Tooth And Nail

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus, not really caring any more, was half-smiling as he whispered back. ‘So what do I do? Tell him the truth? Oh hello there, Chief Inspector, my daughter’s winching with someone I don’t like. Can I have the young man’s address, please, so I can go and belt him? Is that how I do it?’

  Flight paused, then frowned. ‘Winching?’

  Now he too was smiling, though trying hard not to show it. Rebus laughed aloud.

  ‘It means dating,’ he said. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you don’t know what hoolit means.’

  ‘Try me,’ said Flight, laughing too.

  ‘Drunk,’ explained Rebus.

  They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. Rebus thanked God for the linguistic barrier between them, for without it there would be no easy jokes, jokes which broke the tension. There were two ways to defuse tension: one was to laugh it away, the other was to resort to physical action. It was laugh or lash out. Once or twice now they had come near to trading punches, but had ended up trading grins instead.

  Praise be for the gift of laughter.

  ‘Anyway, I went to Hackney last night looking for Kenny Watkiss.’

  ‘And you got those for your pains?’ Flight was nodding towards the bruises. Rebus shrugged. ‘Serves you right. Someone once told me hackney’s French for a nag. Doesn’t sound French, does it? But I suppose it would explain the hackney carriage.’

  Hackney. Nag. That horse in the British Museum, no bite. Rebus had to talk to Morrison about the bite marks.

  Flight finished his drink first, draining the cup and tossing it into a bin beside the machine. He checked his watch.

  ‘I better find a phone,’ he said. ‘See what’s happening back at base. Maybe Lamb will have found something on that Crawford woman.’

  ‘“That Crawford woman” is a victim, George. Stop making her sound like a criminal.’

  ‘Maybe she’s a victim,’ said Flight. ‘Let’s get our facts straight before we go for the tea and sympathy routine. Besides, when did you join this little victim support group of yours? You know the way we have to play this sort of thing. It isn’t nice necessarily, but it means we don’t get it wrong.’

  ‘That’s quite a speech.’

  Flight sighed and examined the tips of his shoes. ‘Look, John, has it ever occurred to you that there might be another way?’

  ‘The way of Zen perhaps?’

  ‘I mean, a way other than your own. Or are the rest of us just thick, and you’re the only policeman on the planet who knows how to solve a crime? I’d be interested to know.’

  Rebus desperately did not want to blush, which is probably precisely why he did blush. He tried to think of a smart answer, but none came to mind right that second, so he kept silent. Flight nodded approval.

  ‘Let’s go find that phone,’ he said. Now Rebus found the courage he needed.

  ‘George,’ he said. ‘I need to know: who brought me here?’

  Flight stared at him, wondering whether or not to answer. He pursed his lips as he thought about it, and came up with an answer: what the hell.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘You?’ Rebus seemed puzzled. Flight nodded confirmation.

  ‘Yes, me. I suggested you to Laine and Pearson. A new head, fresh blood, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But how in God’s name did you know about me?’

  ‘Well,’ Flight was beginning to look sheepish. He made a play of examining the tips of his shoes again. ‘Remember I showed you that file, the one with all the guesswork in it? On top of that I did some background reading on multiple murderers. Research, you could call it. And I came across that case of yours in some newspaper clippings from Scotland Yard. I was impressed.’

  Rebus pointed a disbelieving finger. ‘You were reading up on serial killers?’

  Flight nodded.

  ‘On the psychology of serial killers?’

  Flight shrugged. ‘And other aspects, yes.’ Rebus’s eyes had widened.

  ‘And all this time you’ve been having a dig at me for going along with Lisa Frazer’s – no, I don’t believe it!’

  Flight was laughing again. The apparently arch anti-psychologist revealed in his true light. ‘I had to examine every angle,’ he said, watching as Rebus, having finished his coffee, tossed the cup into a waste-bin. ‘Now come on, we really should make that phone call.’

  Rebus was still shaking his head as he followed Flight down the hall. But though he appeared to be in good humour, his brain was more active than ever. Flight had pulled the wool over his eyes with consummate ease. How far did the pretence actually stretch? Was he now seeing the real Flight, or yet another mask? Flight whistled as he walked and kicked at an imaginary football. No, not George Flight, Rebus decided in an instant: never George Flight.

  There was a telephone in the admin offices. There was also, seated at a desk having a conversation with one of the senior staff, Philip Cousins, immaculate in grey suit and burgundy tie.

  ‘Philip!’

  ‘Hello there, George. How are things?’ Cousins spotted Rebus. ‘And Inspector Rebus, too. Still lending a Caledonian hand?’

  ‘Trying,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Yes, very,’ rejoined Flight. ‘So what brings you here, Philip? Where’s Isobel?’

  ‘Penny’s rather tied up, I’m afraid. She’ll be sorry to have missed you, George. As for my presence here, I just wanted to double-check some facts on a murder case from last December. You might remember it, the man in the bathtub.’

  ‘The one that looked like suicide?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Philip Cousins’s voice was as rich and slow as double cream. Rebus reckoned that the word ‘urbane’ had been invented with him in mind. ‘I’m in court later today,’ Cousins was saying. ‘Trying to help Malcolm Chambers pin the deceased’s wife for manslaughter at the very least.’

  ‘Chambers?’ Flight shook his head. ‘I don’t envy you that.’

  ‘But surely,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘you’ll be on the same side?’

