus that the police lab was based there.) Any news on last night? What about house-to-house? Well, does anyone know
anything
?

There were shrugs and shakes of the head. They were simply going through the motions, waiting for that Lucky Break. But what if it didn’t come? Rebus had an answer to that: you made your own luck.

A smaller room off this main office was being used as a communications centre, keeping the Murder Room in touch with the investigation, and off this room were two smaller offices yet, each crammed with three desks. This was where the senior detectives worked. Both were empty.

‘Sit down,’ Flight said. He picked up the telephone on his desk, and dialled. While he waited for an answer, he surveyed with a frown the four-inch high pile of paper which had appeared in his in-tray during the morning. ‘Hello, Gino?’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘George Flight here. Can I order some sandwiches? Salami salad.’ He looked to Rebus for confirmation that this would be acceptable. ‘On brown bread, please, Gino. Better make it four rounds. Thanks.’ He cut the connection and dialled again. Only two numbers this time: an internal call. ‘Gino has a cafe round the corner,’ he explained to Rebus. ‘He makes great sandwiches, and he delivers.’ Then: ‘Oh, hello. Inspector Flight here. Can we have some tea? A decent-sized pot should do it. We’re in the office. Is it wet milk today or that powdered crap? Great, thanks.’ He dropped the receiver back into its cradle and spread his hands, as if some feat of magic had just been performed. ‘This is your lucky day, John. We’ve got real milk for a change.’

‘So what now?’

Flight shrugged, then slapped a hand on the bulging in-tray. ‘You could always read through this little lot, keep yourself up-to-date with the investigation.’

‘Reading about it isn’t going to do any good.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Flight, ‘it helps you answer any awkward questions that may be asked by those on high. How tall was the victim? What colour was her hair? Who found her? It’s all in there.’

‘She was five feet seven and her hair was brown. As to who found her, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss.’

Flight laughed, but Rebus was being serious. ‘Murderers don’t just appear,’ he continued. ‘They’re created. To create a serial killer takes time. It’s taken this guy years to make himself what he is. What’s he been doing during that time? He may well be a loner, but he’s probably got a job, maybe even a wife and kids.
Somebody
must know something. Maybe his wife wonders where he goes at night, or how blood got onto the tips of his shoes, or where her kitchen knife disappeared to.’

‘All right, John.’ Flight spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of peace-making. Rebus realised that his voice had been getting louder. ‘Calm down a little. For a start, when you go on like that I can hardly make out a word you’re saying, but I get your point. So what are we supposed to do?’

‘Publicity. We need the public’s help. We need anything they’ve got.’

‘We already get dozens of calls a day. Anonymous tip-offs, nutters who want to confess, people snitching on their next door neighbour, people with grudges, maybe even a few with genuine suspicions. We check them all out. And we’ve got the media on our side. The Chief Super will be interviewed a dozen times today. Newspapers, magazines, radio, TV. We give them what we can, and we tell them to spread the word. We’ve got the best bloody Liaison Officer in the country working round the clock to make sure the public knows what we’re dealing with here.’

There was a knock on the already open door and a WPC carried a tray into the room and left it on Flight’s desk. ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’ he said, already starting to pour the tea into two plain white mugs.

‘What’s the Liaison Officer’s name?’ Rebus asked. He knew a Liaison Officer himself. She, too, was the best there was. But she wasn’t in London; she was back in Edinburgh . . .

‘Cath Farraday,’ said Flight. ‘Detective Inspector Cath Farraday.’ He sniffed the milk carton, before pouring a dollop into his tea. ‘If you stick around long enough, you’ll get to meet her. She’s a bit of a cracker is our Cath. Mind you, if she heard me talking about her like that, she’d have my head on a plate.’ Flight chuckled.

‘And salad on the side,’ came a voice from just outside the door. Flight, flinching, spilt tea down his shirt and jumped to his feet. The door was swinging open now, to reveal a platinum blonde woman leaning against the jamb, her arms folded, one leg casually crossed over the other. Rebus’s gaze was drawn to her eyes, which were slanted like a cat’s. They made her whole face seem narrower than it was. Her lips were thin, lined with a thin coat of bright red lipstick. Her hair had a hard, metallic look to it, reflecting the look of the woman herself. She was older than either of the men in the room by several years and if age hadn’t withered her, the frequent use of cosmetics had. Her face was lined and puffy. Rebus didn’t like a lot of make-up on a woman, but plenty of men did.

