by Ian Rankin
‘Yeah?’
Rebus stuck his ID so far into the man’s face that the plastic coating brushed against his nose.
‘Police,’ he snapped. ‘Now get the fuck out of here. And tell Tommy Watkiss we’ve got his nephew under twenty-four hour watch. Anything happens, we’ll know where to come and who to charge.’ Rebus stood back and looked carefully at the man. ‘Think you can remember all that, or do you want me to write it down?’
The passenger was growling audibly as he rolled the window back up. The driver was already starting the van. As it began to move off, Rebus gave its side a farewell kick. Maybe Kenny would leave and maybe he’d stay. It was up to him. Rebus had given him a chance. Whether the young man took it or not was out of Rebus’s hands.
‘Like Pontius Pilate,’ he mumbled to himself as he made for the main road. Standing by a lamppost, waiting and praying for a black cab to come along, he saw Kenny Watkiss emerge from the flats, a duffel-bag slung across his shoulder, and, looking around him, start to jog towards the far end of the estate. Rebus nodded to himself. ‘That’s my boy,’ he said, as, with protesting brakes, a cab slowed to a halt beside him.
‘You’re in luck, mate,’ said the driver. ‘I’m just starting my shift.’ Rebus clambered in and gave the name of his hotel, then settled back, enjoying the city at this quiet hour. The driver, though, was in practice for the day ahead.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘did you hear about that rumpus yesterday at Trafalgar Square? I was in a queue for an hour and a half. I mean, I’m all for law and order, but there must’ve been another way of going about it, mustn’t there?’
John Rebus shook his head and laughed.
His suitcase sat closed on the bed beside the little-used briefcase and the bag of books. He was squeezing the last few items into his sports bag when there was a soft tapping at his door.
‘Come in.’
She did. She was wearing a solid-foam neck-brace, but grinned it away.
‘Isn’t it stupid? They want me to wear it for the next few days, but I –’ She saw the cases on the bed. ‘You’re not leaving already?’
Rebus nodded. ‘I came here to help with the Wolfman case. The Wolfman case is finished.’
‘But what about –’
He turned to her. ‘What about us?’ he guessed. She lowered her eyes. ‘That’s a good question, Lisa. You lied to me. You weren’t trying to help. You were trying to get your bloody Ph.D.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Me too. I mean, I can understand why you did it, why you think you had to do it. Really I can. But that doesn’t make it any better.’
She straightened her back and nodded. ‘Fair enough then,’ she said. ‘So, Inspector Rebus, if all I was doing was using you, why did I come here straight from the hospital?’
He zipped shut the bag. It was a good question. ‘Because you got found out,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That was bound to happen eventually. Try again.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘I was hoping you could tell me. I’m not really sure myself.’
He turned towards her again and saw that she was smiling. She looked so stupid in the neck-brace that he had to return the smile eventually. And when she came towards him he returned her hug, too.
‘Ouch!’ she said. ‘Not too hard, John.’
So he relaxed his muscles a little, and they kept on hugging. He was actually feeling mellow; the painkillers had seen to that.
‘Anyway,’ he said at last, ‘you weren’t much help.’
She pulled away from him. He was still smiling, but archly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean all that stuff we talked about in the restaurant. All those index cards.’ Rebus recited the list. ‘Thwarted ambition. Victims from a social class above the killer. No confrontation …’ He scratched his chin. ‘None of it fits Malcolm Chambers.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. We’ve still got to look at his home life, his background.’ She sounded defiant rather than merely defensive. ‘And I was right about the schizophrenia.’
‘So you’ll still do your project?’
She tried to nod; it wasn’t easy. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of work to be done on Chambers, believe me. There must be clues there somewhere in his past. He must have left something.’
‘Well, let me know what you find out.’
‘John. Before he died, did he say anything?’
Rebus smiled. ‘Nothing important,’ he said. ‘Nothing important.’
After she’d gone, after the promises of return trips and of weekends in Edinburgh, promises of postcards and phone calls, he took his luggage down to reception. George Flight was at the desk. Rebus put his key down next to where Flight was signing his name to several forms.
‘Do you realise how much this hotel costs?’ Flight said, not looking up. ‘Next time you visit, you really will have to bunk at my place.’ Then he glanced towards Rebus. ‘But I suppose you were worth it.’ He finished with the forms and handed them to the receptionist, who checked them before nodding that everything was in order. ‘You know the address to send them to,’ Flight called back as the two men started towards the hotel’s swing-doors.
