`Loud and clear.'
`It's not a threat, John. It's a promise.'
`And you always keep your promises, George, don't you? You seem to be forgetting something. It's your fault that I'm down here in the first place. You sent for me.'
Flight had nodded. `And I can send you back just as quick. Is that what you want?'
Rebus had stayed silent, though he knew the answer. Flight knew it too, and smiled at, this small triumph. They drove in silence after that, both men tainted by the memory of a playground and of a silent man, hands clasping his knees, staring, ahead of him, his thoughts sweet with corruption.
Now Rebus was thinking of Lisa, 'thinking of ? HYPERLINK “http://how.it/”??how it? would feel to take a shower with her, to scrub away a layer of London from them both. Maybe he would ask George again for the secret address. Maybe he could visit her. He remembered a conversation they'd had in bed. He'd asked if he could see her office in University College sometime.
`Sometime,' she'd said. `Mind you, it's not a very nice room, nothing like those huge antique Oxbridge rooms you see in television dramas. It's a pokey little hole, to be honest. I hate it.'
`I'd still like you to show me around.'
`And I said okay.' She sounded on edge. Why was, that? Why had she been so nervous of letting him see her room? Why had the secretary—Millicent, Lisa had called her—been so vague the day Rebus had visited? No, not just vague. Uncooperative. Downright uncooperative, now that he thought of it. What the hell was it they were keeping from him? He knew one way he could find out the answer, one sure and certain way. What the hell. Lisa was safe, and he'd been told to stay out of the Watkiss case, so what was stopping him from following up this latest mystery? He got to his feet. The answer was nothing was stopping him, nothing at all.
`Where are you going?'
It was Flight, yelling at him from an open door as Rebus stalked down, the hall.
`It's personal,' Rebus called back.
`I warned you, John! Don't get involved!'
`It's not what you. think!' He stopped, turning to face George Flight.
`Well, what is it then?'
`Like I said, George, it's personal, okay?'
'No.'
'Look,' said Rebus, his, emotions suddenly getting the better of him, all those thoughts he'd been keeping on a tight rein—Sammy, Kenny Watkiss, the Wolfman, the threat against Lisa—all boiling up. He swallowed, breathing hard. `Look, George, you've got plenty to keep you busy, okay?' His finger stabbed at Flight's chest. `Remember what I said: it could be a copper. Why don't you do some of your careful, precious, nit-picking investigation on that. The Wolfman could be here in this building. He could be working on the bloody case, hunting himself!' Rebus heard his voice growing hysterical and calmed quickly, regaining control over his vocal chords: if nothing else.
`A sort of wolf in the fold, you mean?'
'I'm serious.' Rebus paused. `He might even know where you've sent Lisa.'
`For Christ's sake, John, only three people know where Lisa's going. Me, and the two men I sent with her. Now you don't know those guys, but I do. We go back all the way to training college. I'd trust them with my life.' Flight paused. `Will you trust me?'
Rebus said nothing. Flight's eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and he whistled. `Well,' he said, `that certainly answers my question.' He shook his head slowly. `This case, John. I've been in the force God knows how many years, but this case, it's the worst. It's like every victim was somebody close to me.' He paused again, gathering strength. Now his finger jabbed at Rebus. `So don't you dare think what I know you're thinking! It's the ultimate fucking insult!'
There was a long silence in the corridor. Typewriters chattered somewhere. Male voices were raised in laughter. A hummed tune floated down the hall towards and past them. It was as though the whole world were indifferent to this quarrel. And there they stood, not quite friends, not quite enemies, and not quite sure what to do any more.
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 anticipa?tion. 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 concilia?tory. 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?