Tooth & Nail

`In the other bites, the killer has bitten more like this.' Again he put on a dumb show, this time drawing his lips back from his upper, jaw and biting down sharply so that the upper teeth closed over the lower teeth, the teeth themselves snapping together.

Rebus shook his head. This wasn't making things clearer. If anything, he was growing more confused. He nodded towards the cast. `You really believe the man we're looking for looks like this?'

`The man or woman, yes. Of course, I may have exaggerated a little with this cast, but I'm more or less convinced.'

Rebus had stopped listening after the first sentence. `What do you mean, or woman?' he asked.

Morrison shrugged his shoulders theatrically. `Again, this is something I've discussed with Inspector Flight. It just seemed to me that, purely on the dental evidence you understand, this head could as easily belong to a woman as to a man. The large upper set of teeth seems to me very male, judging from size and what have you, but the lower set, just as equally, seems very female. A man with a woman's chin, or a woman with a masculine upper jaw?' He shrugged again. `Take your pick.'

Rebus looked to Flight, who was shaking his head slowly. `No,'' Flight said, `it's a man.'

Rebus had never considered the possibility that a woman might be behind the killings. It had never entered his head. Until now.

A woman? Improbable, but why impossible? Flight was dismissing it out of hand, but on what grounds? Rebus had read last night that a growing number of multiple murderers were women. But could a woman have stabbed like, that? Could a woman so completely have overwhelmed victims of similar height, similar strength?

`I'd like to get some photographs of this,' Flight was saying. He had taken the cast from Morrison and was studying it again.

`Of course,' Morrison said, `but remember, it's only my idea of the look of the killer's head.'

`We appreciate it, Tony. Thanks for all your work.' Morrison shrugged modestly. He had fished for a compliment and had hooked one.

Rebus could see that Flight was convinced by this whole piece of theatre, the unveiling of the head and so on. To Rebus it was more showmanship than tangible truth, more the stuff of courtroom melodrama. He still felt that to trap the Wolfman they had to get inside his head, not play with plaster mock-ups of it.

His or her head.

`Would the bite marks be enough to identify the killer?'

Morrison considered this. Then nodded. `I think so, yes. If you can bring me the suspect, I think I, can show that he or she is the Wolfman,'

Rebus persisted, `But would it stand up in court?'

Morrison folded his arms and smiled. `I could blind the jury with science.' His face became serious again. `No, on its own I don't think my evidence would ever be enough to convict. But as part of a larger body of such evidence, we might be in with half a chance.'

`Always supposing the bastard makes it to trial,' Flight added grimly. `Accidents have been known to happen in custody.'

`Always supposing,' Rebus corrected, `we catch him in the first place.'

That, gentlemen,' said Morrison, `I leave entirely in your capable hands. Suffice to say, I look forward to introducing my friend here to the real thing.' And he tipped the plaster head backwards and forwards and backwards again, until it seemed to Rebus that the head was mocking them, laughing' and rolling its sightless eyes.

As Morrison showed them out, he rested a hand on Rebus's forearm. `I'm serious about your teeth,' he said, `you should get them seen to. I could look at them myself if you like?'

When he returned to headquarters Rebus went straight to the wash-room and, in front of a soap-spattered mirror, examined his mouth. What was Morrison talking about?' His teeth looked fine. Okay, one of them had a dark line running down it, a crack perhaps, and a few were badly stained from too many cigarettes and too much tea. But they looked strong enough, didn't they? No need for drills and piercing, grinding implements. No need for a dentist's chair, sharp needles, and a spitting out of blood.

Back at his designated desk he doodled on his notebook. Was Morrison just the nervous type, or was he hyperactive? Was he perhaps mad? Or was he merely dealing with the world in his own idiosyncratic way?

So few serial killers were women. Statistically it was unlikely. Since when had he believed in statistics? Since he had started to read psychology textbooks, last night in his hotel room after the disastrous visit to Rhona and Samantha. Kenny what the hell was Kenny doing running, around with Tommy Watkiss? His daughter's `gentleman'. A smiling villain? Forget it, John. You don't control that part of your life any more. He had to smile at this: what part of his life did he control? His work gave his life what meaning it had. He should admit defeat, tell Flight he could be of no help and return to Edinburgh, where he could be sure of his villains and his crimes: drug pedlars, protection racketeers, domestic violence fraud.