‘Hello, Cath,’ said Flight, trying to regain at least an outer shell of composure. ‘We were just . . .’

‘. . . talking about me. I know.’ She unfolded her arms and took a couple of steps into the room, extending a hand to Rebus. ‘You must be Inspector Rebus,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’

‘Oh?’ Rebus looked to Flight, whose attention, however, was fixed on Cath Farraday.

‘I hope George here is giving you an easy ride.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse.’

Her eyes became more feline still. ‘I’ll bet,’ she said. She lowered her voice. ‘But watch your back, Inspector. Not everyone’s as nice as George. How would you feel if someone from London suddenly started to poke his nose into one of your cases, hmm?’

‘Cath,’ said Flight, ‘there’s no need for . . .’

She raised a hand, silencing him. ‘Just a friendly warning, George, one Inspector to another. We’ve got to look after our own, haven’t we?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Must be going. I’ve a meeting with Pearson in five minutes. Nice to have met you, Inspector. Bye, George.’

And then she was gone, the door left wide open, a strong perfume lingering in the room. Both men were silent for a moment. Rebus was the first to speak.

‘I believe your description was “a cracker”, George. Remind me never to let you arrange a blind date for me.’

It was late afternoon and Rebus sat in Flight’s office alone, a pad of paper in front of him on the desk. He tapped his pen like a drumstick against the edge of the table and stared at the two names he had written so far.

Dr Anthony Morrison. Tommy Watkiss.

These were people he wanted to see. He drew a thick line beneath them and wrote two more names: Rhona. Samantha. These, too, were people he wanted to see, though for personal reasons.

Flight had gone off to see Chief Inspector Laine on another floor of the building. The invitation did not extend to Rebus. He picked up the last remaining quarter of his salami sandwich, but thought better of it and tossed it into the office’s metal bin. Too salty. And what kind of meat was salami anyway? He now had a craving for more tea. He thought Flight had dialled 18 to order up the first pot, but decided against trying it. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, did he? It would be just his luck to get through to Chief Superintendent Pearson.

Just a friendly warning
. The point was not lost on Rebus. He crumpled up his list and threw that in the bin too, then got up out of his chair and made for the main office. He knew he should be doing something, or should at least
seem
to be doing something. They had brought him four hundred miles to help them. But he couldn’t for the life of him see any gaps in their investigation. They were doing everything they could, but to no avail. He was just another straw to be clutched at. Just another chance for that elusive Lucky Break.

He was studying the wall-map when the voice sounded behind him.

‘Sir?’

He turned to see one of the Murder Room team standing there. ‘Yes?’

‘Someone to see you, sir.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, you’re the most senior detective around at the moment, sir.’

Rebus considered this. ‘Who is it?’

The officer checked the scrap of paper in his hand. ‘A Dr Frazer, sir.’

Rebus considered a moment longer. ‘All right,’ he said, turning back towards the tiny office. ‘Give me a minute and then send him in.’ He stopped. ‘Oh, and bring some tea, will you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the officer. He waited until Rebus had left the room, then turned to the others, seated at their desks and smiling at him. ‘The cheek of these fucking jocks,’ he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Remind me to piss in the teapot before I take it in.’

Dr Frazer turned out to be a woman. What was more, as she entered the office, she was attractive enough to have Rebus half-rise from his desk in welcome.

‘Inspector Rebus?’

‘That’s right. Dr Frazer, I presume?’

‘Yes.’ She showed a row of perfect teeth as Rebus invited her to take a seat. ‘Though I’d better explain.’ Rebus fixed his eyes on her own and nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on hers for fear that otherwise they would be drawn down to her slim tanned legs, to that point where, an inch above the knee, her cream skirt began, hugging her thighs. He had taken her body in with a single sweeping glance. She was tall, almost as tall as him. Her legs were bare and long, her body supple. She was wearing a jacket to match the skirt and a plain white blouse, set off by a single string of pearls. There was a slight, exquisite scar on her throat just above the pearls and her face was tanned and without make-up, her jaw square, her hair straight and black, tied back with a black band, so that a shock of it fell onto one shoulder. She had brought a soft black leather briefcase into the room, which she now held up in her lap, running her fingers around the handles as she spoke.

