entered the largest of the rooms. There was little to differentiate the scene from that of any murder investigation anywhere in the country. Officers were busy on telephones or working at computer terminals. Clerical staff moved from desk to desk with seemingly endless sheafs of paper. A photocopier was spewing out more paper in a corner of the room and two deliverymen were wheeling a new five-drawer filing cabinet into position beside the three which already stood against one wall. On another wall was a detailed street map of London, with the murder sites pinpointed. Coloured tapes ran from these sites to spaces on the wall where pictures, details and notes had been pinned. A duty roster and progress chart took up what space was left. All very efficient, but the faces told Rebus their own story: everyone here, working hard as they were, was waiting for the Lucky Break.
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.'
Unknown
`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.
