A murder each month, regular as the moon. It was only a saying, wasn't it, regular as the moon? He unhooked a calendar from the wall. Portraits of Italy, donated to the station by Gino's Sandwich Bar. Time of the month. Had there been a full moon around 16th January when Maria Watkiss was found? No, but then they reckoned she might have lain undiscovered for two or three days. Thursday 11th January had been the full moon. The full moon affected the Wolfman in the movies, didn't it? But they had named the killer Wolfman after Wolf Street, not because he, or she, killed by, the light of the full moon. Rebus was more confused than ever. And weren't women supposedly affected by the moon, something to do with their time of the month?
May Jessop had died on Monday 5th February, four days before another full moon. Shelley Richards had died on Wednesday 28th February, nowhere near a full moon. Morrison had said her case was unusual, the bites had seemed different. And then Jean, Cooper had died on the night of Sunday 18th March, two days before the vernal equinox.
He threw the calendar onto the desk. There was no pattern, no neat mathematical solution. Who was he trying to kid? This, wasn't the movies. The hero didn't stumble upon the answer. There were no shortcuts. Maybe Flight was right. It was all plodding routine and forensic evidence. Psychology was no shortcut, barking at the moon was no shortcut. He couldn't know when the Wolfman would strike again. He knew so little.
Flight wandered exhaustedly into the room and fell onto a chair, causing it to creak in protest.
`I finally got through to Cath,' he said. `I put your idea to her, and she's giving' it some thought!
'That's big of her.'
Flight gave him a warning look and Rebus raised his hands in apology. Flight nodded towards the calendar. `What are you up to?'
`I don't know, nothing much. I thought there might be some pattern to the dates, when the Wolfman struck.'
`You mean like the stages of the moon, the equinox, that sort of thing?' Flight was smiling. Rebus nodded slowly. `Hell, John, I've been through all that and more.' He went to a particular manila folder and tossed it towards Rebus. `Take a look. I've tried number patterns, distance between murder, sites, possible means of transport—the Wolfman's pretty mobile, you know, I think he must have a car. I've tried linking the victims, checking which school they went to, which libraries they used, whether they liked sports or discos or classical bloody music. Know what? They don't have anything in common, not a single thing linking the four of them save the fact that they were women.'
Rebus flicked through the file. It was an impressive amount of slogging, all to no end save that of clarification. Flight hadn't climbed the ladder to his present rank by a fluke, or by keeping in with his superiors, or by signifying greatness. He had got there by sheer hard work,
`Point taken,' said' Rebus. Then, because this didn't seem quite enough. `I'm impressed. Have you shown this lot to anyone else?'
Flight shook his head. 'It's guesswork, John. Straw-clutching. That's all. It would just confuse the issue. Besides, do you remember the story of the boy who cried wolf? One day, there really was a wolf there, but by then no one believed him because he'd given them so much crap before.'
Rebus smiled. `Still, it's a lot of work.'
`What, did you expect?' Flight asked. `A chimpanzee in a whistle? I'm a good copper, John. I may be no expert, but I'd never claim to be.'
Rebus was about to remonstrate, then frowned. `What's a whistle?' he said.
Flight threw back his head and laughed. `A suit, you plonker. Whistle and flute, suit. Rhyming slang. God sakes, John, we're going to have to educate you. Tell you what, why don't we go out for a meal ourselves tonight? I know a good Greek restaurant in Walthamstow.' Flight paused, a gleam in his eye. `I know it's good,' he said, ‘cos I've seen a lot of bubbles coming out of it.' His smile was inviting. Rebus thought quickly. Bubbles? Was the food gassy? Did they serve champagne? Rhyming slang. Bubbles.
`Bubble and squeak,' he said. Then a pause. `Greeks, right?'
`Right!' said Flight. `You're catching on fast. So what about it? Or Indian, Thai, Italian, you decide.'
But Rebus was shaking his head. `Sorry, George, prior engagement.'
Flight pulled his head back. `No,' he said, `you're seeing her, aren't you? That bloody psychiatrist. I forgot you told me at breakfast. You bloody Jocks, you don't waste any time, do you? Coming down here, stealing our women.' Flight sounded in good humour, but Rebus thought he detected something a little deeper down, a genuine sadness that the two of them couldn't get together for a meal.
`Tomorrow night, eh, George?'
`Yeah,' said Flight. `Tomorrow night sounds fine. One word of advice though?'
`What?'
`Don't let her get you on the couch.'
`No,' said Dr Lisa Frazer, shaking her head vigorously. `That's psychiatrists. Psychiatrists have couches, not psychologists. We're like chalk and cheese.'
She looked stunning, yet there was no alchemy involved in the process. She was dressed simply and wore no make-up. Her hair had been brushed straight back and tied with a band. Still, casually, elegantly, simply, she was stunning. She had been dead, on time at the hotel and had walked with him, her arm linked in his, along Shaftesbury Avenue, past the scene of his run-in with the patrol car. The early evening was warm, and Rebus felt good walking with her. Men were glancing towards them, okay, be honest, towards her. There might even have been a wolf whistle or two. It made Rebus feel good all the same. He was wearing his tweed jacket with an open- necked shirt and had the sudden fear that she would lead him to some fancy restaurant where men were not admitted without ties. That would be just his luck. The city teemed with nightlife, teenagers mostly, drinking from cans and calling to each other across the busy road. The pubs were doing good business and buses chugged grime into the air. Grime which would be falling unseen on Lisa Frazer. Rebus felt valiant. He felt like stopping all the traffic, confiscating, all the keys so that she could walk unsullied through the streets.
Since when did he think like that? Where had this tiny unpolished stone of romance come from? What desperate corner of his soul? Self-conscious, John. You're becoming too self-conscious. And if a psychologist didn't spot it, nobody would. Be natural, Be calm. Be yourself.