  ‘Ah yes, Inspector Rebus,’ said Cousins, ‘you are quite correct. But Chambers is such a scrupulous man. He’ll want my evidence to be water-tight, and if it isn’t, then he’s as likely to undo me as is the defence counsel. More likely, in fact. Malcolm Chambers is interested in the truth, not in verdicts.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flight, ‘I remember him having a right go at me once in the witness box, all because I couldn’t recall offhand what kind of clock had been in the living-room. The case nearly crumbled there and then.’ Flight and Cousins shared a comradely smile.

  ‘I’ve just been hearing,’ said Cousins, ‘that there’s fresh evidence on the Wolfman case. Do tell.’

  ‘It’s beginning to come together, Philip,’ said Flight. ‘It’s definitely beginning to come together, due in no small part to my associate here.’ Flight laid a momentary hand on Rebus’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Cousins, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed.

  ‘It was luck,’ said Rebus, as he felt he ought. Not that he believed what he was saying. Cousins’s eyes on him were like packs of ice, so that the room temperature seemed to drop with every glance.

  ‘So what do we have?’

  ‘Well,’ said Flight, ‘we’ve got someone who claims she was attacked by the Wolfman but escaped from him.’

  ‘Fortunate creature,’ said Cousins.

  ‘And,’ continued Flight, ‘one of the … people helping us on the case this morning received a letter claiming to be from the Wolfman.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘We think it’s kosher,’ Flight concluded.

  ‘Well,’ said Cousins, ‘this is something. Wait till I tell Penny. She’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘Philip, we don’t want it getting out –’

  ‘Not a word, George, not a word. You know it’s all one-way traffic with me. But Penny should be told.’

  ‘Oh, tell Isobel by all means,’ said Flight, ‘only warn her it’s not
to go any further.’

  ‘Total secrecy,’ said Cousins. ‘I quite understand. Mum’s the word. Who was it, by the way?’ Flight appeared not to understand. ‘To whom was this threatening letter addressed?’

  Flight was about to speak, but Rebus beat him to it. ‘Just someone on the case, as Inspector Flight says.’ He smiled, trying to alleviate the brusqueness of his response. Oh yes, his mind was working now, working in a fever: nobody had told Cousins the letter was threatening, so how did he know it was? Okay, it was simple enough to work out that it wouldn’t exactly have been fan mail, but all the same.

  ‘Well then,’ said Cousins, choosing not to press for details. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he scooped up two manila files from the desk and tucked them under his arm, then stood, the joints of his knees cracking with the effort, ‘if you’ll excuse me, Court Eight awaits. Inspector Rebus,’ Cousins held out his free hand, ‘it sounds as though the case may be drawing towards its conclusion. Should we fail to meet again, give my regards to your delightful city.’ He turned to Flight. ‘See you soon, George. Bring Marion round for supper some evening. Give Penny a tinkle and we’ll try to find one night in the calendar when all four of us are free. Goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, Philip.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cousins had stopped in the doorway. ‘There is just one thing.’ He turned pleading eyes on Flight. ‘You don’t have a spare driver, do you, George? It’s going to be hell getting a taxi at this time of day.’

  ‘Well,’ Flight thought hard, then had an idea, ‘if you can hang on for a couple of minutes, Philip, I’ve got a couple of men here in the building.’ He turned to Rebus, whose eyes had widened. ‘Lisa won’t mind, will she, John? I mean, if her car drops Philip off at the Old Bailey?’

  Rebus could do little but shrug.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Cousins, clasping his hands together. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’ll take you to them,’ Flight said. ‘But first I need to make a phone call.’

  Cousins nodded towards the corridor. ‘And I must visit the WC. Be back in a tick.’

  They watched him leave. Flight was grinning, shaking his head in wonderment. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘he’s been like that ever since I met him? I mean, the sort of ambassadorial air, the aged aristocrat. Ever since I’ve known him.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman all right,’ said Rebus.

  ‘But that’s just the thing,’ said Flight. ‘His background is every bit as ordinary as yours or mine.’ He turned to the lab man. ‘All right if I use your phone?’

  He did not wait for an answer, but started dialling straight away. ‘Hello?’ he said into the receiver when he was finally connected. ‘Who’s that? Oh, hello, Deakin, is Lamb there? Yes, put him on, will you? Thanks.’ While he was waiting, Flight picked invisible threads from his trousers. The trousers were shiny from too many wearings. Everything about Flight, Rebus noticed, seemed worn: his shirt collar had an edge of grime to it and the collar itself was too tight, constricting the loose flesh of the neck, pinching it into vertical folds. Rebus found himself transfixed by that neck, by the tufts of grey sprouting hair where the razor had failed in its duty. Signs of mortality, as final as a hand around a throat. When Flight got off the phone, Rebus would protest about sending Cousins off with Lisa. Ambassadorial. Aristocrat. One of the earlier mass killers had been an aristocrat, too.

  ‘Hello, Lamb? What have you found on Miss Crawford?’ Flight listened, his eyes on Rebus, ready to communicate anything of interest. ‘Uh-huh, okay. Mm, I see. Yes. Right.’ All the time his eyes told Rebus that everything was checking out, that Jan Crawford was reliable, that she was telling the truth. Then Flight’s eyes widened a little. ‘What’s that again?’ And he listened more intently, moving his eyes from Rebus to study the telephone apparatus itself. ‘Now that is interesting.’

  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 snake 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 balls-ups, 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?’