Tooth & Nail

`What?' She looked at her bowl. `Oh, I'm not really very hungry. To tell you the truth, I feel a little bit . . . deflated, I suppose. I was so excited at what I thought I'd managed to piece together, but in telling it all to you, I see that really there's not very much there at, all.' She was thumbing through the index cards.

`There's plenty there,' said Rebus. `I'm impressed, honest. Every little bit helps. Arid you stick to the known facts, I like that. I was expecting more jargon.' He remembered the terms from one of her books, the one by MacNaughtie. `Latent psychomania, Oedipal urgings, gobbledygook.'

`I could give you plenty of that stuff,' she said, `but I doubt it would help.'

`Exactly.'

'Besides, that's more in line with psychiatry. Psycholo?gists prefer drive theories, social learning theory,' multipha?sic personalities.' Rebus had clamped his hands over his ears.

She laughed again. He could make her laugh so easily. Once upon a time he'd made Rhona laugh too, and after Rhona a certain Liaison Officer back in Edinburgh. 'So what about policemen?' he asked, closing off the memory. `What can psychologists tell about us?'

`Well,' she said, relaxing, into her seat, 'you're extrovert, tough-minded, conservative.'

`Conservative?'

`With a small c’

'I read last night that serial killers are conservative, too.'

She nodded, still smiling. 'Oh yes,' she said, `you're alike in a lot of ways. But by conservative I mean specifically that you don't like anything that changes the status, quo. That's why you're reticent about the use of psychology. It interferes with the strict guidelines you've set yourselves. Isn't that so?'

`Well, I suppose I could argue, but I won't. So what happens now you've studied the Wolfman?'

`Oh, all I've done so far is scratch the surface.' Her hands were still on the index cards. `There are other tests to, be done, character analyses and so on. It'll take time.' She paused. `What about you?'

`Well, we'll plod along, checking, examining, taking it—'

`Step by step,' she interrupted.

`That's right, step by step. Whether I'll be on the case much longer or not. I can't say. They may send me ? HYPERLINK “http://back.to/”??back to? Edinburgh at the end of the week.'

`Why did they bring you to London in the first place?'

The waiter had come to clear away their dishes. Rebus sat back, wiping his lips with the serviette.

'Any coffees or liqueurs, sir?'

Rebus looked to Lisa. `I think I'll have a Grand Marnier,' she said.

`Just coffee for me,' said Rebus. 'No, hold on, what the hell, I'll have the same.' The waiter bowed and moved off, his arms heavy with crockery.

`You didn't answer my question, John.'

`Oh, it's simple enough. They thought I might be able to help. I worked on a previous serial killing, up in Edinburgh.'

`Really?' She sat forward in her chair, the palms of her hands pressed to the tablecloth. `Tell me.'

So he told her. It was a long story, and he didn't know exactly why, he gave her as many details as he did—more details than she needed to know, and more, perhaps, than he should be telling to a psychologist. What would she make of him? Would she find a trace of psychosis or paranoia in his character? But he had her complete attention, so he spun the tale out in order to enjoy that attention the more.

It took them through two cups of coffee, the paying of the bill, and a balmy night-time walk through Leicester Square, across Charing Cross Road, up St Martin's Lane and along Long Acre towards Covent Garden. They walked around Covent Garden itself, Rebus still doing most of the talking. He stopped by a row of three telephone boxes, curious about the .small white stickers covering every available inch of space on the onside of the booths; Stern corrective measures, French lessons; O and A specialist TV; Trudy, nymphet, Spank me, S/M chamber; Busty blonde—all of them accompanied by telephone numbers.

Lisa studied, them, too. `Every one a psychologist,' she said. Then: `That's quite a story you've just told, John. Has anyone written it up?'

Rebus shrugged. `A newspaper reporter wrote a couple of articles' Jim Stevens, Christ, hadn't he moved to London, too? Rebus thought again of the newspaper story Lamb had shown him, the unattributed newspaper story.

`Yes,' Lisa was saying, `but has anyone looked at it from your point of view?'

`No.' She looked thoughtful at this. `You want to turn me into a case study?'

`Not necessarily,' she said. 'Ah, here we are.' She stopped. They were standing outside a shoe shop in a narrow, pedestrianised street. Above the rows of shops were two storeys of flats. `This is where I live,' she said. 'Thank you for this evening. I've enjoyed it.'

`Thank you for the meal. It was great.'

`Not at all.' She fell silent. They were only two or three feet apart. Rebus shuffled his feet. `Will you be able to find your way back?' she asked. `Should I point you in the right direction?'