'I've been reading those books she lent me. I think there may be something in it, George.' Rebus used the Christian name carefully, but Flight seemed to have no objections.
The coffee had, arrived. Flight poured and drank a cup of it, then smacked his lips. 'I don't,' he said.
'Don't what?'
'Don't think there's anything in all this 'psychology stuff. It's too much like guesswork and not enough like science. I like something tangible., A dental pathologist, now that's tangible. That's something — you can get -
'Your teeth into?' Rebus smiled. 'The pun's bad enough, but I don't agree anyway. When was the last time a pathologist gave you a precise time of death? They always hedge their bets.'
'But they deal in facts, in physical evidence, not in mumbo-jumbo.'
Rebus sat back. He was thinking of the character in a Dickens book, he'd read a long time ago, a schoolteacher who wanted facts and, nothing but. 'Come on, George,'; he said, 'this is the twentieth century.'
'That's right,' said Flight. 'And we don't believe in soothsayers any more.' He looked up again. 'Or, do we?'
Rebus paused to pour some coffee. He; felt his cheeks tingling. Probably, they were turning red. Arguments did that to him; even casual disagreements like this were sometimes enough. He was careful to make his next utterance in a soft, reasonable voice. -
'So what are you saying?'
'I'm saying policework is plodding, John.' (Still on first name terms, thought Rebus: that's good.) 'And shortcuts, seldom work. I'm saying don't let your Hampton do your thinking for you.' Rebus thought about. protesting, but realised he wasn't exactly sure what Flight meant. Flight smiled.
'Rhyming slang,'. he explained. 'Hampton Wick, prick. Or maybe it's dick. Anyway, I'm just warning you not to let a good looking woman interfere with your professional judgment.'
Rebus was still about to protest, but saw that there was little, point. Having, voiced his thoughts, Flight; seemed content. What's more, maybe he was right. Did Rebus want to see Lisa Frazer because of the case, or because she was Lisa Frazer? Still, he felt the need to defend her.
'Listen,' he said, 'like I say, I've been reading the books she gave me and there are some good things in them.' Flight looked unconvinced, goading Rebus into ploughing on. And as he fell for it, beginning to speak, he saw that Flight had played the same trick on him as he himself had played on the motorcycle messenger last night. Too late: he had to defend Lisa Frazer, and himself, even though everything he now said sounded stupid and half-baked to his own ears, never mind to Flight's.
'What we're dealing with is a man who hates women.' Flight looked at him in amazement, as though this were too obvious to need; saying. 'Or,' Rebus went on quickly, 'who has to take 'out his revenge on women because he's too weak, too scared to take it out on a man.' Flight admitted this possibility with a twitch of the head. 'A lot of so-called serial killers,' continued Rebus, his hand unconsciously grasping the butter-knife, 'are very conservative — small c very ambitious, but thwarted. They feel rejected from- the class immediately above 'them, and they target this group.'
'What? A prostitute, a shop assistant, an office worker? You're saying they're the same social group? You're saying the Wolfman's social group is lower than a tart's? Leave off, John.'
'It's just a general rule,' Rebus persisted, wishing he'd' never started this conversation. He twisted the knife in his hand. 'Mind you, one of the earliest serial killers was a French nobleman.' His voice fell away. Flight was looking impatient. 'All I'm saying is what's in those books. Some of it may make sense, it's just that we don't have enough on the Wolfman yet to allow us to see what sense it's all making.'
Flight finished another cup of coffee. 'Go on,' he said, without enthusiasm. 'What else do the books say?'
'Some serial killers crave publicity,' said Rebus. He paused, thinking of the killer who had taunted him five years ago, who had led them all a merry chase. 'If the Wolfman gets in touch with us, we've a better chance of catching him.'
'Perhaps. So what are you saying?'
'I'm saying we should set some snares and dig some pits. Get Inspector Farraday to pass on a few tidbits to the press all about how we suspect the Wolfman's gay, or a transvestite. It can be anything, so long as it jars his conservatism, and maybe it'll force him into the open.'
Rebus let go of the knife and waited for Flight's response. But Flight wasn't about to be rushed. He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. 'Not a bad idea that,' he said at last. 'But I'm willing, to bet you didn't get it from your books.'
Rebus shrugged. 'Maybe not exactly.'
'I thought not. Well, let's see what Cath says to it.' Flight rose from his chair. 'Meantime, on a less lofty plane of existence, I think I can take you straight to Tommy Watkiss. Come on. And by the way, thanks for breakfast.'
'My pleasure,' said Rebus. He could see Flight was unconvinced by his defence, such, as it had turned out to be, of psychology. But then was it Flight he was trying to convince, or himself? Was it Flight he was trying to impress, or Dr Lisa Frazer?
They were passing through the foyer now, Rebus carrying his briefcase. Flight turned to him.
'Do you,' he said, 'know why we're called the Old Bill?' Rebus shrugged, offering no answer. 'Some say it's because we're named after a certain London landmark. You can try guessing on the way there.' And with that Flight pushed hard at the rotating door which served as the hotel's entrance.
The Old Bailey was not quite what Rebus had expected. The famous dome was there, atop which blindfolded Justice held her scales, but a large part of the court complex was of much more modern design. Security was the keynote. X-ray machines, cubicle-style doors which allowed only one person at a time into the body of the building and security men everywhere. The windows were coated with adhesive tape so that any explosion would not send lethal shards of glass flying into the concourse. Inside, ushers (all of them women) dressed in flapping black cloaks ran around trying to gather up stray juries.
'Any jurors for court number four?'
'Jurors for court number twelve, please!'
All the time a PA system announced, the names of missing single jurors. It was the busy beginning of another judicial day. Witnesses smoked cigarettes, worried-looking barristers, weighed down by documents, held whispered dialogues with dull-eyed, clients, and. police officers waited nervously to give evidence.
'This is where we win or lose, John,' said Flight. Rebus couldn't be sure whether he was referring to the court rooms or to the concourse itself On floors above them were administrative, offices, robing rooms, restaurants. But this floor was where cases were held and decided. Through some doors to their left was the older, domed part of the Old Bailey, a darker, more forbidding place than this bright marbled. gallery.. The place echoed with the squealing of leather soled shoes, the clack-clack-clacking of heels on the solid floor and the constant murmur of conversation.
'Come on,' said Flight. He was leading them towards one of the courtrooms, where he had a word with the guard and one of the clerks before ushering Rebus into the court itself
If stone and black leather predominated in the concourse, then the courtroom belonged to wood panelling and' green leather. They sat on two chairs, just inside the door, joining DC Lamb, already seated there, unsmiling, arms folded. He did not greet them, but leaned across to whisper, 'We're going to nail the cunt', before stiffening into his former position.
On the other side of the room sat the twelve jurors, looking bored already, faces numb and unthinking. To the back of the court stood the defendant, hands resting on the rail in front of him, a man of about forty with short, wiry silver and black hair, his, face like something hewn from stone, his open-necked shirt a sign of arrogance. He had the dock to himself, there being no police officer, on guard.
Some distance in front of him, the lawyers sorted through their papers, watched by assistants and solicitors. The defence counsel was a thick-set and tired-looking man, his face grey (as was his hair), gnawing on a cheap ballpoint. The prosecutor, however, was much more confident looking, tall (if stout), dressed immaculately and with the glow of the righteous upon him:' His pen-was an intricate fountain affair and he wrote with a flourish, his mouth set as defiantly as any Churchill impersonator. He reminded Rebus of how television liked to think of QCs, Rumpole aside.
