Tooth and Nail

Rebus studied the scuff marks on the linoleum. Then 'Lecture over?'

Flight seemed pained' by this response. 'It wasn't a lecture, it was just … I want you to see my side of things.'

'But I do, George, I do.' Rebus patted Flight's arm and turned away from him again. He started to walk.

'I want you to stay here, John!' Walking. 'Do you hear me? I'm ordering you not to go.'

Rebus kept walking.

Flight shook his head. He'd had enough, absolutely up to his eyes, so that they stung now, stung as though he were in a smoky room. 'You're out on your ear, Rebus,' he called, knowing this to be the final warning. If Rebus kept walking now, Flight‹ would be compelled to keep his word or else lose face, and he was damned if he'd lose face for a hard headed Jock copper. 'Just keep walking!' he, yelled. 'Keep walking and you're finished!'

Rebus walked. He didn't know exactly why, perhaps more out of pride than anything else. 'Stupid pride, pride he couldn't explain, but pride all the same. The same emotion that made grown men cry at football matches when Flower of Scotland was played as the Scots national anthem. All he knew was that he had something to do, and he would do it, like the Scots knew their job was to be footballers with more ambition than ability. Yes, that was him all right: more ambition than ability. They'd put it on his gravestone.

At the end of the corridor, he shoved open the swing doors. He didn't look back. Flight's voice followed him, trailing off as it grew in anger.

'Damn, you, you stupid Jock bastard! You've bitten off more than you can chew this time, do you hear me? More than you can bloody well chew.'

FYTP.

Rebus was moving through the entrance hall when he came face to face with Lamb. He made to move past him, but Lamb placed a hand on Rebus's chest.

'Where's the fire?' he said. Rebus was trying to ignore him, was trying to make Lamb invisible. The last thing he needed now was this. His knuckles tingled with anticipation. Lamb was still talking, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in.

'She found you then, your daughter?'

'What?'

Lamb was smiling. 'She phoned here first, and they put her on to me. She sounded a bit upset, so I gave her the lab's number.'

'Oh.' Rebus could feel himself deflating. He managed a grudged 'thanks' and this time succeeded in moving around Lamb. But then Lamb spoke again.

'She sounded a bit tasty though. I like them young. How old is she again?'

Rebus's elbow shot back into Lamb's unprotected stomach, cutting off breath, doubling him over. Rebus studied his work; not bad for an old man. Not bad at all.

He walked

Because he's on personal business, he stands outside the station and looks for a cab. One of the uniformed officers, who knows him from the scene of Sunday's murder, offers a lift in a patrol car, but Rebus shakes his head; The officer looks at him as if an insult has just been traded.

'Thanks anyway;' says — Rebus, trying to sound conciliatory. But all he sounds is mad. › Mad with Lamb, with himself, mad with the Wolfman case, mad with Kenny bloody Watkiss, mad with Flight, with Lisa (why did she have to be in Copperplate Street in the, first place?) and, most of all, mad with London. Where are all the cabs, all the greedy black cabs, beetling like insects as they try; to pick up fares? He's seen thousands of them this past week, but now that he needs one, they're all avoiding him. He waits anyway, eyes slightly unfocused. And as he waits, he thinks, and as he thinks he calms a little.'

What the hell is he doing anyway? He's asking for trouble doing this. He's begging for it, like a black-clothed. Calvinist pleading to be beaten for his sins. A lash across the back. Rebus had seen them all, all the available religions. He had tasted them and each one tasted bitter in its own particular way. Where was the religion for those who did not feel guilty, did not feel shame, did not regret getting angry or getting even, or, better yet, getting more than even? Where was the religion for a man who believed that good and bad must coexist, even within the individual? Where was the religion for a man who believed in God but not in God's religion?

And where were all the bloody taxis? -

'Sod it then.' He walked up to the first patrol car he saw and tapped on the window, flashing his ID.

'Inspector Rebus,' he announced. 'Can you give me a lift to Gower Street?'

The building seemed as deserted as ever and Rebus feared that on this occasion perhaps even the secretary might have scarpered for an early start to the weekend. But no, she was there; like the retainer of some dusty mansion. He cleared his throat, and she looked up 'from. her crochet.

'Yes?' she said. 'Can.1 help you?' She appeared not to remember him. Rebus brought out, his ID and pushed it towards her.

'Detective Inspector Rebus,' he said, his voice- stiff with authority. 'Scotland Yard. I want to ask you a few questions about Dr Frazer.'

The woman looked frightened. Rebus feared he had overdone the menace. He tried a don't-worry-it's-not-youwe're-interested-in sort of smile, a peaceable smile. But the woman looked no less afraid, and her fear flustered her.

'Oh, gracious,' she stammered.. 'Oh my, oh my.' She looked up at him. 'Who did you say?. Dr Frazer? But there's no Dr Frazer in the Department.'

Rebus described Lisa Frazer. The woman suddenly raised her head, recognising the description.

'Oh, Lisa?. You mean Lisa? But there's some mistake. Lisa Frazer isn't a member of staff here. Gracious me, no. Though I believe she may have taken a tutorial or two, just filling in. Oh dear, — Scotland Yard. What, I mean, surely she hasn't:.. What has she done?'

'She doesn't work here?' Rebus needed. to be certain. 'Then who is she?'

'Lisa? She's one of our research students.'

'A student? But she's — '.He was about to say 'old'.

'A mature student,' the secretary explained. 'Oh dear, is she in trouble?'

'I came here before,' Rebus said. 'You didn't tell me any of this then. Why?'

'Came here before?' She studied his, face. 'Yes, I remember. Well, Lisa made me promise not to tell anyone.' 'Why?'

'Her' project, she said. She's doing;' a project on, now, what is it exactly?': She opened a, drawer of her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. 'Ah yes, "The Psychology of the Investigation of Serious Crime". She explained it to me. How she, needed access to a police investigation. How she, needed to gain trust.. The courts, police and so on. She told me she was going to pretend to be a lecturer- I told her not to, I warned her, but she said it was the only way. The police wouldn't waste time with a mere student, would they?'

Rebus was stuck for an answer. The answer was no, they wouldn't. Why, should they?

'So she got you to cover for her?'

The woman shrugged. 'Lisa is quite a persuasive young woman. She said probably I wouldn't have to tell lies. I could just say things like she's not here, she's not teaching today, that sort of thing. Always supposing anyone bothered to check up on her.'

'And has anybody checked up on her?'

'Oh yes. Why, only today I had a telephone call from. someone she had arranged to interview. He wanted to be sure that she really was part of University College, and not just a journalist or a Nosey Parker.'

Today? An interview today. Well, that was one appointment she wouldn't be keeping.

'Who was this person?' Rebus asked. 'Do you remember?'

'I think I wrote it down,' she said. She: lifted the thick notepad beside her telephone and flipped through it. 'He did say who he was, but I can't remember. It was at the Old Bailey. Yes, that's right. She'd arranged to meet him at the Old Bailey. I usually write these things down' as soon as someone mentions their name, just in case I forget later. No, there's no sign of it. That's funny.'