Tooth & Nail

`Yes,' said Flight. `And that's not all. The killer was found with money on him stolen from the house, and some jewellery and a camera.'

Another break in the pattern. Rebus sat down on the bed again. `I see what you're getting at,' he said. `But the method— ?’

'Similar, to be sure. Philip Cousins is on his way. He was at a dinner somewhere.'

`I'm going to the scene, George. I'll come to see you, afterwards.'

`Fine.' Flight sounded as though he had hoped for this. Rebus was scrabbling for paper and a pen.

`What's the address?'

`110 Copperplate Street.'

Rebus wrote the address on the back of his travel ticket from the trip to Glasgow.

`John?'

`Yes, George?'

`Don't go off again without telling me, okay?'

`Yes, George.' Rebus paused. `Can I go now?'

`Go on then, bugger off. I'll see you here later.'

Rebus put down the telephone and felt an immense weariness take control of him, weighting his legs and arms and head. He took several deep breaths and rose to his feet, then walked to the sink and splashed water on his face, rubbing a wet hand around his neck and throat. He looked up, hardly recognising himself in the wall-mounted mirror, sighed and spread his hands either side of his face, the way he'd seen Roy Scheider do once in a film.

`It's showtime.'

Rebus's taxi driver was full of tales of the Krays, Richardson and Jack the Ripper. With Brick Lane their destination, he was especially vociferous on the subject of `Old Jack'.

`Done his first prossie on Brick Lane. Richardson, though, he was evil. Used to torture people in a scrapyard. You knew when he was electrocuting some poor bastard, 'cos the bulb across the scrap yard gates kept flickering.' Then a low chuckle. A sideways flick of the head. 'Krays used to drink in that pub on the corner. My youngest used to drink in there. Got in some terrible punch-ups, so I banned him from going. He works in the City, courier sort of stuff, you know, motorbikes.'

Rebus, who had been slouching in the, back seat, now gripped the headrest on the front passenger seat and yanked himself forward. `Motorbike messenger?'

`Yeah, makes a bleeding packet. Twice What I take home a week, I'll tell you that. He's just bought himself a flat down in Docklands. Only they call them “riverside apartments” these days. That's a laugh. I know some of the guys who built them.' Every bloody shortcut in the book. Hammering in screws instead of screwing them. Plaster?board so thin you can almost see your neighbours, never mind hear them.'

`A friend of my daughter works as a courier in the City.'

`Yeah? Maybe. I know him What's his name?'

`Kenny '

`Kenny?' He shook his head. Rebus stared at where the silvery hairs on the driver's neck disappeared into his shirt collar. `Nah, I don't know a Kenny, Kev, yes, and a couple of Chrisses, but not Kenny.'

Rebus sat back again. It struck him that he didn't know, what Kenny's surname was. `Are we nearly there?' he asked.

`Two minutes, guv. There's a lovely shortcut coming up should save us some time. Takes us right past where Richardson used to hang out.'

A crowd of reporters had gathered outside in the narrow street. Housefront, pavement, then road, where the crowd stood, held back by, uniformed constables. Did nobody in London possess such a thing as a front garden? Rebus had yet to see a house with .a garden, apart from the millionaire blocks in Kensington.

`John!' A female, voice, escaping from the scrum of newsmen. She pushed her way towards him. He signalled for the line of uniforms to break momentarily, so as to let her through.

`What are you doing here?'

Lisa looked a little shaken. `Heard a newsflash,' she gasped. `Thought I'd come over.'

`I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Lisa.' Rebus was thinking of Jean Cooper's body. If this were similar . . .

`Any comment to make?' yelled one of the newsmen. Rebus was aware of flashguns, of the bright homing lamps attached to video cameras. Other reporters were shouting now, desperate for a story that would reach the first editions.

`Come on then,' said Rebus, pulling Lisa Frazer towards the door of number 110.

Philip Cousins was still dressed in dark suit and tie, suitably funereal. Isobel Penny was in black, too, a full length dress with long, tight sleeves. She did not look funereal. She looked divine. She smiled at Rebus as he entered the cramped living-room, nodding in recognition.

`Inspector Rebus,' said Cousins, 'they said you might drop by.'

`Never one to miss a good corpse,' Rebus replied drily. Cousins, stooping over the body, looked up at him.

`Quite.'

The smell was there, clogging up Rebus's nostrils and lungs. Some people couldn't smell it, but he always could. It was strong and salty, rich, clotting, cloying. It smelt like nothing else on earth. And behind it lurked another smell, more bland, like tallow, candle-wax, cold water. The two contrasting smells of life and death.' Rebus was willing to bet that Cousins could smell it, but he doubted Isobel Penny could.