Rebus nodded. `Fine, George. No problem.' Butt the fingers behind his back were crossed. He liked to work alone, and had the feeling Flight wanted to stick close to him for reasons other than traditional Cockney chumminess. Besides, if the Wolfman did turn out to be a policeman, nobody could be discounted, nobody at all.
Rebus tried Lisa again, but without success. At lunchtime, he was wandering around the station when he bumped into Joey Bennett, the constable who had stopped him on Shaftesbury Avenue that first night in London. Bennett was wary at first. Then he recognised Rebus. `Oh, hello, sir. Was that your picture I saw in the papers?'
Rebus' nodded. `This isn't your patch is it?' he asked.
`No, not exactly, sir. Just passing through, you might say. Dropping off a prisoner. That woman in the photo with you. She looked a bit of all—'
`Do you have your car with you?'
Bennett was wary again. `Yes, sir.'
`And you're going back into town now?'
`To the West End, yes, sir.'
`Good. Then you won't mind giving me a lift, will you?'
'Er, no, sir. Of course not, sir.' Bennett broke into the least convincing smile Rebus had seen outside a synchronised swimming event. On their way out to the car, they passed Lamb.
`Teeth stopped chattering yet?' he asked, but Rebus was in no mood to respond. Lamb, undaunted, tried again. `Going somewhere?' He managed even to make this simple question sound like a threat. Rebus stopped, turned and walked up to him, so that their faces were a couple of inches apart.
`If that's all right with you, Lamb, yes, I'm going somewhere.' Then he turned away again and followed Bennett. Lamb watched them go, half his teeth showing in a parody of a grin.
`Mind how you go!' he called. `Shall I phone ahead and get the hotel to, pack your bags?'
Rebus's reply was a two-fingered salute, a more determined stride, and a whispered `FYTP' Bennett heard him.
`Sorry, sir?'
`Nothing,' said Rebus. `Nothing at all.'
It took them half an hour to reach Bloomsbury. Every second building seemed to sport a blue circular plaque commemorating some writer's having lived there. Rebus recognised few of the names. Finally, he found the building he was looking for, and waved Bennett goodbye. It was the Psychology Department of University College in Gower Street. The, secretary, who appeared to, be the only living soul around at one o'clock, asked if she could help him.
`I hope so,' he said. `I'm looking for Lisa Frazer.'
`Lisa?' The secretary, seemed unsure. `Oh, Lisa. Dear me, I don't think I can help. I haven't seen her in over a week. You might try the library. Or Dillon's.'
`Dillon's?'
`It's a bookshop, just around the corner. Lisa seems to spend a lot of her time in there. She loves bookshops. Or there's always the British Library. It's just possible she might be there.'
He left the building with a new puzzle. The secretary had seemed very distant, very fuzzy. Maybe it was just him. He was starting to read things into every situation. He found the bookshop and went inside. `Shop' was something of an understatement. It was huge. He read on a wall that psychology books were to be found three floors up. So many books. One man could not hope to read them all in a lifetime. He tried to walk through the aisles without focusing. If he focused, he would become interested; and if he became interested he would buy. He already had over fifty books at home, piled beside his bed, waiting for that elusive week long break when he could concentrate on something other than police work. He collected books. It was just about his only hobby. Not that he, was precious about it. He did not lust after first editions, signed copies and the like. Mostly, he bought paperbacks. And he was nothing if not catholic in his tastes: any subject matter would do.
So he tried to pretend he was wearing blinkers, pondered the essential difference between catholic and Catholic and finally reached the psychology section. It was a room joined onto other rooms as in a chain, but there was no sign of Lisa in any of the links. He did, however, find where some of her own library of books had no doubt originated. There was a shelf next to the cashier's desk, dedicated to crime and violence. One of the books she had loaned him was there. He picked it up and turned it over to look at the price. Then blinked twice in astonishment. So, much money! And it wasn't even a hardback! Still, academic books always did carry steep price tickets. Strange really, weren't students, the intended readership after all, least able to afford these titles? It might take a psychologist to explain that one, or perhaps a shrewd economist.
Next to the criminology section were books on the occult and witchcraft, along with various packs of Tarot cards and the like. Rebus smiled at this curious marriage: police work and hocus-pocus. He picked up a book on rituals and flipped through it. A young, slender woman, in billowing satin dress and with long fiery hair, paused beside him to lift a Tarot set, which she took to the cash desk. Well, it took all sorts, didn't it? She looked serious enough, but then these were serious times.
Ritual. He wondered if there was an element of ritual to the Wolfman's particular spree. So far he had been seeking an explanation from the killer's psyche: what if the whole thing were some kind of rite? Slaughter and defilement of the innocent, that sort of thing. Charlie Manson and his swastika-tattooed forehead. Some said there was a Masonic element to Jack the Ripper's methods. Madness and evil. Sometimes you found a cause, and sometimes you just didn't.
Slash the throat.
Gouge the anus.
Bite the stomach.
The two ends of the human trunk, and something like the mid-point. Could there be a clue in that particular