‘I’m not a medical doctor.’ Rebus registered slight surprise. ‘I’m a doctor courtesy of my Ph.D. I teach psychology at University College.’

‘And you’re American,’ said Rebus.

‘Canadian actually.’

Yes, he should have known. There was a soft lilt to her accent, something few Americans possessed. And she wasn’t quite as nasal as the tourists who stopped in Princes Street to get a picture of the Scott Monument.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘so, what can I do for you, Dr Frazer?’

‘Well, I did talk to someone on the telephone this morning and I told them of my interest in the Wolfman case.’

Rebus could see it all now. Another nutter with some crazy idea about the Wolfman, that’s probably what the Murder Room had thought. So they’d decided to play a joke on him, arranged a meeting without letting him know, and then Flight, forewarned, had made himself scarce. Well, the joke was on them. Rebus could always find time for an attractive woman, crazy or not. After all, he had nothing better to do, had he?

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I’d like to try to put together a profile of the Wolfman.’

‘A profile?’

‘A psychological profile. Like an identikit, but building up a picture of the mind rather than the face. I’ve been doing some research on criminal profiling and I think I can use similar criteria to help you come to a clearer understanding of the killer.’ She paused. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m wondering what’s in it for you, Dr Frazer.’

‘Perhaps I’m just being public spirited.’ She looked down into her lap and smiled. ‘But really, what I’m looking for is validation of my methods. So far I’ve been experimenting with old police cases. Now I want to tackle something real.’

Rebus sat back in his chair and picked up the pen again, pretending to study it. When he looked up, he saw that she was studying him. She was a psychologist after all. He put down the pen. ‘It isn’t a game,’ he said, ‘and this isn’t a lecture theatre. Four women are dead, a maniac is loose somewhere and right now we’re quite busy enough following up all the leads and the false trails we’ve got. Why should we make time for you, Dr Frazer?’

She coloured, her cheekbones blushed a deep red. But she seemed to have no ready answer. Rebus hadn’t much to add, so he too sat in silence. His mouth was sour and dry, his throat coated in a layer of resin. Where was the tea?

Eventually she spoke. ‘All I want to do is read through the material on the case.’

Rebus found some spare sarcasm. ‘That’s
all
?’ He tapped the mound of paperwork in the in-tray. ‘No problem then, it’ll only take you a couple of months.’ She was ignoring him, fumbling with the briefcase. She produced a slim orange folder.

‘Here,’ she said stonily. ‘Just read this. It’ll only take you twenty minutes. It’s one of the profiles I did of an American serial killer. If you think it has no validity in helping to identify the killer or target where he might have struck next, fair enough, I’ll leave.’

Rebus took the file. Oh God, he thought, not more psychology!
Relating . . . involving . . . motivating
. He’d had his fill of psychology on the management training course. But then again, he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to be left sitting here on his own with everyone in the Murder Room smirking at their little trick. He opened the folder, drew out a typed and bound thesis about twenty-five pages long and began to read. She sat watching him, waiting for a question perhaps. Rebus read with his chin held up, so that she wouldn’t see the sagging folds of flesh on his neck, and with his shoulders back, making the best of his admittedly not very muscular chest. He cursed his parents for not feeding him up as a child. He had grown skinny, and when eventually he had started to put weight on, it had been to his gut and his backside, not his chest and arms.

Backside. Chest. Arms. He gazed hard at the words in front of him, but aware of her body resting in his line of peripheral vision, just above the top edge of the paper. He didn’t even know her first name. Perhaps he never would. He frowned as though deep in thought and read through the opening page.

By page five he was interested and by page ten he felt there might be something in it after all. A lot of it was speculative. Be honest, John, it was almost all conjecture, but there were a few points where she made a telling deduction. He saw what it was: her mind worked in a different orbit from a detective’s. They circled the same sun, however, and now and then the satellites touched. And what harm could come from letting her do a profile for the Wolfman? At worst, it would lead them up another dead end. At best, he might enjoy some female company during his stay in London. Yes, some pleasant female company. Which reminded him: he wanted to telephone his ex-wife and arrange a visit. He read through the final pages quickly.