Cli—chick. Brrrr. Rebus slapped the receiver back into its cradle and got out of bed with a growl.
`What kept you?'
`I didn't think they'd appreciate a stark naked guest in the dining-room. You're early.'
Flight shrugged. `Things to do.' Rebus noticed that Flight didn't look well. The dark rings around his eyes and his pale colouring were not due simply to lack of sleep.' His flesh had a saggy quality, as though' magnets on the floor were drawing it down. But then he wasn't feeling so great himself He thought he'd probably picked up a bug on the tube. His throat was a little sore and his head throbbed, Could it be true that, cities made you sick? In one of the essays Lisa Frazer had given him someone had made that very claim, stating that most serial killers were products of their environment. Rebus couldn't really comment on that, but he did know that there was more mucus in his nostrils than usual. Had he brought enough handkerchiefs with him?
`Things to do,' Flight repeated.
They sat at a table for two. The dining-room was quiet, and the Spanish waitress took their order briskly, the day not yet having had enough time to wear her down.
`What do you want to do today?' Flight seemed to be asking this only in order to get the conversation rolling, but Rebus had specific plans for the day and told him so.
`First off I'd quite like to see Maria Watkiss's man, Tommy.' Flight smiled at this and looked down at the table. `Just to satisfy my own curiosity,' Rebus continued. `And I'd like to talk to the dental pathologist, Dr Morrison.'
`Well, 'I know where to find both of them,' said Flight. `Go on.'
`That's about it. I'm seeing Dr Frazer this evening Flight looked up at this news, his eyes widening in appreciation to go over her findings on the killer's' profile.'
'Uh huh.' Flight sounded unconvinced.'
`I've been reading those books she lent me. I think there may be something in it, George.' Rebus used the Christian name carefully, but Flight seemed to have no objections.
The coffee had, arrived. Flight poured and drank a cup of it, then smacked his lips. `I don't,' he said.
`Don't what?'
`Don't think there's anything in all this 'psychology stuff. It's too much like guesswork and not enough like science. I like something tangible. A dental pathologist, now that's tangible. That's something you can get—'
'Your teeth into?' Rebus smiled. `The pun's bad enough, but I don't agree anyway. When was the last time a pathologist gave you a precise time of death? They always hedge their bets.'
'But they deal in facts, in physical evidence, not in mumbo-jumbo.'
Rebus sat back. He was thinking of the character in a Dickens book, he'd read a long time ago, a schoolteacher who wanted facts and, nothing but. `Come on, George,' he said, `this is the twentieth century.'
`That's right,' said Flight. `And we don't believe in soothsayers any more.' He looked up again. `Or, do we?'
Rebus paused to pour some coffee. He felt his cheeks tingling. Probably, they were turning red. Arguments did that to him; even casual disagreements like this were sometimes enough. He was careful to make his next utterance in a soft, reasonable voice.
`So what are you saying?'
'I'm saying policework is plodding, John.' (Still on first name terms, thought Rebus, that's good.) `And shortcuts, seldom work. I'm saying don't let your Hampton do your thinking for you.' Rebus thought about. protesting, but realised he wasn't exactly sure what Flight meant. Flight smiled.
`Rhyming slang,'. he explained. `Hampton Wick, prick. Or maybe it's dick. Anyway, I'm just warning you not to let a good looking woman interfere with your professional judgment.'
Rebus was still about to protest, but saw that there was little, point. Having, voiced his thoughts, Flight seemed content. What's more, maybe he was right. Did Rebus want to see Lisa Frazer because of the case, or because she was Lisa Frazer? Still, he felt the need to defend her.
`Listen,' he said, `like I say, I've been reading the books she gave me and there are some good things in them.' Flight looked unconvinced, goading Rebus into ploughing on. And as he fell for it, beginning to speak, he saw that Flight had played the same trick on him as he himself had played on the motorcycle messenger last night. Too late: he had to defend Lisa Frazer, and himself, even though everything he now said sounded stupid and half-baked to his own ears, never mind to Flight's.
`What we're dealing with is a man who hates women.' Flight looked at him in amazement, as though this were too obvious to need saying. `Or,' Rebus went on quickly, `who has to take 'out his revenge on women because he's too weak, too scared to take it out on a man.' Flight admitted this possibility with a twitch of the head. 'A lot of so-called serial killers,' continued Rebus, his hand unconsciously grasping the butter-knife, `are very conservative —small c—very ambitious, but thwarted. They feel rejected from the class immediately above 'them, and they target this group.'
`What? A prostitute, a shop assistant, an office worker? You're saying they're the same social group? You're saying the Wolfman's social group is lower than a tart's? Leave off, John.'
`It's just a general rule,' Rebus persisted, wishing he'd' never started this conversation. He twisted the knife in his hand. `Mind you, one of the earliest serial killers was a French nobleman.' His voice fell away. Flight was looking impatient. 'All I'm saying is what's in those books. Some of it may make sense, it's just that we don't have enough on the Wolfman yet to allow us to see what sense it's all making.'
Flight finished another cup of coffee. `Go on,' he said, without enthusiasm. `What else do the books say?'
`Some serial killers crave publicity,' said Rebus. He paused, thinking of the killer who had taunted him five years ago, who had led them all a merry chase. `If the Wolfman gets in touch with us, we've a better chance of catching him.'
`Perhaps. So what are you saying?'
