Two students, their voices loudly American, were heading towards him. They seemed excited, the way students always did, discussing this or that concept, ready to change the way the world thought. They wanted to get past, wanted to go into the building. He moved aside for them, but they didn't so much move past him as through him, as though he were insubstantial as exhaust fumes.
`Like, y'know, I think she likes me, but I'm not sure I'm ready for something like—'
So much for difficult concepts, thought Rebus. Why should students be different from anyone else in the population? Why should they be thinking (and, talking), about something other than sex?
`Yeah,' said the other, one. Rebus wondered how comfortable he felt in his thick white T-shirt and thicker checked lumberjack shirt. The day was sticky. 'Yeah,' the American repeated. His accent reminded Rebus of Lisa's softer Canadian tones.
`But get this,' continued his companion, their voices fading as they moved deeper into the building, `she says her mother hates Americans because one of them near raped her in the war.'
Get this. Where had Rebus heard that expression before? He fumbled in his jacket pocket and found a folded piece of paper, Unfolded it and began to read.
`GET THIS, I'M NOT HOMOSEXUL, O.K.?' It was the photocopy of the Wolfman's letter to Lisa.
Get this. It did have a transatlantic ring to it, didn't it? A curious way altogether of starting a letter. Get this. Be warned, watch out. There were several ways, of starting a letter so that the reader knew he was to pay particular attention to it. But get this?
What did they know, or what did they suspect, about the Wolfman? He knew about police procedure (past offender, copper, both were possible). He was a he, if Jan Crawford were to be believed. He was quite tall, she thought. In the restaurant, Lisa Frazer had added her own ideas: he was conservative most of the time he not only seemed normal, he was normal he was, in her phrase, `psychologically , mature. And he had posted a letter to Lisa from EC4, EC4 wasn't that where the Old, Bailey was? He recalled his first and only visit to the building. The courtroom, and seeing Kenny Watkiss there. Then meeting Malcolm Chambers. What was it Chambers had said to George Flight?
Unknown
‘Royally shafted. Own team. I don't like. Flight, I don't like being royally shafted . . . own team . . . get this. Get this, George.
Jesus Christ! Every ball on the table suddenly fell into a pocket until only the cue ball and the black were left. Every single ball.
`Get this, George, I don't like being royally shafted by my own team.'
Malcolm Chambers had studied in the USA for a while. Flight had told Rebus that. You tended to pick up mannerisms when you wanted to fit into a new and strange place. Get this. Rebus had tried to avoid the temptation in London, but it was strong. Studied in the USA. And now he was with Lisa Frazer. Lisa the student, Lisa the psychologist, Lisa with her photo in the newspapers. Get this. Oh, how the Wolfman must hate her. She was a psychologist after all and the psychologists had pronounced him gay, they had insights into what was wrong with him. He didn't think anything was wrong with him. But something was. Something that was slowly taking him over.
Old Bailey was in EC4. The Wolfman, rattled, had slipped up and posted his letter from EC4.
It was Malcolm Chambers, Malcolm Chambers was the Wolfman. Rebus couldn't explain it, couldn't exactly justify it, but he knew it all the same. It was like a dark polluted wave rolling over him, anointing him. Malcolm Chambers. Someone who knew about police procedure, someone above suspicion, someone so clean you had to scratch beneath the skin to find, the filth.
Rebus was running. He was running along Gower Street in what he hoped was the right direction for the City. He was running and he was craning his neck to seek out a taxi. There was one ahead of him, at the corner beside the British Museum, but it was picking up a fare. Students or tourists. Japanese. Grins and cameras. Four of them, two men, two young women. Rebus stuck his head into the back of the cab, where two of them were already seated.
`Out!' he yelled, jerking a thumb towards the pavement.
'Oi, mate, what's your game?' The driver was so fat he could barely turn in his seat.'
`I said out!' Rebus grabbed an arm and pulled. Either the young man was surprisingly light, or else Rebus had found hidden strength, for the body fairly flew from its seat uttering a string of high-pitched comment as it went.
`And you.'
The girl followed obligingly and Rebus hurled himself into the cab, slamming shut the door.
`Drive!' he yelled.
`I'm not moving till I—'
Rebus shoved his ID against the window separating the back seats of the taxi from the front.
`Inspector Rebus!' he called. `This is an emergency. I need to get to the Old Bailey. Break every traffic law you like, I'll sort it out later. But get your fucking skates on!'
The driver responded by switching his headlights on full beam before setting out into the traffic.
`Use your horn!' Rebus called. The driver did so. A surprising number of cars eased out of his way. Rebus was on the edge of his seat, gripping it with both hands to stop himself being thrown about. `How long will it take?'
'This time of day? Ten or fifteen minutes. What's the matter, guv? Can't they start without you?'
Rebus smiled sourly. That was just the problem. Without him, the Wolfman could start whenever he liked. `I need to use your radio,' he said. The driver slid his window further open.
'Be my guest,' he said, pulling the, small microphone up, towards Rebus. He'd worked on the cabs for twenty- odd years, but he'd never had a fare like this.
In fact, he was so excited, they were halfway there before he remembered to switch on the meter.
