same. Not long to go now though. Not long, thank God. But it wasn't just the sounds now, was it? It was the smell too, that unmistakable aroma of raw meat. It clung to the nostrils like perfume, filling the lungs, catching the back of the throat and clinging there, so that eventually it became a tang in the mouth and he found himself actually tasting it. His stomach moved momentarily, but he rubbed it gently, surreptitiously with a hand. Not surreptitiously enough.
'If you're going to throw up,' it was Lamb again, like a succubus over his shoulder, hissing, `go outside.' And then the chuckle, throaty and slow like a stalled engine. Rebus half-turned his head and gave a dangerous smile.'
Soon enough, the whole mess of matter was being put together again, and Rebus knew that by, the time any grieving relatives viewed the mortal remains of Jean Cooper, the body would look quite natural.
As ever, by the end of the autopsy the room had been reduced to silent introspection. Each man and woman present was made of the same stuff as Jean Cooper, and now they stood, momentarily stripped of their, individual personalities. They were all bodies, all animals, all collec?tions of viscera. The only difference between them and Jean Cooper was that their hearts still pumped blood. But one day soon enough each heart would stop, and that would be an end of it, save for the possibility of a visit to this butcher's shop, this abattoir.
Cousins removed his rubber gloves and washed his hands thoroughly, accepted from the attendant a proffered sheaf of paper towels. `That's about it then, gentlemen, until Penny can type up the notes. Murdered between nine o'clock and nine-thirty I'd guess. Same modus operandi as our so-called Wolfman. I think I've just examined his fourth victim. I'll get in Anthony Morrison tomorrow, let him have a look at the teeth marks. See what he says.'
Since everyone seemed' to know except Rebus, Rebus asked, `Who's Anthony Morrison?'
Flight was first to answer. `A dentist.'
`A, dental pathologist,' corrected Cousins. `And quite a good one. He's got details of the other three murders. His analyses of the bite marks have been quite useful.' Cousins turned to Flight for confirmation of this, but Flight's eyes were directed towards his shoes, as if to say I wouldn't go that far.
`Well,' said Cousins, seeming to take the silent hint, `at any rate, you know my findings. It's down to your lab chaps now. There's precious little there . . . ' Cousins nodded back towards the scooped-out husk of the corpse, `to help with your investigation. That being so, I think I'll go home to bed.'
Flight seemed to realise that Cousins was displeased with him. `Thank you, Philip.' And the detective lifted a hand to rest it against the pathologist's arm. Cousins looked at the hand, then at Flight, and smiled.
The performance at an end, the audience began to shuffle out into the cold, still darkness of an emerging day. By Rebus's watch, it was, four thirty. He felt completely exhausted, could happily have lain down on the lawn in front of the main building and taken a nap, but Flight was walking towards him, carrying his bags.
`Come on,' he said. `I'll give you a lift.'
In his fragile state, Rebus felt this to be the nicest, kindest thing anyone had said to him in weeks. 'Are you sure you have room?' he said. `I mean, with the teddy bear and all.'
Flight paused. `Or if you'd prefer to walk, Inspector?'
Rebus threw up his hands in surrender, then, when the door was unlocked, slipped into the passenger seat of Flight's red Sierra. The seat seemed to wrap itself around him.
`Here,' said Flight, handing a hip flask to Rebus. Rebus unscrewed the top of the flask and sniffed. `It won't kill you,' Flight called. This was probably true. The aroma was of whisky. Not great whisky, not a smoky island malt, but a decent enough proprietary brand. Well, it would help keep him awake perhaps until they reached the hotel. Rebus toasted the windscreen and let the liquid trickle into his mouth.
Flight got behind the steering-wheel and started the car, then, as the car idled, accepted the flask from Rebus and drank from it greedily.
`How far to the hotel from here?' Rebus asked.
`About twenty minutes at this time of night,' said Flight, screwing tight the stopper and replacing the flask in his pocket. `That's if we stop for red lights.'
`You have my permission to run every red light you see.'
Flight laughed tiredly. Both men were wondering how to turn the conversation around to the autopsy.
`Best leave it until morning, eh?'' said Rebus, speaking for them both. Flight merely nodded and moved off, waving to Cousins and Isobel Penny, who were about to get into their car. Rebus stared out of his side window to where DC Lamb, stood beside his own car, a flash little sports model.
Typical, thought Rebus. Just typical. Lamb stared back at him, and then gave that three-quarters sneer again.
FYTP, Rebus mentally intoned. FYTP. Then he turned in his seat to examine the teddy bear behind him. Flight was resolutely refusing to take the hint, and Rebus, though curious, wasn't about to jeopardise whatever relationship he might be able to strike up with this man by asking the obvious question. Some things were always best left until morning.
The whisky had cleared his nostrils, lungs and throat. He breathed deeply, seeing in his mind the little mortuary attendant, that livid birthmark, and Isobel Penny, sketching like any amateur artist. She might have been in front of a museum exhibit for all the emotion she had shown.' He wondered what her secret was, the secret of her absolute calmness, but thought he probably knew in any case. Her job had become merely that: a job. Maybe one day Rebus would feel the same way. But he hoped not.
If anything, Flight and Rebus said less during the drive to the hotel than they had done on the way to the mortuary. The whisky was working on Rebus's empty stomach and the interior of the car was oppressively hot. He tried opening his window a quarter of an inch, but the blast of chill air only made things worse.'
The autopsy was being played out again before him. The cutting tools, the lifting of organs out of the body, the incisions and inspections, Cousins' face peering at spongy tissue from no more than an inch away. One twitch and his face would have been smothered in . . . Isobel Penny watching all, recording all, the slice from throat to pubis . . . London sped past him. Flight, true, to his word, was cruising through some red lights and slowing merely for others. There were still cars on the streets. The city never slept. Nightclubs, parties, drifters, the homeless. Sleepless dog-walkers, all night bakeries and beigel shops. Some spelt 'beigel' and some spelt `bagel'. What the hell was a beigel? Wasn't that what they were always eating in Woody Allen films?
