`What was that all about?' asked Flight.
`Maybe nothing,' said Rebus. `Do you remember when we went to the Old Bailey, how someone shouted out when the case was stopped?'
'Someone in the public gallery.'
`That's right. Well, I recognised the voice. It's a teenager called Kenny. He's one of those motorcycle messengers.'
`So?'
'He's going out with my daughter.'
`Ah. And that bothers you?' Rebus nodded.
`Yes, a bit.'
`And that's what you want to see me about.'
Rebus managed a weak smile. `No, no, nothing like that.'
`So what's on your mind?'
`I was in Glasgow today, giving evidence. I had a bit of free time and went to a flea market, the sort of place tramps go to do their messages—'
'Messages?'
`Their shopping,' Rebus explained.
`And?'
`And there was a stall selling false teeth. Odds and sods. Top sets and bottom sets, not necessarily matching.' He paused to let those final three words sink home. `Is there someplace like that in London, George?'
Flight nodded. `Brick Lane for one. There's a market there every Sunday. The main road sells fruit, veg, clothes. But there are streets off, where they sell anything they've got. Bric-a-brac, old rubbish. It makes for an interesting walk, but you wouldn't buy anything.'
`But you could buy false teeth there?'
`Yes,' said Flight after a moment's thought. `I don't doubt it.'
`Then he's been cleverer than we thought, hasn't he?'
`You're saying the bite marks aren't real?'
`I'm saying they're not the Wolfman's teeth. The lower set smaller than the upper? You end up with a pretty strange jaw, as Doctor Morrison showed us, remember?'
`How can I forget? I was going to feed the pictures to the press.'
`Which is probably exactly what the Wolfman wanted. He goes to Brick Lane market, or at least to somewhere like it, and buys any upper and lower set. They don't match, but that doesn't matter. And he uses them to make those damned bite marks.'
Flight seemed dismissive, but Rebus knew the man was hooked. `He can't be that clever.'
`Yes he can,' persisted Rebus `He's had everything worked out from the start . . . from before the start! He's been playing with us like we, were clockwork, George.'
`Then we have to wait until Sunday,' Flight said thoughtfully. `Search every stall at every market, find the ones selling, false teeth there can't be many and ask.'
`About the person who bought a set of teeth without trying them for size!' Rebus burst out laughing. It was ridiculous. It was absolutely mad. But he was sure it was true, and he was sure the stall-holder would, remember, and would give a description. Surely most of the customers would try for size. It was the best lead they'd had so far, and it might just be the only one they'd need.
Flight was smiling too, shaking his head at the dark comic reality of it. Rebus held a closed fist in front of him, and Flight brought his open palm to rest beneath it. When Rebus opened his hand, the plastic chattering teeth fell into Flight's palm.
`Just like clockwork,' said Rebus. `What's more, we've got Lamb to thank.' He thought about this. `But I'd rather he didn't get to know.'
Flight nodded. `Anything you say, John. Anything you say.'
Back at his desk, Rebus sat in front of a fresh sheet of paper. The Wolfman had been too clever. Too clever by half. He thought of Lisa, of her notion that the killer might have a criminal record. It was possible. Possible, too, that the Wolfman simply knew how the police worked. So, he might be a policeman. Or work in forensics. Or be a journalist. A civil rights campaigner. Work in the law. Or write bloody scripts for television. He might just have done his reading. There were plenty of case histories in libraries and bookshops, plenty of biographies of murderers, tracing how they were caught. By studying them, you could learn how not to get caught. However hard Rebus tried he just couldn't whittle away at the list of possibilities The teeth might be yet another dead end. That was why they had to make the Wolfman come to them.
He threw down his pen and reached for the telephone, trying Lisa's number. But the phone just rang and rang and rang. Maybe she'd taken a couple of sleeping pills, or gone for a walk, or was a heavy sleeper.
`You stupid prick.'
He looked towards the open door. Cath Farraday was standing there, in her favourite position, against the jamb, arms folded. As if to let him know she'd been there for some time.
`You incredibly stupid little man.'
Rebus pinned a ' smile to his face. `Good evening, Inspector. How can I help you?'
