at the ticket desk. Was smoking allowed on airplanes these days anyway? If God had meant man to smoke at 20,000 feet, wouldn't he have given us all longer necks? The woman next to him looked to have no neck' at all. Pity the poor serial killer who tried cutting his way through that throat.
That was a terrible thing to think, God, please forgive me. As penance, he began to concentrate on the woman's conversation, right up until take-off, when even she was forced, to stop talking for a moment or two. Rebus, taking advantage of the situation, tucked his newspapers into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, leaned his head against the back of his own seat, and promptly fell asleep.
George Flight tried Rebus's hotel again from the, Old Bailey, only to be told that Rebus had ‘left in a hurry' earlier in the morning after asking how best to get to Heathrow.
`Looks like he's done a runner,' DC Lamb commented. `Frightened off by our consummate professionalism, I shouldn't wonder.'
`Leave off, Lamb,' growled Flight. `Mind you, it is a bit mysterious. Why would he leave without saying anything?'
`Because he's a Jock, with all due respect, sir. He was probably worried you were going to drop a bill into his lap.'
Flight smiled obligingly, but his thoughts were else?where. Last night Rebus had been seeing that psychologist, Dr Frazer, and now he was in a hurry to leave London. What had happened? Flight's nose twitched. He liked a good honest mystery.
He was in court to have a quiet word with Malcolm Chambers. Chambers was prosecuting counsel in a case involving one of Flight's snouts. The snout had been incredibly stupid, had been caught red-handed. Flight had told the man there was little he could do, but he would do what he could. The snout had given him a lot of very useful tips in the past year, helping put a few fairly nasty individuals behind bars. Flight guessed he owed the man a helping hand. So he would talk to Chambers, not to influence the prosecutor—that was unthinkable, naturally—but to fill in some details on the snout's useful contribution to police work and to society, a contribution which would come to a sad end should Chambers push for the maximum sentence.
Et cetera.
Dirty job, but someone had to do it and besides, Flight was proud of his network of informers. The idea of that network suddenly splintering was . . . well, best not to consider it. He wasn't looking forward to going to Chambers, begging bowl in hand. Especially not after the farce involving Tommy Watkiss. Watkiss was back out on the street, probably telling the story in pubs up and down the East End to a laughing chorus of hangers-on. All about how the arresting constable had said, `Hello, Tommy, what's going on here?' Flight doubted Chambers would ever forget it, or let Flight forget it. What the hell, best get the begging over and done with.
`Hello there.' It was a female voice, close behind him. He turned to face the cat like eyes and bright red lips, of Cath Farraday.
`Hello, Cath, what are you doing here?'
She explained that she was at the Old Bailey to meet with the influential crime reporter from one of the more upmarket dailies.
`He's halfway through covering a fraud case,' she explained, `and never strays too far from the courtroom.'
Flight nodded, feeling awkward in her presence. From the corner of his eye he could see that Lamb was enjoying his discomfort, so he tried to be brave and steeled himself to meet the full force of her gaze.
`I saw the pieces you placed in today's press,' he said.
She folded her arms. `I can't say I'm optimistic about their chances of success.'
`Do the reporters know we're spinning them a yarn?'
`One or two were a bit suspicious, but they've got a lot of hungry readers out there starving for want of another Wolfman story.' She unfolded her arms and reached into her shoulder-bag. `Ergo, they've got a lot, of hungry editors, too. I think they'll take any tidbit we throw them.' She had brought a pack of cigarettes from her bag, and, without offering them out, lit one, dropped the pack back into her bag and snapped the bag shut.
`Well, let's hope something comes of it.'
`You said this was all Inspector Rebus's idea?'
`That's right.'
`Then I'm doubtful. Having met him, I wouldn't, say psychology was his strong point.'
`No?'' Flight sounded surprised.
`He doesn't have a strong point,' broke in Lamb.
`I wouldn't go that far,' said Flight protectively. But Lamb merely gave that insolent grin of his. Flight’s was part embarrassed, part furious. He knew exactly what Lamb's grin was saying: don't think we don't know why you're sticking so close to him, why you two are so chummy.
Cath had smiled at Lamb's interruption, but when she spoke her words were directed at Flight: she did not deign to consort with the lower ranks. `Is Rebus still around?'
Flight shrugged. `I wish I knew, Cath. I've heard he was last seen heading off towards Heathrow, but he didn't take any luggage with him.'
'Oh well.' She didn't sound disappointed. Flight sud?denly shot a hand into the air, waving. Malcolm Chambers acknowledged the signal and came towards them, walking as though no effort whatsoever was involved.
Flight felt the need for introductions. `Mr Chambers, this is Inspector Cath Farraday. She's the Press Liaison Officer on Wolfman.'
`Ah,' said Chambers, taking her hand momentarily in his. `The woman responsible for this morning's lurid headlines?'
`Yes,' said Cath. Her voice had taken on a new, soft, feminine edge, an edge Flight couldn't recall having heard
