'Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, 'they said you might drop by.'
'Never one to miss a good corpse,' Rebus replied drily. Cousins, stooping over the body, looked up at him.
'Quite.'
The smell was there, clogging up Rebus's nostrils and lungs: Some people couldn't smell it, but he always could. It was strong and salty, rich, clotting, cloying. It smelt like nothing else on earth. And behind it lurked another smell, more bland, like tallow, candle-wax, cold water. The two contrasting smells of life and death.' Rebus was willing to bet that Cousins could smell it, but he doubted Isobel Penny could.
A middle-aged woman lay on the floor, an ungainly twist of legs and arms. Her throat had been cut. There were signs of a struggle, ornaments shattered and knocked from their perches, bloody handprints smeared across one wall. Cousins stood up and sighed.
'Very clumsy,' he said. He glanced towards, Isobel Penny, who was sketching on her notepad. 'Penny,' he said, 'you look quite delightful this evening. Have I told you?'
She smiled again, blushed, but said nothing. Cousins turned to Rebus, ignoring Lisa Frazer's silent presence. 'It's a copycat,' he said with another sigh, 'but a copycat of little wit or talent. He's obviously read the descriptions in the newspapers, which have been detailed but inaccurate. I'd say it was an interrupted burglary. He panicked, went for his knife, and realised that if he made it look like our friend the Wolfman then he might just get away with it.' He looked down at the corpse again. 'Not terribly clever. I suppose the vultures have gathered?'
Rebus nodded. 'When I came in there were about a dozen reporters outside. Probably double that by now. We know what they want to hear, don't we?'
'I fear, they are going to be disappointed.' Cousins checked his watch. 'Not worth going back to dinner. We've probably missed the port and cheese. Damned fine table, too. Such a pity.' He waved his hand in the direction of the body. 'Anything you'd like to see? Or shall we wrap this one up, as it were?'
Rebus smiled. The humour was as dark as the suit, but any humour was welcome. The smell in the air had been distilled now to that of raw steak and brown sauce. He shook his head. There was nothing more to be done in here. But outside, outside he was about to create an outrage. Flight would hate him for it, in fact everybody would hate him for it. But hate was fine. Hate was an emotion, and without emotion, what — else was left? Lisa had already staggered, out into the tiny hallway, where a police officer was trying awkwardly to comfort her. As Rebus came out of the room, she shook her head and straightened up.
'I'm fine,' she said:
'The first one always hits you hard,' said Rebus. 'Come on, I'm going to try out a spot of psychology on the Wolfman.'
The huddle of reporters and cameramen had become a sizeable crowd, now including the interested and the curious amateurs. The line of uniformed policemen had locked arms in a small but unbreakable chain. The questions began: Over here! Can we ask you who you are? You were at the canal, weren't you? A statement, Anything to say — Wolfman Is it The Wolfman? Is it — Just a few words if -
Rebus had walked to within a few inches of them, Lisa by his side. One of the reporters had leaned close to Lisa, asking for her name.
'Lisa, Lisa Frazer.'
'Are you working on the case, Lisa?'
'I'm a psychologist.'
Rebus cleared his throat noisily. The reporters were like mongrels in a dogs' home, calming quickly when they realised it was their turn at last for the feeding bowl. He raised his arms, and they fell quiet.
'A short statement, gentlemen,' said Rebus.
'Can we just ask who you are first?'
But Rebus shook his head. It didn't matter, did it? They would know soon enough. How many Scottish coppers were working on Wolfman? Flight would know, Cath Farraday would know and the journalists would find out. That didn't matter. Then' one of them, unable to hold back, asked the question.
'Have you caught him?' Rebus tried to catch the man's eye, but every eye was silently asking the same thing. 'Is it the Wolfman?'
And this time Rebus nodded. 'Yes,' he said emphatically. 'It's the Wolfman. We've caught him.' Lisa looked at him in dumb surprise.
More questions, yelled now, screeched, but the chain in front of them would not break and somehow they, did not think simply to walk around it. Rebus had turned away and saw Cousins and Isobel. Penny standing just outside the door of the house, rigid, unable to believe what they had just heard. He winked at them and walked with Lisa to where his cab still waited. The driver folded his evening paper and, stuck it down the side of his seat.
'You fairly got them going, guv. What did you say?'
'Nothing much,' said Rebus, settling back in his seat and smiling towards Lisa Frazer. 'Just a few fibs.'
'Fibs!'
So this was what Flight looked like when he was angry. 'Fibs!'
He seemed unable to believe what, he was hearing. 'You call that a few fibs? Cath Farraday's going apeshit trying to calm those bastards down. They're like fucking animals. Half of them are. ready to go to print on this! And you call it "fibs"? You're off your trolley, Rebus.'
So it was back to 'Rebus', was it? Well then, so be it. Rebus remembered that they'd promised they'd have dinner together this evening, but somehow he doubted the invitation still stood;
George Flight had been interviewing the murderer. His cheeks were veined with blood, his tie unknotted and hanging loose around his half unbuttoned shirt. He paced what floor, there was in the small office. Rebus knew that outside the closed door people were listening in a mixture of fear and amusement: fear at Flight's anger, amusement that Rebus was its sole recipient.
'You're the fucking limit.' Flight's anger' had peaked; his voice had dropped by half a decibel. 'What gives you the right —?’
Rebus slapped the desk with his hand. He'd had enough of this. 'I'll tell you what gives me the right, George. The mere fact of the Wolfman gives me the right to do anything I think best.'
. 'Best!' Flight sounded freshly outraged. 'Now I've heard it all. Giving the papers a, crock of shit like that is supposed to be "best"? By Christ, I'd hate, to see your idea of "worst".'
Rebus's voice was every bit the equal of Flight's now, and rising. 'He's out there somewhere and he's laughing his head off at us. Because he seems to know how we'll play every round, he's knocking hell out of us.' Rebus grew quiet: Flight was listening now, and that was what he wanted. 'We need to get him riled, get him to lift his head over the trench he's hiding in so he can see what the fuck is going on. We need him angry, George. Not angry at the world. Angry at us. Because when he raises his head, we'll be ready to bite it off.
'We've already accused him of being everything from gay to a cannibal from Pluto. Now we're telling everyone he's been caught.' Rebus was reaching his point, his defence. He lowered his voice still further. 'I don't think he'll be able to take that, George. Really I don't. I think he'll have to make contact. Maybe with the papers, maybe directly with us. Just to let us know.'
'Or kill again,' countered Flight. 'That would let us know.'
Rebus shook his head. 'If he kills again, we keep it quiet. Total media blackout. He gets no publicity. Everybody still thinks he's been caught. Sooner or later, he'll have to show himself.'
Rebus was completely calm now, and so was Flight. Flight rubbed both hands over his cheeks and down to his jaw. He was staring into space, thinking it over. Rebus did not doubt the plan would work. It might take time, but it would work. Basic SAS training: if you can't locate your enemy, make the enemy come to you. Besides, it was the only plan they had.
'John, what if the publicity doesn't bother him? Publicity or the lack of it?'