Flight rubbed a knuckle against his right eye. `I don't know, John. This case has gone ga-ga. You're off telling porkies to the press, your picture's all over the front pages, we've got our first—maybe not our last—copycat killing, then you come up with some idea of flea markets and false teeth. And now this.' He opened his arms wide, pleading for help to put his world back into some semblance of order. `It's all a bit much.'
Rebus bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly. `But it fits the pattern, doesn't it? From what I've read about serial killers, the first attempt is often botched. They're not quite ready, ' they haven't planned well enough. Somebody screams, they panic. He didn't have his technique honed. He didn't go for the mouth, so she was able to scream. Then he found that human skin and muscle is tougher than it looks. He'd probably seen too many horror films, thought it was like cutting through butter. So he scraped her, but not enough to do serious damage. Maybe the knife wasn't sharp enough, who knows. The point is, he got scared and he ran.'
Flight merely shrugged. `And she didn't come forward,' he said. `That's what bothers me.'
`She's come forward now. Tell me this, George. How many rape victims do we actually see? I heard tell somebody reckons it's less than one in three. Jan Crawford is a timid little woman, scared half to death. All she wanted to do was forget about it, but she couldn't. Her conscience wouldn't let her. Her conscience brought her to us.'
`I still don't like it, John. Don't ask me why.'
Rebus finished the sandwich and made a show of wiping his hands .together. `Your copper's instinct?' he suggested, just a little sarcastically.
`Maybe,' said. Flight, appearing to miss, or at least to ignore, Rebus's tone. `There's just something about her.'
`Trust me. I've talked to her. I've been through it all with her. And, George, I believe her. I think it was him. Twelfth of December last year. That was, his first time.'
`Maybe not,' said Flight. `Maybe there are others who haven't come forward.'
'Maybe. What matters is one did.'
`I still don't see what good this does us.' Flight picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and read the scribbled details. `He was about six feet tall, white, and I think he had brown hair. He was running away with his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. Flight put down the paper. `That narrows things down nicely, doesn't it?'
Yes, Rebus wanted to say, it does. Because now I think I'm dealing with a man, and before this I wasn't sure. But he kept that particular thought to himself. He'd given George Flight enough grief in the past few days.
`That's still, not the point,' he said instead.
.'Then what in God's name is the point?' Flight had finished the can of cola and now tossed it into a metal wastepaper bin, where it rang against, the side, the reverberation lasting for what seemed like an age.
When all was quiet again, Rebus spoke. 'The point is the Wolfman doesn't know she didn't get a good look, at him. We've got to persuade Miss Crawford to go public. Let the TV cameras feast on her. The One Who Got Away. Then we say that she's given us a good description. If that doesn't panic the bastard, nothing will.'
`Panic! Everything you do is designed to panic him. What good does that do? What if it simply frightens, him off? What if he just stops killing and we never find him?'
`He's not the type,' Rebus said with authority. `He'll go on killing because it's taken him over. Haven't you noticed how the murders are coming at shorter and shorter intervals? He may even have killed again since Lea Bridge, we just haven't found the body yet. He's possessed, George.' Flight looked at him as though seeking a joke, but Rebus was in deadly earnest. `I mean it.'
Flight stood up and walked to the window. 'It might not even have been the Wolfman.'
`Maybe not,' Rebus conceded.
`What if she won't go public?'
'It doesn't matter. We still issue the news story. We still say we've got a good description.'
Flight turned from the window. `You believe her? You don't think she's a crank?'
`It's possible, but I really don't think so. She's very plausible. She kept the details just vague enough to be convincing. It was three months ago. We can check on her if you like.'
`Yes, I'd like that very much.' The emotion had left Flight's voice. This case was draining him, of every reserve he had. `I want to know about her background, her present, her friends, her medical records, her family.'
`I could even get Lisa Frazer to give her some psychological tests?' Rebus suggested, not altogether with?out tongue in cheek. Flight smiled faintly.
`No, just the checks I've mentioned. Get Lamb onto it. It'll keep him out of our hair.'
'You don't like him then?'
`Whatever gives you that idea?'
`Funny, he says you're like a father to him.'
The moment of tension was over. Rebus felt he had won another small victory. They both laughed, using their dislike of Lamb to strengthen the link between them.
`You're a good policeman, John,' Flight said. Rebus, despite himself, blushed.
`Sod off, you old fart,' he replied.
`That reminds me,' said Flight. `I told you yesterday to go home. Have you any intention of doing so?'
`None at all,' said Rebus. There was a pause before Flight nodded.
`Good,' he said. `That's good.' He walked to the door. `For now.' He turned back towards Rebus. `Just don't go rogue on me, John. This is my turf. I need to know where you are and what you're up to.' He tapped at his own head. `I need to know what's going on up here. Okay?'
