the attendants carried the corpse back through the cordon and up to their vehicle.
Rebus noticed that the crowd of onlookers had disap?peared, and only a few curious souls remained. One of them, a young, man, was carrying a crash helmet and wore a shiny black leather jacket with shinier silver zips. A very tired constable was trying to move him on.
Rebus felt like an onlooker himself and thought of all the TV dramas, and films he'd seen, with detectives swarming over the murder site in minute one (destroying any forensic evidence in the process) and solving the murder by minute fifty-nine or eighty-nine. Laughable, really. Police work was just that work. Relentless, routine, dull, frustrating, and above all time-consuming. He checked his watch. It was exactly 2 am. His hotel was back in central London, tucked somewhere behind Piccadilly Circus. It would take another thirty to forty minutes to get back there, always supposing a spare patrol car was available.
`Coming?'
It was Flight, standing a few yards in front of him.
`Might as well,' said Rebus, knowing exactly what Flight was talking about, or more accurately where he was talking about.
Flight smiled. `I'll give you this, Inspector Rebus, you don't give up.'
`The famous tenacity of the Scots,' said Rebus, quoting from one of Sunday's newspaper rugby reports. Flight actually laughed. It didn't last long, but it made Rebus feel glad that he'd come here tonight. The ice hadn't been broken completely perhaps, but an important chunk had been chipped away from one corner of the berg.
`Come on then. I've got my car. I'll get one of the drivers to put your bags in his boot. The lock's stuck on mine. Somebody tried to crowbar it open a few weeks back.' He glanced towards Rebus, a rare moment of eye contact. `Nowhere is safe these days,' he said. `Nowhere.'
There was already a lot of commotion up at road level. Voices and the slamming shut of car doors. Some officers would stay behind, of course, guarding the site. And a few might be going back to the warmth of the station or — luxury hardly to be imagined! — their own beds. But a few of the cars would be following the funeral van, following it all the way to the mortuary.
Rebus travelled in the front of Flight's own car. Both men spent the journey in desperate pursuit of a conversational opening and as a result said very little until they were near their destination.
`Do we know who she was?' asked Rebus.
`Jean Cooper,' said Flight. `We found ID in her handbag.'
`Any reason for her to be on that path?'
`She was going home from work. She worked in an off-licence nearby. Her sister tells us she finished work at seven.'
'When was the body found?'
`Quarter to ten.'
`That's a fair gap.'
`We've got witnesses who saw her in the Dog and Duck. That's a pub near where she works. She used to go in there for a drink some evenings. The barmaid reckons she left at nine or thereabouts.'
Rebus stared out of the windscreen. The roads were still fairly busy considering the time of night and they passed groups of youthful and raucous pedestrians.
`There's a club in Stokie,' Flight explained. `Very popular, but the buses have stopped by the time it comes out so everyone walks home.'
Rebus nodded, then asked: 'Stokie?'
Flight smiled. `Stoke Newington. You probably passed through it on your way from King's Cross.'
`God knows,' said Rebus. `It all looked the same to me. I think my taxi driver had me down as a tourist. We took so long from King's Cross I think we might have come via the M25.' Rebus waited for Flight to laugh, but all he raised was a sliver of a smile. There was another pause. `Was this Jean Cooper single?' Rebus asked at last.'
`Married.'
`She wasn't wearing a wedding, ring.'
Flight nodded. 'Separated. She lived with her sister. No kids.'
`And she went drinking by herself.'
Flight glanced towards Rebus. `What are you saying?' Rebus shrugged. `Nothing. It's just that if she liked a good time, maybe that's how she met her killer.'
`It's possible.'
`At any rate, whether she knew him or not, the killer could have followed her from the pub.'
`We'll be talking to everybody who was there, don't worry.'
`Either that,' said Rebus, thinking aloud, `or the killer was waiting by the river for anyone who happened along. Somebody might have seen him.'
`We'll be asking around,' said Flight. His voice had taken on a much harder edge.
`Sorry,' said Rebus. `A severe case of teaching my granny to suck eggs.'
Flight turned to him again. They were about to take a left through some hospital gates. `I am not your granny,' he said. `And any comments you have to make are welcome. Maybe eventually you'll come up with something I haven't already thought of.'
`Of course,' said Rebus, `this couldn't have happened in Scotland.'
