Samples from her eyebrows, for Christ's sake. What use were samples from her eyebrows? They should be concentrating on the attacker, not the victim. Those teeth marks. What was the dentist's name again? Not a dentist, a dental pathologist. Morrison. Yes, that was it. Morrison, like the street in Edinburgh, Morrison Street, not too far from the brewery canal, where the swans lived, a single pair of swans. What happened when they died? Did the brewery replace them? So damned hot in this shiny red car. Rebus could feel his insides wanting to become his outsides. The knife twisted in the throat. A small knife. He could almost visualise it. Something like a kitchen, knife. Sharp, sour taste in his mouth.
`Nearly there,' said Flight. `Just along Shaftesbury Avenue. That's Soho on the right. By God we've cleaned that den up this past few years. You wouldn't believe it. You know, I've been thinking, where the body was found, it's not so far from where the Krays used to live. Somewhere on Lea Bridge Road. I was just a young copper when they were on the go.'
`Please . . .' said Rebus.
`They did somebody in Stokie. Jack McVitie, I think it was. Jack the Hat, they called him.'
`Can you stop here?' Rebus blurted out. Flight looked at him.
`What's up?
`I need some air. I'll walk the rest of the way. Just stop the car, please.'
Flight began to protest, but pulled over to the kerb. Stepping out of, the car, Rebus immediately felt better. There was cold sweat on his forehead, neck and back. He breathed deeply. Flight deposited his bags on the pavement.
`Thanks again,' said Rebus. `Sorry about this. Just point me in the general direction.'
`Just off the Circus,' Flight said.
Rebus nodded. 'I hope there's a night porter.' Yes, he was feeling much better.
`It's a quarter to five,' said Flight. `You'll probably catch the day shift coming on.' He laughed, but the laugh died quickly and he gave Rebus a serious nod of his head. `You made your point tonight, John. Okay?'
Rebus nodded back. John. Another chip from the iceberg, or just good management?
`Thanks,' he said. They shook hands. `Are we still on for a meeting at ten?'
`Let's make it eleven, eh? I'll have someone pick you up from your hotel.'
Rebus nodded and picked up his bags. Then bent down again towards the car's back window. `Good night, teddy,' he said.
`Watch you don't get lost!' Flight called to him from the car. Then the car moved off, making a screeching u- turn before roaring back the way they had come. Rebus looked around him. Shaftesbury Avenue. The buildings seemed about to swamp him. Theatres. Shops. Litter: the debris from a Sunday night out. A dull roar preceded the arrival, from one of the misty side streets, of a dustcart. The men were dressed in orange overalls. They paid no attention to Rebus as he trudged past them. How long was this street? It seemed to follow a vast curve, longer than he had expected.
Bloody London. Then he spotted Eros atop his fountain, but there was something wrong. The Circus was no longer a Circus. Eros had been paved in, so that traffic had to sweep past it rather than around it. Why the hell, had anyone decided to do that? A car was slowing behind him, coming parallel with him. White car with an orange stripe: a police car. The officer in the passenger seat had wound down his window and now called out to him.
`Excuse me, sir, do you mind telling me where you're going?'
`What?' The question stunned Rebus, stopped him in his tracks. The car had stopped too and both driver and passenger were emerging.
`Are those your bags, sir?'
Rebus felt it rise within him, a shining hard steel pole of anger. Then he happened to catch sight of himself in the window of the patrol car. A quarter to five on the streets of London. A dishevelled, unshaven man, a man obviously without sleep, carrying a suitcase, a bag and a briefcase. A briefcase? Who the hell would be carrying a briefcase around at this time of the morning? Rebus put down his luggage and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with one hand. And before he knew what was happening, his shoulders began moving, his body convulsing with laughter. The two uniformed officers were looking at one another. Rebus sniffed back the laughter and reached into his inside pocket. One of the officers stepped back a pace.
`Take it easy, son,' Rebus said. He produced his ID. `I'm on your side.' The less cagey officer, the passenger, took the ID from Rebus, examined it, then handed it back.
`You're a long way off your, patch, sir.'
`You don't have to tell me that,' said Rebus. `What's your name, son?'
The constable was wary now. `Bennett, sir. Joey Bennett. I mean, Joseph Bennett'
'All right, Joey. Would you like to do me a favour?' The constable nodded. `Do you know the Prince Royal Hotel?'
`Yes, sir.' Bennett began to point with his left hand 'It's about fifty yards—'
`All right,' Rebus interrupted, `Just show me, will you?'
The young man said nothing. `Will you do that, Constable Bennett?'
`Yes, sir.'
Rebus nodded. Yes, he could handle London. He could take it on and win. `Right,' he said, moving off towards the Prince Royal. `Oh,' he said, turning back and taking in both men with his glance, `and bring my bags, will you?' Rebus had his back to them again, but he could almost hear the sound of two jaws dropping open. `Or,' he called back, `shall I just inform . Chief Inspector Laine that two of his officers harassed me on my first night as his guest in this fine city?'