‘I really must get the lock on the boot fixed,’ Flight said, shutting the car’s back door on Rebus’s luggage. Then: ‘Where to? King’s Cross?’
Rebus nodded. ‘With one slight detour,’ he said.
The detour, in Flight’s words, turned out to be more than slight. They parked across from Rhona’s flat in Gideon Park and Flight pulled on the handbrake.
‘Going in?’ he said. Rebus had been thinking about it, but shook his head. What could he tell Sammy? Nothing that would help. If he said he’d seen Kenny, she’d only accuse him of scaring him off. No, best leave it.
‘George,’ he said, ‘could you maybe have someone drop in and tell her Kenny’s left London. But stress that he’s okay, that he’s not in trouble. I don’t want him lingering too long in her memory.’
Flight was nodding. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him yet?’
‘I went this morning.’
‘And?’
‘And I was just in time. But I reckon he’ll be all right.’
Flight studied the face next to him. ‘I think I believe you,’ he said.
‘Just one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Kenny told me one of your men is involved. The baby-faced redneck.’
‘Lamb?’
‘That’s the one. He’s on Tommy Watkiss’s payroll, according to Kenny.’
Flight pursed his lips and was silent for a moment. ‘I think I believe that, too,’ he said at last, very quietly. ‘Don’t worry, John. I’ll deal with it.’
Rebus said nothing. He was still staring out at the windows of Rhona’s flat, willing Sammy to come to one of them and see him. No, not see him, just so that he might see her. But there was no one at home. The ladies were out for the day with Tim or Tony or Graeme or Ben.
And it was none of Rebus’s business anyway.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
So Flight drove him to King’s Cross. Drove him through streets paved with nothing so very different from any other city. Streets ancient and modern, breathing with envy and excitement. And with evil. Not much evil, perhaps. But enough. Evil, after all, was pretty well a constant. He thanked God that it touched so few lives. He thanked God that his friends and family were safe. And he thanked God he was going home.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Flight asked as they idled at yet another set of traffic lights.
‘Nothing,’ said Rebus.
He was still thinking about nothing when he boarded the busy Inter City 125, and sat down with his newspapers and his magazines. As the train was about to move off, someone squeezed into the seat opposite him and deposited four large cans of strong lager on the table. The youth was tall and hard-looking with shorn hair. He glared at Rebus and turned
up his personal cassette player. Tscchh-tscchh-tscchh it went, so loud Rebus could almost make out the words. The youth was grasping a ticket denoting Edinburgh as his destination. He put the ticket down and pulled on a ring-pull. Rebus shook his head wearily and smiled. His own personal hell. As the train pulled away, he caught its rhythm and beat that rhythm out silently in his head.
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
All the way home.
Acknowledgements
Thanks for help with facts, figures, psychopaths and garden paths (viz leading the reader up the …) go to the following:
In London: Dr S. Adams, Ms Fiona Campbell, Chris Thomas, Mr Andrew Walker, the officers of Tottenham Police Station
In Newmarket: L. Rodgers
In Edinburgh: Professor J. Curt, Ms Alison Girdwood
In Fife: Mr & Mrs Colin Stevenson
In Glasgow: Alex Blair
In Canada: Mr Tiree Macgregor, Dr D. W. Nichol
In the USA: Dr David Martin, Ms Rebecca Hughes
Suggested further reading:
Elliott Leyton, Hunting Humans (Penguin)
Clive R. Hollin, Psychology and Crime (Routledge)
Professor Keith Simpson, Forty Years of Murder (Grafton)
Martin Fido, Murder Guide to London (Weidenfeld)
R. M. Holmes & J. DeBurger, Serial Murder (Sage)
R. H. C. Bull et al., Psychology for Police Officers (Wiley)
David Canter, ‘To Catch a Rapist’, New Society, 4 March 1988
David Canter, ‘Offender Profiles’, The Psychologist, Vol 2, No 1, January 1989
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 1992 by Century under the title Wolfman.
First published in ebook form in 2009 by Orion Books.
This updated ebook published in 2011 by Orion Books.
Copyright © John Rebus Limited 1992
Introduction © John Rebus Limited 2005
The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 0769 9
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