Tooth & Nail

George Flight had been interviewing the murderer. His cheeks were veined with blood, his tie unknotted and hanging loose around his half unbuttoned shirt. He paced what floor, there was in the small office. Rebus knew that outside the closed door people were listening in a mixture of fear and amusement: fear at Flight's anger, amusement that Rebus was its sole recipient.

`You're the fucking limit.' Flight's anger had peaked; his voice had dropped by half a decibel. `What gives you the right—?’

Rebus slapped the desk with his hand. He'd had enough of this. `I'll tell you what gives me the right, George. The mere fact of the Wolfman gives me the right to do anything I think best.'

`Best!' Flight sounded freshly outraged. `Now I've heard it all. Giving the papers a, crock of shit like that is supposed to be “best”? By Christ, I'd hate, to see your idea of “worst”.'

Rebus's voice was every bit the equal of Flight's now, and rising. `He's out there somewhere and he's laughing his head off at us. Because he seems to know how we'll play every round, he's knocking hell out of us.' Rebus grew quiet. Flight was listening now, and that was what he wanted. `We need to get him riled, get him to lift his head over the trench he's hiding in so he can see what the fuck is going on. We need him angry, George. Not angry at the world. Angry at us. Because when he raises his head, we'll be ready to bite it off.

`We've already accused him of being everything from gay to a cannibal from Pluto. Now we're telling everyone he's been caught.' Rebus was reaching his point, his defence. He lowered his voice still further. `I don't think he'll be able to take that, George. Really I don't. I think he'll have to make contact. Maybe with the papers, maybe directly with us. Just to let us know.'

`Or kill again,' countered Flight. `That would let us know.'

Rebus shook his head. `If he kills again, we keep it quiet. Total media blackout. He gets no publicity. Everybody still thinks he's been caught. Sooner or later, he'll have to show himself.'

Rebus was completely calm now, and so was Flight. Flight rubbed both hands over his cheeks and down to his jaw. He was staring into space, thinking it over. Rebus did not doubt the plan would work. It might take time, but it would work. Basic SAS training: if you can't locate your enemy, make the enemy come to you. Besides, it was the only plan they had.

`John, what if the publicity doesn't bother him? Publicity or the lack of it?'

Rebus shrugged. He had no answer to that. All he had were case histories and his own instincts.

Finally, Flight shook his head. `Go back to Edinburgh, John,' he said tiredly. `Just do it' Rebus stared at him, not blinking, willing him to say something else. But George Flight simply walked to the door, opened it, and closed it behind him.

That was it then. Rebus released his breath in a long hiss. Go back to Edinburgh. Wasn't that what everyone had wanted all along? Laine? Lamb and the rest of them? Flight too, maybe. Even Rebus himself. He'd told himself he could do no good here. Well, he was doing no good, so why not go home?

The answer was simple: the case had grabbed him by the throat. There was no escaping it. The Wolfman, faceless, bodiless, had pressed a blade to Rebus's ear and was holding it there, ready to slice. And besides, there was London itself, full of its own. stories. Rhona. Sammy. Sammy and Kenny. Rebus had to remind himself that he was still interested in Kenny.

And Lisa.

Above all there was Lisa. The taxi had dropped her off at her flat. She had been quite pale, but insisted she was all right, insisted he go on without her. He should ring her, check she really, was okay. What? And tell her, he was leaving? No, he had to confront Flight. He opened the door and went into the Murder Room. Flight was not there. The curious faces looked at him from their desks, their telephones, their wallcharts and photographs. He looked at no one, but especially not at Lamb, who was grinning from behind a manila file, his eyes peering over at Rebus.

Flight was in the hallway outside, deep in discussion with the Duty Sergeant, who nodded and moved off. Rebus saw Flight sag, leaning his back against the wall, rubbing his face again. He approached slowly, giving George Flight an extra moment or two of peace and quiet.

`George,' he said. Flight looked up, smiled weakly.

`You never give up John, do you?'

`I'm sorry, George. I should have checked with you before I pulled a stunt like that. Block the story if you want.'