`Hmm. He's tricked us before, making us see patterns where none exist. The teeth for example, I'm sure I'm right about them. But now that we've got him rattled—'
`You think he lives in the City?'
'Lives there, works there, maybe just drives through there on his way to work.' Rebus shook his head. He didn't yet want to share with Flight the image which had just passed through his, mind, the image of a motorcycle courier, based in the City, a motorcyclist with easy access to every part of London. Like the man in leathers he'd seen on the bridge that first night down by the canal.
A man like Kenny Watkiss.
`Well,'' he said instead, 'whatever, it's another piece of the jigsaw.'
`If you ask me,' said Flight, `there are too many pieces. They won't all fit.'
`Agreed.' Rebus' stubbed out the cigarette. Flight had already finished his own, and was about to light another. `But as the picture emerges, we'll know better which bits we can discard, won't we?' He was still studying the letter. There was something else. What was it? Something at, the back of his mind, lurking somewhere in memory . . . . Something stirred momentarily by the letter, but, what? If he stopped thinking about it, maybe it would come to him, the way the names of forgotten actors in films did.
The door opened
`Lisa, how are you?' Both men rose to offer her a seat, but she lifted a hand to show she preferred to stand. All three of them stood, a stiff triangle in the tiny box of a room.
`Just been sick again,' she said. Them' she smiled. `Can't be much more to bring up. I think I'm back to yesterday's breakfast already.' They smiled with her. She looked tired to Rebus, exhausted. Lucky she had slept so soundly yesterday. He doubted she'd get much sleep for the next night or ten, tranqs or not.
Flight spoke first. `I've arranged for temporary accommodation, Dr Frazer. The less people who know where, the better. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. We'll have a guard on you.'
`What about her flat?' asked Rebus.
Flight nodded. `I've got two men there keeping an eye on the place. One inside the flat itself, the other outside, both of them hidden. If the Wolfman turns up, they'll cope with him, believe me.'
`Stop talking as though I'm not here,' Lisa snapped. `This affects me too.'
There was a cold silence in the room.
`Sorry,' she said. She covered her eyes with her ringless left hand. `I just can't believe I was so scared back there. I feel—'
She tipped her head back again. The tears were too precious to be released. Flight placed a hand softly on her shoulder.
`It's all right, Dr Frazer. Really it is.' She gave a wry smile at this.
Flight kept on talking, feeding her with comforting words. But she wasn't listening. She was staring at Rebus, and he was staring back at her. Rebus knew what her eyes were telling him. They were telling him something of the utmost importance.'
Catch the Wolfman, catch him quickly and destroy him utterly. Do it for me, John. But just do it.
She blinked, breaking the contact. Rebus nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. She smiled at him, and suddenly her eyes were dry sparkling stones. Flight felt the change and lifted his hand away from her arm. He looked to Rebus for some explanation, but Rebus was studying the letter, concentrating on its opening sentence. What was it? There was, something there, something just beyond his line of vision. Something he didn't get.
Yet.
Two detectives, one of them extraordinarily burly, like the prop-forward from a rugby team, the other tall and thin and silent, came to the labs to take Lisa away with them, away to a place of safety. Despite vigorous protests, Rebus wasn't allowed to know the destination. Flight was taking all of this very seriously indeed. But before Lisa could go, the lab people needed her fingerprints and to take samples of fibres from her clothes, all for the purpose of elimination. The two bodyguards went with her.
Rebus and Flight, exhausted, stood together at the drinks machine in the long, brightly-lit hallway, feeding in coins for cups of powdery coffee and powdery tea.
`Are you married, George?'
Flight seemed surprised by the question, surprised perhaps that it should come only now. `Yes,' he said. `Have been the past twelve years. Marion. She's the second. The first was a disaster—my fault, not hers.'
Rebus nodded, taking hold of the hot plastic beaker by its rim.
`You said you'd been married, too,' Flight remarked.
Rebus nodded again.
`That's right.'
`So what happened?'
`I'm not really sure any more. Rhona used to say it was like the continental drift: so slow we didn't notice until it was too late. Her on one island, me on another, and a great big bloody sea between us.'
Flight smiled. `Well, you did say she was a teacher.'
`Yes, she still is actually. Lives in Mile End with my daughter.'
`Mile End? Bloody hell. Gentrified gangland, no place for any copper's daughter.'
Rebus smiled at the irony. It was time to confess.
