Rebus had told Flight as much as he could, trying not to sound hysterical. Flight sounded dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to send men to the Old Bailey. Rebus didn't blame George Flight for being wary. Hard to justify arresting a pillar of society on the strength of a gut feeling. Rebus remembered what else Lisa Frazer had said about serial killers: that they were products of their environments; that their ambitions had been thwarted, leading them to kin members of the social group above them. Well, that certainly wasn't true in Malcolm Chambers's case, was it? And what had she said about the Wolfman? His attacks were 'non-confrontational', so perhaps he was like that in his working life. Hah! So much for theory. But now Rebus began to doubt his own instincts. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if the theory was right? He was going to look more than a little psychologically disturbed himself.
Then he recalled something George Flight had said. You could build up as neat a picture as you liked of the killer, but it wouldn't give you a name and address. Psychology was all well and good, but you couldn't beat a good old fashioned hunch.
`Nearly there, guv.'
Rebus tried to keep his breathing regular. Be calm, John, be calm. However, there were no police cars waiting by the entrance to the Old Bailey. No sirens and armed officers, just people milling around, people finishing work for the day, people sharing a joke. Rebus left the cab driver unpaid and untipped—`I'll settle later'—and pushed open the heavy glass door. Behind more bulletproof glass stood two security personnel. Rebus stuck his ID in front of their noses. One of them pointed towards the two vertical glass cylinders by which people were admitted to the building one at a time. Rebus went to one cylinder and waited. Nothing happened. Then he remembered, pushed the heel of his hand against the button and the cylinder door opened. He walked in. and waited for what seemed an eternity while the door slid shut behind him, before the door in front slid just as slowly open.
Another guard stood beside the metal-detection equipment. Rebus, still holding open, his ID, walked quickly past until he found himself behind the bulletproof glass of the reception area.
`Can, I help?' said one of the security men.
`Malcolm Chambers,' said Rebus. `He's a barrister. I need to see him urgently.'
`Mr Chambers? Hold on, I'll just check.'
`I don't want him to know I'm here,' Rebus warned. `I just want to know where I can find him.'
`Just one moment.' The guard moved off, consulting with one of his companions, then slowly going through a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. Rebus's heart was pounding. He felt like he was about to explode. He couldn't just stand here. He had to do something. Patience, John. Less haste, more speed, as his father had always said. But what the hell did that mean anyway? Surely haste was a kind of speed?
The guard was coming back.
`Yes, Inspector. Mr Chambers has a young lady with him at present. I'm told they're sitting together upstairs.'
Upstairs meant the concourse outside the courtrooms. Rebus flew up the imposing flight of steps two at a time. Marble. There was a lot of marble around him. And wood. And glass. The windows seemed huge. Bewigged counsels came down a spiral staircase, deep in conversation. A frayed-looking woman smoked a cheap cigarette as she waited for someone. It was a quiet pandemonium. People were moving past Rebus, moving in the opposite direction from him. Juries, finished for the day. Solicitors and guilty-looking clients. The woman rose to greet her son. The son's solicitor had a bored, drawn look. The concourse was emptying rapidly, the stairs taking people down to more glass cylinders and to the outside world.
About thirty yards from where Rebus stood, the two men were sitting, legs crossed, enjoying a cigarette. The two men Flight had sent with Lisa. Her bodyguards. Rebus ran to them.
`Where is she?'
They recognised him, seemed to realise immediately that something was wrong, and rose' to their feet. `She's interviewing some barrister—’
`Yes, but where?'
The man nodded towards one of the courtrooms. Court Eight! Of course: hadn't Cousins been due to give evidence in Court Eight? And wasn't Malcolm Chambers the prosecuting counsel?
Rebus pushed through the doors into the courtroom, but, cleaners apart, it was completely empty. There had to be another exit. Of course there was the green padded door to the side of the jury-box. The door leading to the judges rooms. He ran across the court and up the steps to the door, pulling it open, finding himself in a bright carpeted corridor. A window, flowers in a pot on a table. A narrow corridor, doors only on one side, the other wall a blank. Judges' names above the doors. The doors themselves locked. There was a tiny kitchenette, but it too was empty. One door eventually, gave, and he peered into ay jury room. Empty. Back into the corridor again, hissing now with frustration. A court usher, cradling a mug of tea, was coming towards him.
`No one's allowed—'
'Inspector Rebus,' he said. `I'm looking for an advocate . . . I mean, a barrister. Malcolm Chambers. He was here with a young woman.'
`They've just left.'
`Left?'
She gestured along towards the far end of the corridor. `It leads to the underground car park. That's where they were headed.' Rebus made to squeeze past her. `You won't catch them now,' she said. `Not unless they're having trouble with the car.'
Rebus thought about it, gnawing at his bottom lip. There wasn't time. His first decision had to be the right one. Decision made, he turned from the usher, and ran back towards the court, back across the court itself and out into the concourse.
`They've gone!' he yelled to the bodyguards. `Tell Flight! Tell him they're in Chambers's car!' And then he was off again, down the steps towards the exit, pausing only to grab at a security man's sleeve. `The car park exit, where is it?'
`Round the other side of the building.’
