his work; not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.
He walked.
Because he's on personal business, he stands outside the station and looks for a cab. One of the uniformed officers, who knows him from the scene of Sunday's murder, offers a lift in a patrol car, but Rebus shakes his head. The officer looks at him as if an insult has just been traded.
`Thanks anyway,' says Rebus, trying to sound concilia?tory. But all he sounds is mad. Mad with Lamb, with himself, mad with the Wolfman case, mad with Kenny bloody Watkiss, mad with Flight, with Lisa (why did she have to be in Copperplate Street in the, first place?) and, most of all, mad with London. Where are all the cabs, all the greedy black cabs, beetling like insects as they try to pick up fares? He's seen thousands of them this past week, but now that he needs one, they're all avoiding him. He waits anyway, eyes slightly unfocused. And as he waits, he thinks, and as he thinks he calms a little.'
What the hell is he doing anyway? He's asking for trouble doing this. He's begging for it, like a black-clothed. Calvinist pleading to be beaten for his sins. A lash across the back. Rebus had seen them all, all the available religions. He had tasted them and each one tasted bitter in its own particular way. Where was the religion for those who did not feel guilty, did not feel shame, did not regret getting angry or getting even, or, better yet, getting more than even? Where was the religion for a man who believed that good and bad must coexist, even within the individual? Where was the religion for a man who believed in God but not in God's religion?
And where were all the bloody taxis?
`Sod it then.' He walked up to the first patrol car he saw and tapped on the window, flashing his ID.
`Inspector Rebus,' he announced. `Can you give me a lift to Gower Street?'
The building seemed as deserted as ever and Rebus feared that on this occasion perhaps even the secretary might have scarpered for an early start to the weekend. But no, she was there, like the retainer of some dusty mansion. He cleared his throat, and she looked up from her crochet.
`Yes?' she said. `Can I help you?' She appeared not to remember him. Rebus brought out, his ID and pushed it towards her.
`Detective Inspector Rebus,' he said, his voice stiff with authority. `Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a few questions about Dr Frazer.'
The woman looked frightened. Rebus feared he had overdone the menace. He tried a don't-worry-it's-not- you-we're-interested-in sort of smile, a peaceable smile. But the woman looked no less afraid, and her fear flustered her.
`Oh, gracious,' she stammered. `Oh my, oh my.' She looked up at him. 'Who did you say? Dr Frazer? But there's no Dr Frazer in the Department.'
Rebus described Lisa Frazer. The woman suddenly raised her head, recognising the description.
`Oh, Lisa?. You mean Lisa? But there's some mistake. Lisa Frazer isn't a member of staff here. Gracious me, no. Though I believe she may have taken a tutorial or two, just filling in. Oh dear, Scotland Yard. What, I mean, surely she hasn't . . . What has she done?'
`She doesn't work here?' Rebus needed to be certain. `Then who is she?'
`Lisa? She's one of our research students.'
'A student? But she's—' He was about to say `old'.
`A mature student,' the secretary explained. `Oh dear, is she in trouble?'
'I came here before,' Rebus said. `You didn't tell me any of this then. Why?'
`Came here before?' She studied his face. `Yes, I remember. Well, Lisa made me promise not to tell anyone.'
`Why?'
`Her' project, she said. She's doing a project on, now, what is it exactly?' She opened a, drawer of her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. `Ah yes, “The Psychology of the Investigation of Serious Crime”. She explained it to me. How she needed access to a police investigation. How she, needed to gain trust. The courts, police and so on. She told me she was going to pretend to be a lecturer I told her not to, I warned her, but she said it was the only way. The police wouldn't waste time with a mere student, would they?'
Rebus was stuck for an answer. The answer was no, they wouldn't. Why, should they?
`So she got you to cover for her?'
The woman shrugged. `Lisa is quite a persuasive young woman. She said probably I wouldn't have to tell lies. I could just say things like she's not here, she's not teaching today, that sort of thing. Always supposing anyone bothered to check up on her.'
`And has anybody checked up on her?'
`Oh yes. Why, only today I had a telephone call from someone she had arranged to interview. He wanted to be sure that she really was part of University College, and not just a journalist or a Nosey Parker.'
Today? An interview today. Well, that was one appoint?ment she wouldn't be keeping.
`Who was this person?' Rebus asked. `Do you remem?ber?'
`I think I wrote it down,' she said. She lifted the thick notepad beside her telephone and flipped through it. 'He did say who he was, but I can't remember. It was at the Old Bailey. Yes, that's right. She'd arranged to meet him at the Old Bailey. I usually write these things down' as soon as someone mentions their name, just in case I forget later. No, there's no sign of it. That's funny.'
`Perhaps in the bin?' Rebus' suggested'
`Well, perhaps.' But she sounded doubtful. Rebus lifted the small wicker paper-basket onto her desk and sifted through it. Pencil shavings and sweet-wrappers, an empty polystyrene coffee cup and crumpled bits of paper. Lots of bits of paper.
