'Luck of the fucking Irish,' he spat.
'Tommy's no more Irish than you are, Lamb,' Flight said phlegmatically.
'What was the charge?' Rebus asked, his mind still confused by the newspaper story, by Kenny's presence in this place and by his actions. The judge was leaving by a green padded-leather door to the side of the jury box.
'The usual,' said Lamb, calming quickly. 'Rape. When his old woman snuffed it, he needed somebody else on the game. So he tried to “persuade" a girl on his street that she could make a few bob: When that didn't work, he lost his rag and had a go at her. Bastard. We'll get him at the retrial. I still think he did for his old woman.'
'Then find the evidence,' said Flight. 'Meantime, I can think of a. certain Police Constable who needs a good kick up the arse.'
'Yeah,' said Lamb. He was — grinning evilly at the thought, then took the hint and 'left the courtroom in search of the unfortunate PC Mills.
'Inspector Flight.' It, was the prosecuting counsel, striding briskly towards them with documents and books cradled in his left arm, his right arm outstretched. Flight took the well-groomed hand and shook it.
'Hello, Mr Chambers. This is Inspector Rebus. He's come down from Scotland to help us on the Wolfman investigation.
Chambers looked interested. 'Ah, yes, the Wolfman. I look forward to prosecuting that particular case.'
'I just hope we can give you the opportunity,' said Rebus.
'Well,' said Chambers, 'meanwhile it's tricky enough landing the little fish like our friend.' He glanced back in the direction of the dock; which now stood empty. 'But we try,' he said with a sigh, 'we try.' Then, he paused, and added in an undertone, directed' at Flight: 'Get this, George, I don't like being royally shafted by my own team. Okay?'
Flight blushed. Chambers had dressed him down in a way no Superintendent or Chief Constable could ever have done, — and he knew — it. 'Good day, gentlemen,' he said, moving away, 'and good luck, Inspector Rebus.'
'Thanks,'' Rebus called to the retreating figure. Flight watched as Chambers pushed open the doors of the court, the tail of his wig flicking from side to side, robes flapping behind him When the doors were closed, Flight chuckled.
'Arrogant prick. But he's' the best there is.'
Rebus was beginning to wonder if anyone in London was second-rate. He'd been introduced to the 'top' pathologist, the 'best' prosecuting counsel, the 'crack' forensic team, the 'finest' police divers. Was it part of the city's own arrogance?
'I thought the best lawyers all went in for commercial work these days,' Rebus said.
'Not necessarily. It's only the really greedy bastards who go in for City work. Besides, this sort of stuff is like a drug to Chambers and his ilk. They're actors, bloody good ones at that.'
Yes, Rebus had known a few Oscar-winning advocates in his, time, and had lost a few cases more to their technique than to the strength of their defence. They might earn a quarter of the riches earned by their brothers in the commercial sector,' might take home a scant?50,000 each year, but they endured for the sake of their public.
Flight was moving towards the doors. 'What's more,' he said, 'Chambers studied for a time in the USA. They train them to be actors over there. They also train them to be hard-nosed bastards. I'm told he came out top of his class. That's why we like having him on our side:' Flight paused, 'Do you still want a word with Tommy?'
Rebus shrugged. 'Why not?'
Out in the concourse, Watkiss was standing by one of the large windows, relishing a cigarette and listening to his solicitor'. Then the two men started to walk away.
'Tell* you what,' said Rebus, 'I've changed my mind. Let's skip Watkiss for the moment.'
'Okay,' said Flight. 'You're the expert after all.' He saw the sour look on Rebus's face and laughed. 'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'I know you're no expert.'
'That's very reassuring, George,' Rebus said without conviction. He stared after Watkiss, thinking: And I'm not the only one leaving court without conviction.
Flight laughed again, but behind his smile he was still more than a little curious about Rebus's action in the courtroom, walking out into the court like that to peer up at the public gallery. But if Rebus didn't want to talk about it, then that was his privilege. Flight could bide his time. 'So what now?' he asked. -
Rebus was rubbing his jaw. 'My dental appointment,' he said.
Anthony Morrison, who insisted that they call him Tony, was much younger than Rebus had been anticipating. No more than thirty-five, he had an, underdeveloped body, so that his adult head seemed to have outgrown the rest of him. Rebus was aware that he was staring at Morrison with more than common. interest. The scrubbed and shiny face, the tufts of bristle on chin and cheekbone where a razor had failed to fulfil its duties, the trimmed hair and keening eyes in the street, he would have taken Morrison for a sixth-year pupil.. Certainly, for a pathologist, albeit a dental pathologist, the man was in stark contrast to Philip Cousins.
On learning that Rebus was Scottish, Morrison had started on about the debt modern-day pathology owed to the Scots, 'men like Glaister and Littlejohn and Sir Sydney Smith' though the latter, Morrison had to admit, had been born in the Antipodes. He then said that his own father had been a Scotsman, a surgeon, and asked if Rebus knew that the, earliest British Chair of Forensic Medicine had been founded in Edinburgh. Rebus, swept away by the welter of facts, said that this was news to him.
Morrison showed them into his office with an enthusiastic bounce to his walk: Once inside, however, the dentist's demeanour changed from social to professional.
'He's been busy, again,' he said without preamble, leading them to the wall behind his desk, where several ten by eight colour and black and white photographs had been pinned. They showed precise close-ups of the bite marks left on Jean Cooper's stomach. Arrows had been drawn in, leading from particular spots on certain photographs out to where pinned notes gave Morrison's technical summary of his findings.
'I know what to look for now, of course,' he said, 'so it didn't take long to establish that, these are probably the same teeth used in the previous attacks. A pattern is also emerging, however, perhaps a disturbing one.' He went to his desk and returned with more photographs. 'These are from victim number one. You'll notice that the indents left by the teeth are less marked. They grow a little more marked by victims two and three. And now ' he pointed to, the current crop of pictures.
'They've got even deeper,' Rebus answered. Morrison beamed at him.
'Quite right.!
'So he's becoming more violent.'
'If you can term an attack made on someone who's already dead "violent", then yes, Inspector Rebus,' he's getting more violent, or perhaps more unstable would be a better way of phrasing it.' Rebus and Flight exchanged a glance. 'Apart from the change in the relative depth of the bite marks, there's little I can add to my, previous findings. The teeth are quite likely to be prosthetic
Rebus interrupted. 'You mean false?' Morrison nodded.' 'How can you tell?'
Morrison beamed again. The prodigy who liked to show off in front of his teachers. 'How can I best explain this to a layman?' He seemed to consider his own question for a moment: 'Well, one's own teeth — your own, for example, Inspector Rebus — and by the way, you should get them seen to — they get a little ragged over time. The cutting edge gets chipped and worn. The edge on false teeth is more likely to be smoother, more rounded. Less of an edge to the front teeth especially, and less chips and cracks.'