mirror, sighed and spread his hands either side of his face, the way he'd seen Roy Scheider do once in a film.
`It's showtime.'
Rebus's taxi driver was full of tales of the Krays, Richardson and Jack the Ripper. With Brick Lane their destination, he was especially vociferous on the subject of `Old Jack'.
`Done his first prossie on Brick Lane. Richardson, though, he was evil. Used to torture people in a scrapyard. You knew when he was electrocuting some poor bastard, 'cos the bulb across the scrap yard gates kept flickering.' Then a low chuckle. A sideways flick of the head. 'Krays used to drink in that pub on the corner. My youngest used to drink in there. Got in some terrible punch-ups, so I banned him from going. He works in the City, courier sort of stuff, you know, motorbikes.'
Rebus, who had been slouching in the, back seat, now gripped the headrest on the front passenger seat and yanked himself forward. `Motorbike messenger?'
`Yeah, makes a bleeding packet. Twice What I take home a week, I'll tell you that. He's just bought himself a flat down in Docklands. Only they call them “riverside apartments” these days. That's a laugh. I know some of the guys who built them.' Every bloody shortcut in the book. Hammering in screws instead of screwing them. Plaster? board so thin you can almost see your neighbours, never mind hear them.'
`A friend of my daughter works as a courier in the City.'
`Yeah? Maybe. I know him What's his name?'
`Kenny '
`Kenny?' He shook his head. Rebus stared at where the silvery hairs on the driver's neck disappeared into his shirt collar. `Nah, I don't know a Kenny, Kev, yes, and a couple of Chrisses, but not Kenny.'
Rebus sat back again. It struck him that he didn't know, what Kenny's surname was. `Are we nearly there?' he asked.
`Two minutes, guv. There's a lovely shortcut coming up should save us some time. Takes us right past where Richardson used to hang out.'
A crowd of reporters had gathered outside in the narrow street. Housefront, pavement, then road, where the crowd stood, held back by, uniformed constables. Did nobody in London possess such a thing as a front garden? Rebus had yet to see a house with .a garden, apart from the millionaire blocks in Kensington.
`John!' A female, voice, escaping from the scrum of newsmen. She pushed her way towards him. He signalled for the line of uniforms to break momentarily, so as to let her through.
`What are you doing here?'
Lisa looked a little shaken. `Heard a newsflash,' she gasped. `Thought I'd come over.'
`I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Lisa.' Rebus was thinking of Jean Cooper's body. If this were similar . . .
`Any comment to make?' yelled one of the newsmen. Rebus was aware of flashguns, of the bright homing lamps attached to video cameras. Other reporters were shouting now, desperate for a story that would reach the first editions.
`Come on then,' said Rebus, pulling Lisa Frazer towards the door of number 110.
Philip Cousins was still dressed in dark suit and tie, suitably funereal. Isobel Penny was in black, too, a full length dress with long, tight sleeves. She did not look funereal. She looked divine. She smiled at Rebus as he entered the cramped living-room, nodding in recognition.
`Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, 'they said you might drop by.'
`Never one to miss a good corpse,' Rebus replied drily. Cousins, stooping over the body, looked up at him.
`Quite.'
The smell was there, clogging up Rebus's nostrils and lungs. Some people couldn't smell it, but he always could. It was strong and salty, rich, clotting, cloying. It smelt like nothing else on earth. And behind it lurked another smell, more bland, like tallow, candle-wax, cold water. The two contrasting smells of life and death.' Rebus was willing to bet that Cousins could smell it, but he doubted Isobel Penny could.
A middle-aged woman lay on the floor, an ungainly twist of legs and arms. Her throat had been cut. There were signs of a struggle, ornaments shattered and knocked from their perches, bloody handprints smeared across one wall. Cousins stood up and sighed.
`Very clumsy,' he said. He glanced towards, Isobel Penny, who was sketching on her notepad. `Penny,' he said, 'you look quite delightful this evening. Have I told you?'
She smiled again, blushed, but said nothing. Cousins turned to Rebus, ignoring Lisa Frazer's silent presence. `It's a copycat,' he said with another sigh, `but a copycat of little wit or talent. He's obviously read the descriptions in the newspapers, which have been detailed but inaccurate. I'd say it was an interrupted burglary. He panicked, went for his knife, and realised that if he made it look like our friend the Wolfman then he might just get away with it.' He looked down at the corpse again. `Not terribly clever. I suppose the vultures have gathered?'
Rebus nodded. `When I came in there were about a dozen reporters outside. Probably double that by now. We know what they want to hear, don't we?'
`I fear, they are going to be disappointed.' Cousins checked his watch. `Not worth going back to dinner. We've probably missed the port and cheese. Damned fine table, too. Such a pity.' He waved his hand in the direction of the body. `Anything you'd like to see? Or shall we wrap this one up, as it were?'
Rebus smiled. The humour was as dark as the suit, but any humour was welcome. The smell in the air had been distilled now to that of raw steak and brown sauce. He shook his head. There was nothing more to be done in here. But outside, outside he was about to create an outrage. Flight would hate him for it, in fact everybody would hate him for it. But hate was fine. Hate was an emotion, and without emotion, what else was left? Lisa had already staggered, out into the tiny hallway, where a police officer was trying awkwardly to comfort her. As Rebus came out of the room, she shook her head and straightened up.
`I'm fine,' she said.
