Tooth & Nail

If anything, Flight and Rebus said less during the drive to the hotel than they had done on the way to the mortuary. The whisky was working on Rebus's empty stomach and the interior of the car was oppressively hot. He tried opening his window a quarter of an inch, but the blast of chill air only made things worse.'

The autopsy was being played out again before him. The cutting tools, the lifting of organs out of the body, the incisions and inspections, Cousins' face peering at spongy tissue from no more than an inch away. One twitch and his face would have been smothered in . . . Isobel Penny watching all, recording all, the slice from throat to pubis . . . London sped past him. Flight, true, to his word, was cruising through some red lights and slowing merely for others. There were still cars on the streets. The city never slept. Nightclubs, parties, drifters, the homeless. Sleepless dog-walkers, all night bakeries and beigel shops. Some spelt 'beigel' and some spelt `bagel'. What the hell was a beigel? Wasn't that what they were always eating in Woody Allen films?

Samples from her eyebrows, for Christ's sake. What use were samples from her eyebrows? They should be concentrating on the attacker, not the victim. Those teeth marks. What was the dentist's name again? Not a dentist, a dental pathologist. Morrison. Yes, that was it. Morrison, like the street in Edinburgh, Morrison Street, not too far from the brewery canal, where the swans lived, a single pair of swans. What happened when they died? Did the brewery replace them? So damned hot in this shiny red car. Rebus could feel his insides wanting to become his outsides. The knife twisted in the throat. A small knife. He could almost visualise it. Something like a kitchen, knife. Sharp, sour taste in his mouth.

`Nearly there,' said Flight. `Just along Shaftesbury Avenue. That's Soho on the right. By God we've cleaned that den up this past few years. You wouldn't believe it. You know, I've been thinking, where the body was found, it's not so far from where the Krays used to live. Somewhere on Lea Bridge Road. I was just a young copper when they were on the go.'

`Please . . .' said Rebus.

`They did somebody in Stokie. Jack McVitie, I think it was. Jack the Hat, they called him.'

`Can you stop here?' Rebus blurted out. Flight looked at him.

`What's up?

`I need some air. I'll walk the rest of the way. Just stop the car, please.'

Flight began to protest, but pulled over to the kerb. Stepping out of, the car, Rebus immediately felt better. There was cold sweat on his forehead, neck and back. He breathed deeply. Flight deposited his bags on the pavement.

`Thanks again,' said Rebus. `Sorry about this. Just point me in the general direction.'

`Just off the Circus,' Flight said.

Rebus nodded. 'I hope there's a night porter.' Yes, he was feeling much better.

`It's a quarter to five,' said Flight. `You'll probably catch the day shift coming on.' He laughed, but the laugh died quickly and he gave Rebus a serious nod of his head. `You made your point tonight, John. Okay?'

Rebus nodded back. John. Another chip from the iceberg, or just good management?

`Thanks,' he said. They shook hands. `Are we still on for a meeting at ten?'

`Let's make it eleven, eh? I'll have someone pick you up from your hotel.'

Rebus nodded and picked up his bags. Then bent down again towards the car's back window. `Good night, teddy,' he said.

`Watch you don't get lost!' Flight called to him from the car. Then the car moved off, making a screeching u-turn before roaring back the way they had come. Rebus looked around him. Shaftesbury Avenue. The buildings seemed about to swamp him. Theatres. Shops. Litter: the debris from a Sunday night out. A dull roar preceded the arrival, from one of the misty side streets, of a dustcart. The men were dressed in orange overalls. They paid no attention to Rebus as he trudged past them. How long was this street? It seemed to follow a vast curve, longer than he had expected.

Bloody London. Then he spotted Eros atop his fountain, but there was something wrong. The Circus was no longer a Circus. Eros had been paved in, so that traffic had to sweep past it rather than around it. Why the hell, had anyone decided to do that? A car was slowing behind him, coming parallel with him. White car with an orange stripe: a police car. The officer in the passenger seat had wound down his window and now called out to him.

`Excuse me, sir, do you mind telling me where you're going?'

`What?' The question stunned Rebus, stopped him in his tracks. The car had stopped too and both driver and passenger were emerging.

`Are those your bags, sir?'