`Well,' she said, coming into the room, `you can start by keeping your gob shut and your brain in gear. You never speak to the press. Never!' She was rearing over him now, looking ready to butt him in the face'. He tried to avoid her eyes, eyes sharp enough to cut a man open, and found himself staring instead at her hair. It, too, looked danger?ous.
`Do you understand me?'
'FYTP,' said Rebus, speaking without thinking.
`What?'
`Loud and clear,' he said. `Yes, loud and clear.'
She nodded slowly, not seeming completely convinced, then threw a newspaper onto the desk. He hadn't noticed the paper till now, and glanced towards it. There was a photograph on the front, not large bu large enough. It showed him talking to the reporters, Lisa standing nerv?ously by his side. The headline was larger: WOLFMAN CAUGHT? Cath Farraday tapped the photograph.
`Who's the bimbo?'
Rebus felt his cheeks growing red. `She's a psychologist She's helping on the case.'
Cath Farraday looked at Rebus as though he were something more than merely stupid, then shook her head and turned to leave. `Keep the paper,' she said. `There are plenty more where it came from.'
She sits with the newspaper in front of her. There are several more piled on the floor. She has the scissors in her hand. One of the reports mentions who the policeman is Inspector John Rebus. The report calls him an `expert' of serial murders. And another report mentions that standing to his left is a 'police psychologist, Lisa Frazer'. She cut around the photograph, then cuts another line, splitting Rebus from Frazer. Time and again she does this, until she, has two new neat piles, one of John Rebus, one of Lisa Frazer She takes one of the photographs of the psychologist and snips off her head. Then, smiling, she sits down to write a letter. A very difficult letter, but that doesn't matter. She has all the time in the world.
All the time.
Churchill
Rebus woke to his radio-alarm at seven, sat up in bed and rang Lisa. No reply. Maybe something was wrong.
Over breakfast, he skimmed the newspapers. Two of the quality titles carried bold front, page stories recounting the capture of the Wolfman, but they were couched in speculative prose. Police are believed . . . it is thought that . . . Police may have already captured the, evil cut-throat killer. Only the tabloids carried pictures of Rebus at his little press conference. Even they, despite the shouting headlines, were being cagey; probably they didn't believe it themselves. That didn't matter. What mattered was that somewhere the Wolfman might be reading about his capture.
His. There was that word again. Rebus couldn't help, but think of the Wolfman as a man, yet part of him was wary of narrowing the possible identity in this way. There was still nothing to indicate that it could not be a woman. He needed to keep an open mind. And did the sex of the beast really matter? Actually yes, probably it did. What was the use of women waiting hours just so that they could travel home from a pub or party in a mini-cab driven by another woman, if the killer they were so afraid of turned out to be a woman? All over London people were taking protective measures. Housing estates were patrolled by neighbour?hood vigilantes. One group had already beaten up a completely innocent stranger who'd wandered onto the estate because he was lost and needed directions. His crime? The estate was white, and the stranger was coloured. Flight had told Rebus how prevalent racism was in London, `especially the south-east corner. Go into some of those estates with a tan and you'll end up being nutted.' Rebus had encountered it already, thanks to Lamb's own particular brand of xenophobia.
Of course, there wasn't nearly so much racism in Scotland. There was no need: the Scots had bigotry instead.
He finished the papers and went to HQ It was early yet, a little after half past eight. A few of the murder team were busy at their desks, but the smaller offices were empty. The office Rebus had taken over was stuffy, and he opened the windows. The day was mild, a slight, breeze wafting in. He could hear the distant sound of a computer printer, of telephones starting to ring. Outside, the traffic flowed in slow motion, a dull rumbling, nothing more. Without realising he was doing it, Rebus rested his head on his arms. This close to the desk, he could smell wood and varnish, mixed with pencil-lead. It reminded him of primary school. A knock, echoing somewhere, jarred his sleep. Then a cough, not a necessary cough, a diplomatic cough.
Unknown
`Excuse me, sir.'
Rebus lifted his head sharply from the desk. A. WPC was standing, her head around the, door, looking at him. He had been sleeping with his mouth open. There was a trail of saliva on the side of his mouth, and a tiny pool of the stuff on the surface of the desk.
`Yes,' he said, still muzzy. `What is it?'
A sympathetic smile. They weren't all like Lamb, he had to remember that. On, a case like this, you, became a team, came to feel as close to the others as you would to your best friend. Closer than that even, sometimes.
`Someone to see you, sir. Well, she wants to speak to someone about the murders. and you're about the only one here.'
Rebus looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. He hadn't been asleep long then. Good. He felt he could confide in this WPC. `How do I look?' he asked.
`Well,' she said, `one side of your face is red from where you've been lying on it, but otherwise you'll do.' Then the smile again. A, good deed in a naughty world.
`Thanks,' he said. `Okay, send her in, please.'
`Right you are.' The head disappeared, but only momentarily. `Can I get you a coffee or something?'
`Coffee would hit the spot,' said Rebus. `Thanks.'
`Milk? Sugar?'
