sent, just where the body had been found.
'It was there.' Flight was pointing to a gate in the iron railings. Ah yes; Rebus remembered now. Not at street level, but down some stone steps leading to a basement. The victim had been found at the bottom of the steps, same modus operandi as last night, down to the bite marks on the stomach. Rebus opened his briefcase and brought out the manila folder, opening it at the sheet he needed.
'Maria Watkiss, age thirty-eight. Occupation: prostitute. Body found on Tuesday 16th January by council workmen. Estimated that victim had been murdered two to three days prior to being discovered. Rudimentary attempt had been made to conceal body.'
Flight nodded towards one of the impaled bin-liners. 'He emptied a bag of rubbish out over her. It pretty well covered the body. The rats alerted the workmen.'
'Rats?'
'Dozens of them, from all accounts. They'd had a bloody good feed, had those rats.'
Rebus was standing at the top of the steps. 'We reckon,' said Flight, 'the Wolfman must have paid her for a kneetrembler and, brought her down here. Or maybe, she brought him. She worked out of a pub on Old Street. It's a five minute walk. We interviewed the regulars, but nobody saw her leave with anyone.'
'Maybe he was in a car?'
'It's more than possible. Judging by the physical distance between the murder sites, he must' be pretty mobile.'
'It says in the report that she was married.'
'That's right. Her old man, Tommy, he knew she was on the game. It didn't bother him, so long as she handed over the cash.'
'And he didn't report her missing?'
Flight wrinkled his nose. 'Not Tommy. He was on a bender at the time, practically comatose with drink when we went to see him. He said later that Maria often disappeared for a few days, told us she used to go off to the seaside with one or two of her regular johns'
'I don't suppose you've been able to find these … clients?)
'Leave it out.' Flight laughed as though this were the best joke he'd heard all week. 'For the record; Tommy thought one of them might be called Bill or Will. Does that help?'
'It narrows things down,' Rebus said with a smile.
'In any event,' said Flight, 'I doubt Tommy would have come to us for help if she hadn't come back. He's got form as long as your inside leg. To tell you the truth, he was our first suspect.'
'It follows.' Every policeman knew it as a universal truth: most murders happen in the family.
'A couple of years back,' Flight was saying, 'Maria was beaten up pretty badly. A hospital case, in fact. Tommy's doing. She'd been seeing another man and he hadn't been paying for it, if you understand my meaning. And a 'couple of years before that, Tommy served time for aggravated assault. It would have been rape if we could have got the woman into the witness box, but she was scared seven colours shitless. There were witnesses, but we were never going to pin rape on him. So aggravated assault it was. He got eight months.'
'A violent man then.'
'You could say that.'
'With a record of particular violence against women.'
Flight nodded. 'It looked good at first. We thought we could pin Maria's murder on him and make it stick. But nothing added up. He had an alibi for openers. Then there were the bite marks: not his size, according to the dentist.'
'You mean Dr Morrison?'
'Yes, that's right. 'I call him the dentist to annoy Philip.' Flight scratched at his chin. The elbow of his leather jacket gave a creak. 'Anyway, nothing added up. And then when the second murder came along, well, we knew we were working in a different league from Tommy.'
'You're absolutely sure of that?'
'John, I'm not absolutely sure what colour of socks I've put on in the morning, I'm sometimes not even sure that I've put socks on at all. But I'm fairly sure this isn't Tommy Watkiss's work. He gets his kicks from watching Arsenal, not mutilating dead women.'
Rebus's eyes had not left Flight's. 'Your socks are blue,' he said. Flight looked down, saw that this was indeed the case, and smiled broadly.
'They're also different shades,' Rebus added.
'Bloody hell, so they are.'
'I'd still like to talk to Mr Watkiss,' Rebus continued. 'No hurry, and if it's all right with you.'
Flight shrugged.' 'Whatever you say, Sherlock. Now, shall we get out of this shit-hole, or is there anything else you want to see?'
'No,' said Rebus. 'Let's get out of here.' They started back towards the mouth of the cul-de-sac, where Flight's car waited. 'What's this part of-town-called again?''
'Shoreditch. Remember your nursery rhymes? 'When I am rich, say the bells of Shoreditch'.'
Yes, Rebus — had a vague memory. A memory of his mother, holding him on her knee, or maybe it was his father, singing him songs' and bouncing the knee in time. It had never happened that way, but he had a memory of it all the same. They were at the end of the cul-de-sac now. A larger road flowed past, busy with daytime traffic. The buildings were black with grime, windows thick with the stuff. Offices of some kind, warehouses. No shops, save one selling professional kitchenware. No houses or even flats in the upper storeys by the look of it. No one to hear a muffled scream at the dead of night. No one to see, from an unwashed window, the killer slinking away, dappled with blood.
Rebus stared back into the cul-de-sac, then up at the corner of the first building, where a barely legible plaque bore the cul-de-sac's name: Wolf Street El.
This was the reason why the police had come to call the killer Wolfman. Nothing to do with the savagery of his attacks, or the teeth marks he left at the scene, but simply because, as Flight had said, this was so far as they could know his place of birth, the place where he had defined himself for the very first time. He was the Wolfman: He could be anywhere, but that was relatively unimportant. What was more important was that he could be anyone, anyone at all in this city of ten million faces, ten million secret lairs.
'Where next?' he said, opening the passenger door. 'Kilmore Road,' said Flight. He exchanged a glance with Rebus, acknowledging the irony.
'Kilmore Road it is,' said Rebus, getting into the car.
The day had started early. Rebus, waking after three hours sleep and unable to drop off again, switched on the radio in his room and listened to the morning news programme as he dressed. Not knowing exactly what the day would bring, he dressed casually: caramel cord trousers, light jacket; shirt. No tweeds or tie today. He wanted a bath, but the facilities on his floor of the hotel were locked. He would have to ask in reception. Near the stairs there stood an automatic shoeshine machine. He polished the toes of both well-worn black shoes before starting down to breakfast.
The restaurant area was busy, most of the customers looking like businessmen or tourists. The day's newspapers had been arranged across one vacant table and Rebus lifted a Guardian before being directed to a table laid for one by the harassed waitress.
Breakfast was mainly help yourself, with juices, cereals and fruit crammed onto a large central display. A pot of coffee appeared, unasked for, on his table, as did a toast-rack filled with cool half. slices of lightly tanned bread. Not so much toasted as wafted in front of a lightbulb, Rebus thought to himself as he smeared a portion of butter across one pitiful triangle.
The Full English Breakfast consisted of one slice of bacon, one warm tomato (from a tin), three small mushrooms, a sickly egg and a curious little sausage. Rebus wolfed down the lot. The coffee wasn't quite strong enough, but he finished the pot anyway and asked for a refill. All the time he was flicking through the paper, but only on a second examination did he find anything about the previous night's murder: a short, bare-bones paragraph near the foot of page four.
Bare bones. He looked around him. An embarrassed looking couple were trying to hush their two vociferous children. Don't, thought Rebus, don't stifle them, let them live. Who could know what might happen tomorrow? They might be killed. The parents might be killed. His own daughter was here in London somewhere, living in a flat
