the better. Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. We'll have a guard on you.'
'What about her flat?' asked Rebus.
Flight nodded. 'I've got two men there keeping an eye on the place. One inside the flat itself, the other outside, both of them hidden. If the Wolfman turns up, they'll cope with him, believe me.'
'Stop talking as though I'm not here,' Lisa snapped. 'This affects me too.'
There was a cold silence in the room.
'Sorry,' she said. She covered her eyes with her ringless left hand. 'I just can't believe I was so scared back there. I feel — '
She tipped her head back again. The tears were too precious to be released. Flight placed a hand softly on her shoulder.
'It's all right, Dr Frazer. Really it is.' She gave a wry smile at this.
Flight kept on talking, feeding her with comforting words. But she wasn't listening. She was staring at Rebus, and he was staring back at her. Rebus knew what her eyes were telling him. They were telling him something of the utmost importance.'
Catch the Wolfman, catch him quickly and destroy him utterly. Do it for me, John. But just do it.
She blinked, breaking the contact. Rebus nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. She smiled at him, and suddenly her eyes were dry sparkling stones. Flight felt the change and lifted his hand away from her arm. He looked to Rebus for some explanation, but Rebus was studying the letter, concentrating on its opening sentence. What was it? There was, something there, something just beyond his line of vision. Something he didn't get.
Yet.
Two detectives, one of them extraordinarily burly, like the prop-forward from a rugby team, the other tall and thin and silent, came to the labs to take Lisa away with them, away to a place of safety. Despite vigorous protests, Rebus wasn't allowed to know the destination. Flight was taking all of this very seriously indeed. But before Lisa could go, the lab people needed her fingerprints and to take samples of fibres from her clothes, all for the purpose of elimination. The two bodyguards went with her.
Rebus and Flight, exhausted, stood together at the drinks machine in the long, brightly-lit hallway, feeding in coins for cups of powdery coffee and powdery tea.
'Are you married, George?'
Flight seemed surprised by the question, surprised perhaps that it should come only now. 'Yes,' he said. 'Have been the past twelve years. Marion. She's the second. The first was a disaster — my fault, not hers.'
Rebus nodded, taking hold of the hot plastic beaker by its rim.
'You said you'd been married, too,' Flight remarked.
Rebus nodded again.
'That's right.'
'So what happened?'
'I'm not really sure any more. Rhona used to say it was like the continental drift: so slow we didn't notice until it was too late. Her on one island, me on another, and a great big bloody sea between us.'
Flight smiled. 'Well, you did say she was a teacher.' 'Yes, she still is actually. Lives in Mile End with my daughter.'
'Mile End? Bloody hell. Gentrified gangland, no place for any copper's daughter.'
Rebus smiled at the irony. It was time to confess.
'Actually, George, I've found out she's going out with someone called Kenny Watkiss.'
'Oh dear. Who is? Your missus or your daughter?' 'My daughter. Her name's Samantha.'
'And she's going out with Kenny Watkiss? How old is he?'
'Older than her. Eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He's a bike messenger in the City.'
Flight nodded, understanding now. 'He was the one who shouted from the public gallery?' Flight thought for a moment. 'Well, from what I know of the Watkiss family history, I'd say Kenny must be Tommy's nephew. Tommy's got a brother, Lenny, he's doing time just now. Lenny's a big softie, not like Tommy. He's in for fraud, tax evasion, clocking cars, naughty kites, I mean bad cheques. It's all fourth division stuff, but it mounts up, and when there's enough of it against you at any one sitting of the bench, well, it's odds on you'll go inside, isn't it?'
'It's no different in Scotland.'
'No, I don't suppose it is. So, do you want me to find out what I can about this bike messenger?'
'I already know where he stays. Churchill Estate, it's a housing estate in — '
Flight was chuckling. 'You don't have to tell any copper in Greater London where Churchill Estate is, John. They use that place to train the SAS.'
'Yes,' said Rebus, 'so Laine said.'
'Laine? What's he got to do with it?'
In for a penny, thought Rebus. 'I had Kenny's telephone number. I needed an address.'
'And Laine got it for you? What did you tell him it was for?'
'The Wolfman case.'
Flight flinched, his face creasing. 'You keep forgetting, John, you're our guest down here. You don't go pulling stunts like that. When Laine finds out — ' 'If he finds out.'
But Flight was shaking his head. 'When he finds out. There's no 'if' about it, believe me. When he finds out, he won't bother with you. He won't even bother with who's directly above you. He'll go to your Chief Super back in Edinburgh and give him the most incredible verbals. I've seen him do it.'
Do as good job, John. Remember, you're representing our force down there.
Rebus blew on the coffee. The notion of anyone giving 'verbals' to Farmer Watson was almost amusing. 'I always did fancy getting back into uniform,' he said.
Flight stared at him. The fun was over. 'There are some rules, John. We can get away with breaking a few, but some are sacrosanct, carved into stone by God Almighty. And one of them states that you 'don't muck around with someone like Laine just to satisfy your own personal curiosity.' Flight was angry, and trying to make a point, but he was also whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.
Rebus, not really caring any more, was half-smiling as he whispered back. 'So what do I do? Tell him the truth? Oh hello there, Chief Inspector, my daughter's winching with someone I don't like. Can I have the young man's address, please, so I can go and belt him? Is that how I do it?'
Flight paused, then frowned. 'Winching?'
Now he too was smiling, though trying hard not to show it. Rebus laughed aloud.
'It means dating,' he said. 'Next you'll be telling me you don't know what hoolit means.'
'Try me,' said Flight, laughing too.
'Drunk,' explained Rebus.
They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment: Rebus thanked God for the linguistic barrier. between them, for without it there would be no easy jokes, jokes which broke the tension. There were two ways to defuse tension one was to laugh it away, the other was to resort to physical action. It was laugh or lash out. Once or twice now they had come near to trading punches, but had ended up trading grins instead.
Praise be for the gift of laughter.
'Anyway, I went to Hackney last night looking for Kenny Watkiss.'
'And you got those for your pains?' Flight was nodding towards the bruises. Rebus shrugged. 'Serves you right. Someone once told me hackney's French for a nag. Doesn't sound French, does it? But I suppose it would explain the hackney carriage.'
Hackney, Nag. That horse in the British Museum, no bite: Rebus had to talk to Morrison about the bite marks.
Flight finished his drink first, draining the cup and tossing it into a bin beside the machine: He checked his watch.
'I better find a phone,' he said. 'See what's happening back at base. Maybe Lamb will have found something on that Crawford woman.'
'That Crawford woman?' is a victim, George. Stop making her sound like a criminal.'
