And so it went. There seemed no connection between the victims, no real geographical link other than that, as Flight pointed out, all the killings had been committed north of the river, by which he meant north of the Thames. What did a prostitute, an office manageress and the assistant in an off-licence have in common? Rebus was damned if he knew.
The third murder had taken place much further west in North Kensington. The body had been found beside a railway line and Transport Police had handled the investigation initially. The body was that of Shelley Richards, forty-one years old, unmarried and unemployed. She was the only coloured victim so far. As they drove through Notting Hill, Ladbroke Grove and North Ken (as Flight termed it) Rebus was intrigued by the scheme of things. A street of extraordinarily grand houses would suddenly give way to a squalid, rubbish-strewn road with boarded-up windows sand bench-bound tramps, the wealthy and the poor living almost cheek by jowl. It would never happen in Edinburgh; in Edinburgh, certain boundaries were observed. But this, this was incredible. As Flight put it, 'race riots-one side, diplomats the other'.
The spot where Shelley Richards had died was the loneliest, the most pathetic so far. Rebus clambered down from the railway line, down the embankment, lowered himself over the brick wall and dropped to, the ground. His trousers were smeared with green moss. He brushed them with his hands, but to little effect. Too get to the car where Flight was waiting he had to walk under, a railway bridge. His footsteps echoed: as he tried to avoid the pools of water and the rubbish, and then he stopped, listening. There was a noise all around him, a sort of wheezing, as if the bridge itself were drawing its dying breath. He looked up and saw the dark outlines of pigeons, still against the supporting girders. Cooing softly. That was what he could hear, not wheezing at all. There was a sudden rumble of thunder as a train passed overhead and the pigeons took to the wing, flapping around his head. He shivered and walked back out into sunlight.
Then, finally, it was back to the Murder Room. This was, in fact, a series of rooms covering most of the top floor of the building. Rebus reckoned there to be about twenty men and women working flat out when Flight and he entered the largest of the rooms. There was little to differentiate the scene from that of any murder investigation anywhere in the country. Officers were busy on telephones or working at computer terminals. Clerical staff moved from desk to desk with seemingly endless sheafs of paper. A photocopier was spewing out more paper in a corner of the room and two delivery-men were wheeling a new five-drawer filing cabinet into position beside the three which already stood against one wall. On another wall was a — detailed street map of London, with the murder sites pinpointed. Coloured tapes ran from these sites to spaces on the wall where pictures, details and notes had: been pinned. A duty roster and progress chart took up what space was left. All very efficient, but the faces told Rebus their own story: everyone here, working hard as they were, was waiting for the Lucky Break.
Flight was immediately in tune with the glaze of efficiency in the office, firing off questions. How did the meeting go? Any word from Lambeth? (He explained to Rebus that the police lab was based there.) Any news on last night? What about house-to-house? Well, does anyone know anything?
There were shrugs and shakes of the head. They were simply going through the motions, waiting for that Lucky Break. But what if it didn't come? Rebus had an answer to that: you made your own luck.
A smaller room off this main office was being used as a communications centre, keeping the Murder Room in touch with the investigation, and off this room were two smaller offices yet, each crammed with three desks. This was where the senior detectives worked. Both were empty.
'Sit down,' Flight said. He picked up the telephone on his desk, and dialled. While he waited for an answer, he surveyed with a frown the four-inch high pile of paper which had appeared in his in-tray during the morning. 'Hello, Gino?' he said into the mouthpiece. 'George Flight here. Can I ' order some sandwiches? Salami salad:' He looked to Rebus for confirmation that this would be acceptable. 'On brown bread, please, Gino. Better make it four rounds. Thanks.' He cut the connection and dialled again. Only two numbers this time: an internal call. 'Gino has a cafe round the corner,'' he explained to Rebus. 'He makes great sandwiches, and he delivers.' Then: 'Oh, hello. Inspector Flight here. Can we have some tea? A decent sized pot should do it. We're in the office. Is it wet milk today or that powdered crap? Great, thanks.' He dropped, the receiver back into its cradle and spread his hands, as if some feat of magic had just been performed. 'This is your lucky day, John. We've got real milk for a change.'
'So what now?'
Flight shrugged, then slapped a hand on the bulging intray. 'You could always read through this little lot, keep yourself up-to-date with the investigation.'.
'Reading about it isn't going to do any good.'
'On the contrary,' said Flight, 'it helps you answer any awkward, questions that may be asked by those on high. How tall was the victim? What colour was her hair? Who found her? It's all in there.'
'She was five feet seven and her hair was brown. As to who found her, I don't give a tinker's cuss.' -
Flight laughed, but Rebus was being serious. 'Murderers don't just appear,' he continued. 'They're created. To create a serial killer, takes time. It's taken; this guy years to make himself what he is. What's he been doing during that time? He may well be a loner, but he's probably got a job, maybe even a wife and kids. Somebody must know something. Maybe his wife wonders where he goes at night, or how blood got onto the, tips, of his shoes, or where her kitchen knife disappeared to.'
'All right, John.'-Flight spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of peace-making. Rebus realised that his voice had been getting.louder.. 'Calm down a little. For a start, when you go on like that, I can hardly make out a word you're saying, but I get your point. So what are we supposed to do?'
'Publicity. We need the public's help.; We need anything they've got.'
'We already get dozens of calls a day., Anonymous tipoffs, nutters who want to confess, people snitching on their next door neighbour, people with grudges, maybe even a few with genuine suspicions. We check them all out. And we've got the media on our side. The Chief Super will be interviewed a dozen times today. Newspapers, magazines, radio, TV. We give them what we can, and we tell them to spread the word. We've got the best bloody Liaison Officer in the country working round the clock to make sure the public knows what we're dealing with here.'
There was a knock on the already open door and a WPC carried a tray into the room and left it on Flight's desk. 'I'll be mother, shall IF he said, already starting to pour the tea into two plain white mugs.
'What's the Liaison Officer's name?' Rebus asked. He knew a Liaison Officer himself. She too, was the best there was. But she wasn't in London; she was back in Edinburgh
'Cath Farraday,' said Flight. 'Detective Inspector Cath Farraday.' He sniffed, the milk carton, before pouring a dollop into his tea. 'If you stick around long enough, you'll get to meet her. She's a bit of a cracker is our Cath. Mind you, if she heard me talking about her like that, she'd have my head on a plate.' Flight chuckled.