`I'm saying we should set some snares and dig some pits. Get Inspector Farraday to pass on a few tidbits to the press all about how we suspect the Wolfman's gay, or a transvestite. It can be anything, so ? HYPERLINK “http://long.as/”??long as? it jars his conservatism, and maybe it'll force him into the open.'
Rebus let go of the knife and waited for Flight's response. But Flight wasn't about to be rushed. He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. `Not a bad idea that,' he said at last. `But I'm willing, to bet you didn't get it from your books.'
Rebus shrugged. `Maybe not exactly.'
`I thought not. Well, let's see what Cath says to it.' Flight rose from his chair. 'Meantime, on a less lofty plane of existence, I think I can take you straight to Tommy Watkiss. Come on. And by the way, thanks for breakfast.'
`My pleasure,' said Rebus. He could see Flight was unconvinced by his defence, such, as it had turned out to be, of psychology. But then was it Flight he was trying to convince, or himself? Was it Flight he was trying to impress, or Dr Lisa Frazer?
They were passing through the foyer now, Rebus carrying his briefcase. Flight turned to him.
`Do you,' he said, `know why we're called the Old Bill?' Rebus shrugged, offering no answer. `Some say it's because we're named after a certain London landmark. You can try guessing on the way there.' And with that Flight pushed hard at the rotating door which served as the hotel's entrance.
The Old Bailey was not quite what Rebus had expected. The famous dome was there, atop which blindfolded Justice held her scales, but a large part of the court complex was of much more modern design. Security was the keynote. X-ray machines, cubicle-style doors which allowed only one person at a time into the body of the building and security men everywhere. The windows were coated with adhesive tape so that any explosion would not send lethal shards of glass flying into the concourse. Inside, ushers (all of them women) dressed in flapping black cloaks ran around trying to gather up stray juries.
`Any jurors for court number four?'
'Jurors for court number twelve, please!'
All the time a PA system announced , the names of missing single jurors. It was the busy beginning of another judicial day. Witnesses smoked cigarettes, worried-looking barristers, weighed down by documents, held whispered dialogues with dull-eyed, clients, and. police officers waited nervously to give evidence.
`This is where we win or lose, John,' said Flight. Rebus couldn't be sure whether he was referring to the court rooms or to the concourse itself On floors above them were administrative, offices, robing rooms, restaurants. But this floor was where cases were held and decided. Through some doors to their left was the older, domed part of the Old Bailey, a darker, more forbidding place than this bright marbled. gallery. The place echoed with the squealing of leather soled shoes, the clack-clack-clacking of heels on the solid floor and the constant murmur of conversation.
`Come on,' said Flight. He was leading them towards one of the courtrooms, where he had a word with the guard and one of the clerks before ushering Rebus into the court itself.
If stone and black leather predominated in the concourse, then the courtroom belonged to wood panelling and' green leather. They sat on two chairs, just inside the door, joining DC Lamb, already seated there, unsmiling arms folded. He did not greet them, but leaned across to whisper, `We're going to nail the cunt', before stiffening into his former position.
On the other side of the room sat the twelve jurors, looking bored already, faces numb and unthinking. To the back of the court stood the defendant, hands resting on the rail in front of him, a man of about forty with short, wiry silver and black hair, his, face like something hewn from stone, his open-necked shirt a sign of arrogance. He had the dock to himself, there being no police officer, on guard.
Some distance in front of him, the lawyers sorted through their papers, watched by assistants and solicitors. The defence counsel was a thick-set and tired-looking man, his face grey (as was his hair), gnawing on a cheap ballpoint. The prosecutor, however, was much more confident looking, tall (if stout), dressed immaculately and with the glow of the righteous upon him.' His pen was an intricate fountain affair and he wrote with a flourish, his mouth set as defiantly as any Churchill impersonator. He reminded Rebus of how television liked to think of QCs, Rumpole aside.
Directly overhead was the public gallery. He could hear the muffled shuffling of feet. It had always worried Rebus that those in the public gallery had a clear view of the jury. Here, the court had been designed in such a way that they stared directly down and onto the jurors, making intimida?tion and identification that much easier. He'd dealt with several cases of jurors being approached at day's end by some relative of the accused, ready with a wad of notes or a clenched fist.
The judge looked imperious as he pored over some papers in front of him, while just below him the Clerk of Court spoke in hushed tones into a telephone receiver. From the time it was taking to begin proceedings, Rebus realised two things. One was that the case was continuing, not beginning; the other was that some Point of Law had been placed before the judge, which the judge was now considering.
`Here, seen this?' Lamb was offering a tabloid to Flight. The newspaper had been folded to quarter of its size and Lamb tapped one column as he passed it to his superior.
Flight read quickly, glancing up at Rebus once or twice, then handed the paper to Rebus with a hint of a smile.
`Here you go, expert.'
Rebus read through the unattributed piece. Basically, it concerned itself with the progress or lack of it on the Jean Cooper murder inquiry. But the closing paragraph was the killer. 'The team investigating what have come to be known as the “Wolfman Murders” are being assisted by an expert on serial killers, drafted in from another police force.'
Rebus stared at the newsprint without really seeing it. Surely Cath Farraday wouldn't have? But then how else had the newspaper got to know? He kept his eyes on the page, aware' that both Flight and Lamb were looking, at him. He couldn't believe it: him, an expert! Whether it was true or not—and it wasn't—didn't really matter now. What mattered was that results would be expected from him, results above the norm. Yet he knew he couldn't deliver and in not delivering he would be made to look a laughing stock No wonder those two pairs of eyes burned into his head. No hard-working policeman liked to be usurped by `experts'. Rebus didn't like it himself. He didn't like any of it!
