`The first one always hits you hard,' said Rebus. `Come on, I'm going to try out a spot of psychology on the Wolfman.'
The huddle of reporters and cameramen had become a sizeable crowd, now including the interested and the curious amateurs. The line of uniformed policemen had locked arms in a small but unbreakable chain. The questions began. Over here! Can we ask you who you are? You were at the canal, weren't you? A statement—Anything to say—Wolfman—Is it—The Wolfman? Is it—Just a few words if—
Rebus had walked to within a few inches of them, Lisa by his side. One of the reporters had leaned close to Lisa, asking for her name.
`Lisa, Lisa Frazer.'
`Are you working on the case, Lisa?'
`I'm a psychologist.'
Rebus cleared his throat noisily. The reporters were like mongrels in a dogs' home, calming quickly when they realised it was their turn at last for the feeding bowl. He raised his arms, and they fell quiet.
`A short statement, gentlemen,' said Rebus.
`Can we just ask who you are first?'
But Rebus shook his head. It didn't matter, did it? They would know soon enough. How many Scottish coppers were working on Wolfman? Flight would know, Cath Farraday would know and the journalists would find out. That didn't matter. Then' one of them, unable to hold back, asked the question.
`Have you caught him?' Rebus tried to catch the man's eye, but every eye was silently asking the same thing. `Is it the Wolfman?'
And this time Rebus nodded. `Yes,' he said emphatically. `It's the Wolfman. We've caught him.' Lisa looked at him in dumb surprise.
More questions, yelled now, screeched, but the chain in front of them would not break and somehow they, did not think simply to walk around it. Rebus had turned away and saw Cousins and Isobel. Penny standing just outside the door of the house, rigid, unable to believe what they had just heard. He winked at them and walked with Lisa to where his cab still waited. The driver folded his evening paper and, stuck it down the side of his seat.
`You fairly got them going, guv. What did you say?'
`Nothing much,' said Rebus, settling back in his seat and smiling towards Lisa Frazer. `Just a few fibs.'
`Fibs!'
So this was what Flight looked like when he was angry. `Fibs!'
He seemed unable to believe what, he was hearing. `You call that a few fibs? Cath Farraday's going apeshit trying to calm those bastards down. They're like fucking animals. Half of them are. ready to go to print on this! And you call it “fibs”? You're off your trolley, Rebus.'
So it was back to `Rebus', was it? Well then, so be it. Rebus remembered that they'd promised they'd have dinner together this evening, but somehow he doubted the invitation still stood.
George Flight had been interviewing the murderer. His cheeks were veined with blood, his tie unknotted and hanging loose around his half unbuttoned shirt. He paced what floor, there was in the small office. Rebus knew that outside the closed door people were listening in a mixture of fear and amusement: fear at Flight's anger, amusement that Rebus was its sole recipient.
`You're the fucking limit.' Flight's anger had peaked; his voice had dropped by half a decibel. `What gives you the right—?’
Rebus slapped the desk with his hand. He'd had enough of this. `I'll tell you what gives me the right, George. The mere fact of the Wolfman gives me the right to do anything I think best.'
`Best!' Flight sounded freshly outraged. `Now I've heard it all. Giving the papers a, crock of shit like that is supposed to be “best”? By Christ, I'd hate, to see your idea of “worst”.'
Rebus's voice was every bit the equal of Flight's now, and rising. `He's out there somewhere and he's laughing his head off at us. Because he seems to know how we'll play every round, he's knocking hell out of us.' Rebus grew quiet. Flight was listening now, and that was what he wanted. `We need to get him riled, get him to lift his head over the trench he's hiding in so he can see what the fuck is going on. We need him angry, George. Not angry at the world. Angry at us. Because when he raises his head, we'll be ready to bite it off.
`We've already accused him of being everything from gay to a cannibal from Pluto. Now we're telling everyone he's been caught.' Rebus was reaching his point, his defence. He lowered his voice still further. `I don't think he'll be able to take that, George. Really I don't. I think he'll have to make contact. Maybe with the papers, maybe directly with us. Just to let us know.'
`Or kill again,' countered Flight. `That would let us know.'
Rebus shook his head. `If he kills again, we keep it quiet. Total media blackout. He gets no publicity. Everybody still thinks he's been caught. Sooner or later, he'll have to show himself.'
Rebus was completely calm now, and so was Flight. Flight rubbed both hands over his cheeks and down to his jaw. He was staring into space, thinking it over. Rebus did not doubt the plan would work. It might take time, but it would work. Basic SAS training: if you can't locate your enemy, make the enemy come to you. Besides, it was the only plan they had.
`John, what if the publicity doesn't bother him? Publicity or the lack of it?'
Rebus shrugged. He had no answer to that. All he had were case histories and his own instincts.
Finally, Flight shook his head. `Go back to Edinburgh, John,' he said tiredly. `Just do it' Rebus stared at him, not blinking, willing him to say something else. But George Flight simply walked to the door, opened it, and closed it behind him.
That was it then. Rebus released his breath in a long hiss. Go back to Edinburgh. Wasn't that what everyone
